I should walk away. This is none of my business. I will my feet to move, but they don't, and when she slaps him, I covermy mouth to smother a gasp. She'd slapped him so hard, but his head barely moved. And now there is no way I can look anywhere but at them.
My head is swimming, and it's both a result of what I'm witnessing and the unmeasurable amount of FlatlinersI've ingested tonight. I feel my brows tighten with shock because this is embarrassingly the most scandalous situation I've ever been a part of—well, not really a part of, but have seen.
Max... It's hard to believe he'd just stand there and take it. It's also hard to believe that any girl would treat him like that... No, that's not true. I'm sure lots of girls hate him. Frick, I'd even like the opportunity to hate him for the same reason they do.
The royally peeved woman growls and then stumbles on her stiletto. Her ankle flops to the side momentarily. Max pulls something out of his back pocket and hands it to her. She slaps him again, but this time his head turns ever so slightly. He doesn’t retaliate. He barely says a word. After putting the mystery item in her bag, she stumbles to the red car, gets in, and drives off. Max still hasn’t moved.
He waits until her car disappears out of sight before shoving his hands into his pockets and turning around, walking... Straight. Toward. Me.
Frick.
I spin around and rush away, but to my absolute mortification, I trip and land on my knees, my palms slapping the pavers. Defeated, drunk, perhaps a little mentally slow, I roll onto my bum and lean against the outside render. I sigh and stare straight ahead as the sound of his feet gets closer to me and then stops. I'm now staring at the hem of jeans and dark shoes.
"You look a little out of place," I hear a deep voice say, and it's the first time Max Butcher has ever spoken tome. His voice is clear, confident, and articulate, yet with a gravelly aftershock that does things to my breathing.
I clear my throat. "It's funny."
"What's funny?"
"I was going to say, 'It's funny you say that because', but then couldn’t be bothered finishing that sentence."
My head is heavy, but I manage to arch my neck and look up at him through my lashes. I sigh, my drunken vision distorting his face at this distance and creating a fuzzy fisheye around him. "Hi, Max."
"Do I know you?"
"You're so tall," I whine.
He's suddenly squatting next to me, a grin playing on his lips. "Better?"
Gazing into his eyes, I feel as though he's looking inside me. Through skin. Through muscle. Intome. He studies me unapologetically as if it's his right and my privilege. Everyone says that all The Butcher Boys have blue eyes, but his are so much more than just blue. They are a stormy ocean, hinting at the powerful chaos beneath their blue-grey depths.
Ugh... He's perfect.
He must be a witch. Or like, the male version... a warlock?
I smile and feel my eyelids get heavier. "Yeah. And no, I don't know you. I mean, you don't know me."
He's still grinning, his lips a provocative slash across his face. "Okay."
I look down at my legs stretched out in front of me and then at him. He's still there, nailing me with his stare. "Oh my gawd. You're too hot, Max. Seriously, just stop it."
I can't believe I've just said that.
His grin gets wider, becoming slightly crooked and naturally cocky in nature. He has a single dimple on his leftcheek. Of course, he does. I want to poke it. I'm going to poke it.
Do not poke it!
His mouth moves and I'm fixated on that dimple. "I'll work on that for you," he says.
"Good." I nod. "Go get fat or something."
He chuckles a little and it's my new favourite sound. White teeth flash at me for a moment, and they're straight and perfect. My eyes go back to his dimple.
Do not poke it.
Swallowing down the knot in my throat, I say, "You're probably wondering why I'm on the ground, right?"
He studies me, eyes shifting around my face for a moment. I can feel them everywhere, their path from my eyes to my lips palpable, and I'm pretty sure I'm now panting.
