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In that moment, those vile words rolling from his lips, my world goes white. Anger wraps my brain and covers my eyes. All I can see is my own seething rage.
I clench my fist and am about to rear it, cock it, and drive it forward fast into his face; when he pulls a gun.
I look down at it, spotting the carved ridges on the slide and the smooth barrel. The grip is nubbed and worn, and when his hand falls sideways, I can see the safety. It’s off.
My eyes go to his, and I study him. They’re dark but bloodshot, and he can’t take the eye contact, and looks to my chest.
“If I’m a placeholder, why do you have a gun drawn on me?” I ask, my voice completely even and unwavering.
He’s been calling her non-fucking-stop. He showed up at her apartment, even. He fucking played a long con on Otis just to get back into her life.
He smashed her music box.
I take a step toward him, so full of rage that it easily usurps my fear. I wrap my hand on the barrel and bring it to my chest, aligning the muzzle to my sternum.
“I’ll give you five seconds to shoot me,” I breathe, nostrils flaring. Pete’s hand shakes with indecision, and I count to five in my brain before the gun is in my hand, and the butt of it is coming down across his face.
Scarlett doesn’t like violence. It’s triggering, and harmful to her mental health and her healing. But beautiful, sweet, loving, gentle Scarlett is inside, behind the protection of these steel doors, kept safe by friends, locks and cameras.
So I shove the gun in the back of my pants as I collect his unhinged ass by the collar, and drive my fist into his face again. I let go, and watch him stagger around like a drunk, stumbling, his hands braced for impact around him. Miraculously, he doesn’t fall, and he brings one hand to his forehead, pressing on the rupture where blood flows freely.
He comes close to me, still looking unstable. And somehow he fucking clocks me.
I falter, and my back connects with the metal railing lining the back door. I don’t leave my feet, but I wasn’t expecting to be hit and take a moment to feel the pain swirling round the socket of my eye, pulsing in my temple.
I blink through the pain, seemingly unaffected. His mouth falls open, the blood streaming down his head curling his lip, into his mouth. He spits and I take that time to hollow his gut with a hefty punch, sending him backward several paces.
The back door swings open, but I don’t turn. I don’t risk taking my eyes off of him.
“She only wants you to fuck her so she can get what she really wants. A baby. You’re just a fucking sperm donor.” He spits more blood and it’s then I remove the gun from my waist and lower it to the ground, kicking it to Lance behind me. I know it’s him because I hear him utter, “Jesus fuck,” and call for Aug.
“Don’t talk about what she wants like you know or fucking care,” I spit, sweat sliding down my forehead and I move toward him, scared for us both. Because it’s been a long time since I’ve been angry at anyone but myself.
I grab him by the shirt and yank him to me, relishing the cuts and damage I did to his face. Piece of shit deserves worse. “You’re right. Killing you isn’t worth it. She’s nothing more than a useless whore who can’t keep her own baby alive.”
That can’t keep her own… My mind spins. Aug appears, worming his way between us. He presses a stern palm to Pete’s chest and drives him back.
“Get the fuck out of here, now.” His tone is heavy but quiet, and it’s then I realize if Aug is here, the scene is over.
She’s likely looking for me. She does that now after every scene.
“I’ll fucking call the cops. You assaulted me,” he says.
“You pointed a gun at me,” I hiss, my chest connecting with Aug’s back as I surge forward, my rage driving my reactions.
Aug cuts us both off. “Pete, I’ll call the police. I’ll delete the footage out here. No one will know what happened. But you have a history of stalking and harassing. And Cohen has years of perfect employment, without so much as fucking parking ticket to his name.”
Pete steps back, balling the sleeve of his shirt to bring to the wound gaping on his forehead. He spits, he snarls, and then he walks the fuck away.
We wait for him to disappear out the gates and around the corner until I let my shoulders sink. Aug turns around and faces me, placing his hands on my shoulders. His vision dips, analyzing my face from every angle. He pats my bicep.
“You’re alright, right?”
I nod but glance back at the door. Lance is standing there, on the top step, hand wrapped around the handle, keeping it closed.
I look between the two of them. “She hates violence,” I say quietly, swiping the trickle of blood from beneath my nose. “I don’t want her to see this,” I add, looking around my feet at all the dark drops of blood scattered against the asphalt, telling a story of struggle and pain.
“I’ll hose it off now,” Aug says, his voice carefully treading.
