“Dax, you alright?”
Burke again.
Worried now.
I nod once.
Another lie.
Another sip.
The world tilts slightly.
Stars ripple.
Good.
“She looked good today,” Torres mutters, maybe to himself, maybe loud enough to twist the knife. “Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of that Monroe attitude,” he adds.
My chest cracks.
I stand. Too fast.
The bottle slips from my fingers and hits the dirt with a dull thud.
Everyone quiets.
Torres looks up and I see red.
Not the kind you bleed. The kind that burns. “Watch your fucking mouth,” I mutter.
He blinks.
“Oh shit,” someone whispers. “Here we go.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it?—”
“Yes, you did.”
My voice is low. Unshaken. Stone.
“Just talking, man.”
“Don’t.”
“Dax—”
“Don’t fucking talk about her.”
Silence.
Everyone’s watching me and I know what I look like. Sweat-slick. Wild-eyed. Rage boiling up my throat like acid. Hands curled into fists and jaw grinding like I want to hurt someone because I do.
I want to hit something. Scream. Throw the fire into the sky and watch the world burn because she was mine. I was hers. I walked away and now I have no right to be this fucked up—but I am.
Burke grabs my arm. “Cool it, man. This isn’t the place.”
I shake him off. Breathe hard through my nose and turn away before I do something I’ll regret more than I already regret everything.
