I consider chasing after her immediately, but I need bourbon. Something to steady the tremors in my hands, something to prevent me from igniting this place with the inferno inside.I order the drink and swallow it down, hoping it will calm the storm I feel.
But it’s time to hunt.
My boots thud across the floor. Calm on the outside. Inside, I’malready in motion—fists clenching, teeth itching to snap. Her name drips through my veins like acid.
He thinks he’s got a shot. She thinks she’s free. They’re both wrong.
Braithwaite—greasy moustache slick with sweat, a beer gut that jiggles like mockery—blocks the path to the parking lot. His breath reeks of cheap hops and bad choices.
“You okay with your girl gyratin’ with the pretty-boy busker?” he jeers.
My teeth bare. “You think he’s prettier than me, Braithwaite?”
He laughs, a ragged sound. “Hell no. Just sayin’… if that was my woman?—”
I cut him off, voice colder than ice. “Well, she’s not.”
He freezes, cocky grin draining. “Right… just… surprised you didn’t shut it down sooner.”
I lean in close enough for him to smell the threat seeping off me. “Girls like Summer test fences, scratch at gates—but they always come back. Now, if you want to make yourself useful old man, help me find her.”
He says nothing. I see the flicker of something—fear? Maybe understanding. My chest tightens. Part of me thinks I’d rather not find her at all.He heads out of the door to the parking lot. Within seconds I overhear commotion. It’s Braithwate. He’s found her.
I slam my glass down and head outside.
There they are. Summer pressed against Benny, that shadow of flesh and bone. His hands at her waist, hers laced around him. My gut twists; my vision cracks red. Something inside me snaps, not with triumph, but fracture.
She sees me—guilt and fear flashing across her face. Good. I hate that it still hurts me.
I cross the lot in two strides. The air hums with rage and something darker—loss, regret. My hand clamps on her arm, nails biting in. I want her to remember.
“I told you no fucking scenes,” I snarl, dragging her into the shadows beside the truck. My other hand slams her into the wing mirror—hard, but not enough to break. Just enough to sting.
She gasps—breath rattling out of her. Part of me wants to let go, to pull her into me and check that she’s ok. Instead, I press my forehead to hers, voice low and broken. “No embarrassment. You do what you’re told for once in your goddamn life.”
I want her to look at the bruises tomorrow and know I was here. But part of me wants her to look at me and remember what she almost lost.I want to sink my teeth into her, devour her whole, make her scream until her voice is nothing but a tortured rasp, her legs collapsing beneath her. Make her earn the privilege of sharing the air I breathe. But I won't. Not yet. She hasn't begged for that kind of mercy.
"Get in," I command, voice slicing through the tension. “No more of your crocodile tears. I’m done playing.”
Then—"Hey."
That voice, grating, unwelcome. The fucking rockstar wannabe.
One quiet word, but it demands attention. I turn, simmering.He's eerily calm, steady as a predator in a room drenched with gasoline, a lit match in hand.
"I don't think she wants to go with you."
A laugh bursts from my lips, low and mocking. It's so naive, so oblivious to the brutal reality.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, son."
He stands firm, unfazed. "I know what I saw." His gaze shifts to her. "She’s had enough."
And in that moment, cold and unyielding, I make my decision. With brutal certainty.
I will kill him. Not here, not now—too many prying eyes—but soon. I'll erase him, leaving her to regret every breath she took in his company.
I shove her toward the truck. She stumbles, compliant, her eyes fixed forward.
