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And they will be her first.
Fuck.I don’t like this.
My pulse becomes rampant.
Feels like I like her.
Before I know what is happening, I’m on my feet. I’m striding across the bar, my dark gaze locked on this dipshit by the bar, and I’m fisting the back of his shirt, dragging him to his feet, out for fucking blood.
“What the fuck, man?”
“You’re fucking distracting me,” I growl, shoving him to the floor, his body sliding along the greasy vinyl before hitting a table filled with shocked patrons.
“Get the fuck out,” I bark, hissing through the gaps between each letter as a warning—I want to hurt you.
My body feels huge, muscles tense and painful, my heart rattling off like a damn machine gun. Out of control.
You’re out of control!
My consciousness, though, is slow and confused and lethargic, sluggishly watching my actions as a recluse, stalling as my body mindlessly leads the way to carnage.
Detached, my muscles move on their own accord. I know this guy hasn’t touched Kaya, but that doesn’t stop me from advancing on him.
Or has he?
How will I ever know?
If I keep her, how will I know which dickhead has had his tongue inside her? I could be standing right there, claiming this girl, all smiles and bursting with affection, while across the way, five guys stare at her, trancing as they recall her juicy pussy.
Upon the mouthy dickhead on the floor, my shoes hit the ground hard and thunderous, but then a hand seizes my bicep. My body pulses to a stop.
I whirl around, ready to finish the person holding me back. But my mind catches up just in time. My anger comes to a screeching halt as Stacey’s face appears.
I widen my eyes. Slowing, I follow her fearful stare to my raised fist that tremors mid-air.
Fuck.
I lower my arm, fist the shakes away at my sides, squeeze my hands together, pump blood into them, gain control… but I can still feel them, shuddering up the entire length of my arm, and that’s—new.
I breathe hard, evident in the strain that for the past five, ten, twenty-minutes, I was suffocating, desperate for air to replenish my stalling mind.
“Xander.” Stacey cups my face. “You need to sit the fuck down. You’re not thinking straight.”
I know.Unsure what the fuck is happening, I allow my best mate to lead me back to our booth, where I grab the beer, craving it like medicine, lifting it to my lips and—
I kiss air, my hand suddenly empty.
Then a smash sounds.
Blinking, I stare at the floor, at the bottle of beer that slipped right through my tremoring fist and exploded.
I stare at it. “Stacey,” I murmur, eyes on the pool of foam and beer, on the tiny floating fragments of glass. “I’m fucking pissed. I think. Will you drive?”
“What just happened?”
“Boxer fracture. A tiny one, Stace. And I’m pissed. It’ll be fine,” I lie, but it’s a common enough injury that she might let it slide, a specific one to the fifth metacarpal bone, and boxing rules state you can still match with one on the mend.
“You need to sleep.” She nods in the corner of my eye and walks with me outside, her body straight and rigid with uncertainty. Confusion curls around us, but I sure as hell don’t know what to say or ask. I don’t really even know what just fucking happened.
