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And I bet every motherfucker in this place is thinking the same thing.
Like always, I look around and take stock of the place, the people, the motherfucking motherfuckers that are looking at her. And there are. At least four of them, stealing glances every few seconds, ogling her body.
My vision starts to turn hazy then.
My body starts to turn heated. Even more so than it was when I was sitting at that table, watching Gio eat that disgusting steak and gab about therapy. A low growl is building up in my chest, moving up to the base of my throat.
Exactly like it did last night.
Which is why I went after her at the bar.
Despite the fact that I make it a point to stay away from her.
Well, that’s not very true, is it?
Sometimes it is. Sometimes I do make it a point to stay away from her, and I succeed.
But other times I can’t.
Other times it’s too hard to keep my distance from her, to not get sucked into her orbit, to not rile her up. To light her up like the firecracker she is.
My feisty Firefly.
Not mine, but you get the picture.
And yes, that makes me an asshole. Even more of an asshole because I’ve done some really jacked-up shit when it comes to her. It’s something that I think about often.
Maybe every day even.
Fine, so I think about it every fucking day.
Multiple times a day.
Some days I can’t stop thinking about what I did.
Last night though, my intentions were noble. I had to go after her.
In the dress that she wore, even tighter and shorter than the one she’s wearing now, she was a menace. Launching a thousand boners as she walked by on her ridiculous heels. And good thing I did because of course there were dogs salivating around her.
At the memory, that growl in my chest builds and builds.
What lets it out though and what coats my vision in a red neon film is not her dress or her hair or her wind chime-y laughter or even those motherfuckers who’re staring at her like she’s the most beautiful girl in the world — she is, just for the record — but the fact that all her beauty and mirth is directed at one person.
One guy.
His back is to me so I don’t know who he is but he looks of her world.
Rich and polished and wearing a suit that probably costs more than my old truck. Something that I still drive to this day.
And then my vision turns scarlet, a dark bloody red, when her laughter turns into a smile.
A soft, dreamy smile.
A smile that they probably write about in those fucking romance novels she likes to read. The ones that she’d tell me the stories of, with all the enthusiasm and too much fucking detail. I never stopped her though or told her that I had no interest in hearing about how the priest’s daughter, apparently rebellious to the core, managed to remain a virgin. I’d rather hear about how she lost her virginity to the blacksmith’s son in the barn.
But that was way back then.
When those smiles were reserved only for me. That dreamy, moony, goddamn beautiful smile that said that I hung the stars for her every night. Like wind chimes and dream catchers.
But apparently, she’s giving it away to some rich, slick douchebag sitting in front of her.
Yeah, and whose fault is that, you fucking bastard?
I know it’s my fault. I know that I fucked things up.
But see, that’s not the point, whose fault it is.
The point is that that smile belongs to me.
It’s mine.
Other than soccer, it was the only thing that would calm me back then. Her smile, her laugh, her voice. And the fact that she’s throwing it at some douchebag is not something I’m going to tolerate.
It’s not something that I can allow her to do.
They call me the Angry Thorn, don’t they?
Well, I’m going to show her exactly what that name means.
Chapter Eight
His hair is blond and his eyes are blue.
His skin has a pinkish hue to it.
But not overly so.
Just enough to prove that he’s not a very outdoorsy, sporty person.
He can’t be; he’ll burn if he stays in the sun for more than an hour or so.
Which is a point in his favor.
Actually a great point in his favor, because I’m not a sporty girl either.
The second great point in his favor: he has excellent taste in clothes. He doesn’t just throw on a ratty t-shirt that seems too cool for everybody and a pair of jeans that have been washed so many times that they’re almost threadbare and as such, display every bulge and flex of the sinew.
Just look at his suit: bespoke, first of all. Armani, second. And since it’s bespoke and Armani, it fits him like a second skin, showing off his not-too-broad shoulders and not-too-freakishly-muscled biceps. His crisp white shirt also displays his torso that’s lean and flat and, again, not packed with ridged and stupid muscles.
