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It happened so quickly, I couldn't even see exactly how. One second, Julius Trout had his hand on my ass; the next, he was shoved up against the brick wall of the balcony, pinned at the neck by six feet, four inches of very angry Brandon.
"You want to explain to me why the fuck you just had your hands all over my fiancée, Julius?" Brandon growled with a face like a hurricane.
"I don't know what you're talking about," said the older man calmly, despite the fact that a very big hand was dangerously close to crushing his windpipe. "She made a move on m-me."
The last word came out like a cough as Brandon squeezed harder.
"Brandon, stop," I tried to put in.
"Why," Brandon gritted out, not even looking at me. "Is he telling the truth?"
"Oh my God, of course not, but––"
"That's what I thought," Brandon said. He loosened his grip slightly just before slamming Trout back against the wall. "So what does it matter what I do to this piece of shit?"
And before I could respond, he delivered a nasty right undercut straight into Trout's belly, causing the man to double over, his bloated face nearly purple.
"Brandon!"
I yanked on his arm, but Brandon didn't move. Instead, he pulled Trout back up to standing position by his lapels and slammed him back against the wall.
"I think you owe my fiancée a fuckin' apology, Julius, before you get the fuck out," Brandon said with a ticking jaw. "Or am I going to have to beat the manners out of your snide fucking face?"
Trout grimaced, but his glassy eyes slowly refocused in my direction.
"M-my humblest ap-apologies," he croaked to me, but even with his bloated, face, he had nothing but a black look for Brandon.
Again with an arm like lightning, Brandon delivered another punch to Trout's stomach that caused the man to wheeze and collapse to the ground.
"Brandon!"
We whirled around to find Cory poking his head through the curtains. He stared down at Trout, who was just barely propping himself up on one hand.
"Jesus!" Cory raced to the side of the older man and helped him up, shooting a nasty glare in my direction, as if to say, this is all your fault.
"What?" I mouthed, but Cory just shook his head.
"Come on, Julius," he said as he helped the old lech to the door. "Let's call your car."
"I'm...fine," Trout managed to get out. He stopped at the curtains. "But you can kiss your donation goodbye, Sterling." And with a look over me that still managed to make me want a shower, he allowed Cory to walk him out.
"You didn't have to––my God, Brandon, are you okay?!"
When I turned to interrogate Brandon, he was slumped toward the brick wall, both hands on his chest. I stepped toward him, and the wheezing sounds coming from his throat grew louder and louder.
"Babe," I said as I laid a hand on his back. "Babe, are you okay?"
He didn't answer, just slumped to the ground on his knees and, as if automated, started to rock back and forth, keeping his hands clenched at his chest while he struggled for breath.
"Fuck," he kept muttering to himself in wheezing, strained breaths. "No, no. No."
"What the fuck were you thinking?!"
Cory burst back onto the balcony. He stopped short when he saw Brandon crouched on the floor, rocking like a small child. Back and forth, back and forth Brandon moved, one arm wrapped back over his head while he crooned softly to himself. He started to shake violently. Immediately, I fell to my knees beside him and tried to pull him into me, but he shook me off and continued rocking.
"No, no, no," he crooned softly, his eyes squeezed shut, the lines over his forehead in full relief.
"What the fuck did you do?" Cory asked as he stepped toward us. "What's wrong with him?"
