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I expect him to push me away, but the alcohol must’ve numbed his brain, because he just stares. Unblinking. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a swallow, and did his breathing pick up just now?
It takes me considerable energy to pull my fingers away, and that’s when I notice I’ve left smudges of blood near his jaw. I have to suppress a groan at the sight, so I camouflage it with a smirk. “Oops, got blood all over your shiny image. My bad.”
I don’t even attempt to apologize as I wrench my eyes from him and continue on my way. I need to punch a few other things. Here’s an idea, force Jeremy to give me a mission where I can torture some people and put the fear of the devil in their souls—
Something pulls on my T-shirt and I frown. If one of those sorry fucks came back for round two…
My thoughts trail off when I see two long fingers curled in the material so firmly, it stretches beneath the pressure.
I stare up at Brandon, and the way he looks at me does shit I definitely do not approve of. He’s like a kicked fucking puppy, which is miles apart from his usual condescending asshole image.
“Thank you,” he whispers softly, almost airily.
Fuck this asshole and that deep voice of his.
I have to get out of here.
No. Not have. It’s a fuckingneedat this point or I might really do shit I’ll regret.
And Jer isn’t here to stop me.
“I didn’t do it for you. I just wanted someone to punch and they happened to be there.” I start to move again, but he tugs harder on my T-shirt.
“Now what?” I snap.
He needs to get his hand off me, because it’s giving me fucked-up ideas.
And none of them are things he approves of.
Brandon swallows and my gaze goes straight to his Adam's apple. He does it again as if giving me the show I want, then clears his throat. “Did…you get the texts I sent you?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Why didn’t you reply?”
“Why would I? Should I have rejoiced and thrown a party because the almighty Brandon King finally recognized my existence, decided I’m notdisgustinganymore, and texted me? Get over your useless fucking self.”
His jaw tightens and he releases me. “Don’t be a dick. I apologized for what I think is a misunderstanding. I…don’t believe you’re disgusting because of your sexuality. I would never think that.”
“Thanks for nothing.” This time, I’m hell-bent on leaving.
Because unlike fucker Brandon who can lie through his teeth during a useless game and keep his control in check, I have zero chill.
And I need to go before I do something I’ll regret come morning. I didn’t even do regrets before the ill-fated meeting with this complete fuckingcharmer.
Brandon steps in front of me, or more like sways since he’s as drunk as a sailor. There’s only a subtle slur to his words, though, as if he can keep control despite being pumped full of liquor.
“What the fuck do you want now?” I sneer. “You’re uncharacteristically clingy tonight.”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Why would I answer? We’re not friends or anything are we, Lotus—” I cut myself off before I call him that.
Of course the bastard noticed the miscalculation despite being wasted, because his lips twitch.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I know I’m supposed to be mad—or keep up with the image, anyway—but it’s impossible to hold on to the anger I’ve left to fester when he’s smiling.
