“What’s going on, man?” he panicked, breathing fast.
“Look, I can apologize to her. I’m sure she’ll be dry in no time if she gets back in the sun.”
The guard didn’t give his suggestion a single inch of attention.
“Open this bottle for me, nigga.”
Brandon’s hands shook as he twisted the cork free, barely keeping his grip on the neck. The second the top popped, he held it out to the guard like an offering, and then the guard handed it to me.
“Now,” he said, slow and cold.
“Pour this shit over his bum ass face.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“No, that’s okay. I don’t have to do that. It’s not that serious. I’ll just go back out to the club, but you can kick his fuck ass out, and I’ll be happy with that.” I bucked at Brandon.
“Oh, I am kicking his ass out regardless, but I need you to get your get back first. Pour it over his face like he did to you. I saw how you were handling him before I stepped in. I know you got it in you.”
A few seconds went by, and I didn’t move, so he steadily pressed me.
“Come on, don’t let no niggas play with you, baby. You way too fine for that. Show this nigga what it’s like to fuck with a bitch like you.”
A slow smirk slid onto my lips, and Brandon’s face drained of color as he stared up at me, trembling, eyes jumping between the man and me.
“Okay, you are right.”
I lifted the bottle, ready to pour the champagne, but the guard's massive hand wrapped around my wrist, stopping me mid-motion.
“Nah. Hold up.” His voice dropped deeper, enough to vibrate into my bones. He turned his glare onto Brandon.
“Before she pours this, open your fucking eyes, nigga.”
“Hell no!” Brandon snapped.
“If I open my eyes, that shit is going to burn, man!”
Proctor leaned down a little, his height making Brandon look like a child. “I don’t give a fuck. I said open your fucking eyes. You think I’m playing with you?”
There was something in his tone that was old, experienced, lethal, and that broke Brandon down even more.
His eyes snapped open, wide and glossy, already tearing up from fear.
“Alright, now pour it, beautiful,” he told me, his voice smoother now, even while commanding violence.
And because I was lowkey terrified and high key curious, I did.
Brandon’s body jerked instantly, his face twisting in pain as the liquor hit his eyes. He grabbed at his face, crying out.
“Hold your fucking head up,” the guard barked. “You ain’t give a fuck about her eyes when you poured that shit all over her, did you? Now open them beady mutha fuckas up and stay still!”
I kept pouring. And the longer I poured, the more vindicated I felt, because he was right. Brandon didn’t give a damn where that liquor landed on me. It could’ve ruined my phone, my makeup, and it did fuck with my whole damn mood.
I continued to pour disregarding Brandon's agony,
“That’s it, baby girl. Don’t stop until that bottle is empty,” he said calmly.
I did exactly what he told me, even though the whole situation was insane. When the last drop fell, Brandon was still clawing at his eyes, screaming from the burn.
