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One of them ran away, but oh well, I have my hands completely full with the other two. I punch and kick them, reveling in the sound of bones cracking beneath my fingers.
There’s nothing I love more than having power over some cunts who happened to be in the wrong place at the very fucking wrong time.
A red haze covers my vision as I go on and on and fuckingonuntil they realize I might actually kill them—great possibility—then grab each other and flee the scene.
They’re limping, grunting, and cursing on their way to what can only be the hospital. Probably the police, too, but I don’t give a fuck at this point.
In fact, maybe I shouldn’t have let them go and introduced them to their maker instead.
Red still covers my vision as I catch a glimpse of onlookers gathered around, eyes agape, and some of them were probably filming the whole thing, considering the phones.
I flash them my signature ‘back the fuck off’ look and they slowly disperse, lowering their heads and continuing with their debauchery.
Now I have nothing to distract me from the actual cause of this damn ruse. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t instigated violence before just because, but this time, it definitely wasn’t random.
It’s because of the asshole I’ve been tracking in my peripheral vision, even while I was having my fingers soaked with blood.
Usually, I don’t see anything through the satisfying red. But this time, I was more focused on Brandon and if he’d faint or escape.
He did neither.
The whole time, he stood rooted in place, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted.
His gaze meets mine and remains there, not attempting to avoid me like he usually does.
He must be so fucking drunk, because he stares at me, mouth hanging open, without his dash of uptight disdain.
Fuck this guy, seriously.
I’m so over him and his perfectly pressed pants, tucked-in shirts, and leather shoes. I’m over the way he looks to be in control but still appears hopelessly clueless at times.
Like right now.
His flawless golden-boy image is cracked at the seams—totally because of the alcohol he kept chugging the entire time I was there—and a pink flush covers his cheeks.
A few strands have escaped his styled hair, giving him a rugged edge. Rebellious. It’s safe to say he’s not caught under the rigid spell of his steel-like control.
At least, temporarily.
Momentarily.
I would’ve been all over that shit a few weeks ago, but now, I have to remove myself from his vicinity before I finish off the night by punching him.
He got on my nerves enough by doing everything wrong earlier in the pub. From the way he pretended I was invisible, to saying he’d been in love, to denying we ever did anything.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
Now, I have to leave so I won’t throttle the fuck out of him.
This is why I’ve stayed away. Why I’ve removed myself from any situation he’s in or any environment where he can exist.
I see him, and I’m burning.
The harder I’ve tried to stay away, the wilder my obsession with him has grown.
I just can’t fucking help it.
When I brush past him, I stop and swipe two fingers beneath his jaw and subtly lift up, causing his mouth to finally close. “Might want to stop staring or I’ll think you have a crush on me or something equally crazy.”
