For a second, I think he's actually considering it.
"Tempting," he mutters.
"I'm standing right here—" Blake slurs.
"We know," I say. "That's the problem. You won't leave."
Blake takes another unsteady step forward. "You don't get to talk to me like that. Ha! If he hits me, Daddy’s lawyers will—”
"Oh my, he's still talking," I say.
"West. Seriously. Just—" I make a knocking motion with my fist. "Put him out of his misery."
West's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You're a bad influence."
"I'm a practical influence. There’s a good chance he might not remember any of this tomorrow."
But West remains patient. Like he’s watching a toddler exhaust themselves in a tantrum.
He sighs. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s enough.”
Then Blake charges.
Actually charges, head down, arms out.
"Oh no—" I step forward without thinking, trying to—intercept? Push Blake? I don't know—my fixer instincts just screamde-escalate, intervene, stop this!
I lunge forward, aiming to get between them, to push Blake back, to dosomething.
My timing is spectacularly bad.
West chooses that exact moment to shift his weight, preparing to move. My elbow, thrown out for balance in my frantic lunge, connects with the side of his face. Hard. Right on the bridge of his nose.
“Damn!” West staggers back, his hand flying to his nose. Blood pours through his fingers, drips off his chin onto his shirt.
"Oh West! Oh gosh! I’m so sorry—"
“Not your fault,” he says through his hand, voice tight. “Just stay back.”
Blake sees the blood and grins, hands raised in victory. "Got you! Bleeding like a—"
"Blake, that wasn't YOU, that was ME—"
"Still counts!" Blake's laughing, drunk and triumphant.
West's expression doesn't change. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then I hear Blake coming, this time at me.
And West moves.
Fast. Controlled. Efficient.
One punch. Solar plexus. Perfectly placed.
Blake folds like a lawn chair, all the air leaving his lungs inone sick wheeze.
"Oh," I breathe. "Oh wow. That's what a real punch looks like."
