“She’s not yours, either,” he spits, and then he punches. It’s not a wild swing—he never fights wild—so it connects with my jaw and snaps my head to the side. I taste blood. That’s fine. That’swhat I want. I drive my fist into his ribs, feeling the shock of it all the way up my arm, and we lock together, a chaos of elbows and knees and curses. Every time I hit him, I see Marnie’s face, flushed and needy, eyes rolling up in pleasure. Every time he lands a blow, I see her with him, on her knees, mouth wide open, and I want to gouge his fucking eyes out.
We roll over the bed, slam into the headboard. Marnie scrambles out of the way, clutching a pillow to her chest, but she’s not screaming. She’s frozen, likely horrified and unsure what to do.
James catches me around the neck, tries to pin me to the carpet, but I twist and break free, shoving my forearm across his throat and driving him back into the nightstand. The lamp topples, shatters, plunging half the room into darkness. We’re silhouettes, two animals, all instinct and fury.
“Fucking coward,” he hisses, spit flecking my cheek. “Couldn’t stand to lose, could you?”
“Like you ever gave a shit about anyone but yourself,” I shoot back. “She was just another notch on the bedpost for you.”
He slams my head against the drywall, voice rising. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know shit.”
“Funny, coming from someone I’ve known literallydecades!”
That does it. He swings again, harder, but I see it coming and duck, and his fist sinks into the plaster. He howls, and I drive my shoulder into his gut, sending us both crashing onto the bed. We roll, knock over the last lamp, and now we’re fighting in the dark, blinded by rage and the static sizzle of blood in our ears.
Marnie is just a blur on the edge of my peripheral vision. She’s not screaming, not crying. She’s not even running.
She stands there, nude, her big bust heaving, blue eyes wide and haunted.
She’s the only thing in the room that’s real.
James and I break apart, breathing hard, circling, waiting for the next move. He’s bleeding from the lip. I’m bleeding from the nose. We look like we just walked out of a meat grinder.
From the corner, Marnie’s voice, thin and unsteady: “Stop it. Stop.”
Neither of us listen.
James feints left, then goes for a bear hug, trying to drag me down. I bite his shoulder—fuck it, no rules—and he yelps, but doesn’t let go. We tumble across the carpet, knocking over a chair and slamming into the closet doors. The noise is insane—crashing, yelling, the sounds of bodies breaking things and maybe breaking themselves.
That’s when she runs.
I see her out of the corner of my eye—Marnie, fully nude, sprinting from the bedroom. She doesn’t bother with clothes, just books it down the hallway, hair flying, bare feet slapping the hardwood.
For a second, neither of us move.
Then I shove James off, stagger to my feet, and wipe the blood from my face. He’s on his knees, panting, hand pressed to his chest where I must’ve landed a good one.
“She’s gone,” I say, but I’m not even sure if I want to follow.
He glares up at me, then shakes his head. “You always have to ruin everything, don’t you?”
I want to punch him again, but instead I stagger to the closet, yank on a pair of sweats, and head down the hall after her. I don’t even know what I’ll say. All I know is the sound of her feet, the flash of gold hair, the echo of her breathless, desperate sobbing as she flees into the dark.
I follow, because what else can I do?
I catchup to her in the kitchen—bare feet sliding on marble, hair whipping a streak of gold behind her. She’s breathless, pale, not even pretending to cover up anymore. Her hands shake as she yanks open the fridge, slamming it shut, then attacks the drawers, one after the other. Utensils scatter, a rain of metal clattering on the floor. She barely notices.
I try to get closer, but she wheels on me, eyes bright with terror.
“Don’t,” she says, and her voice cracks in two.
“Marnie, it’s okay,” I start, hands up, but she’s not listening.
She’s not okay. None of us are okay.
She rummages through the next drawer, and when she finds it—a chef’s knife, eleven inches of steel—her hands go so white they look bloodless. She holds it in both hands, blade trembling, and for a second she just stares at it, like she can’t decide if it’s real.
Behind me, the sounds of the brawl haven’t stopped. James is cursing, maybe patching his knuckles, maybe just punching holes in drywall for the fuck of it. The whole apartment is echoing with violence, like a building under siege. I’m bleeding from the nose and lip, and the copper taste is all I can smell.
