He jumps like he’s been shot and nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to turn around. “Yo—uh—who the fuck—”
I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him hard into the brick wall behind him. The cigarette flies from his hand, bounces across the footpath, and disappears into the drain. His head snaps back, eyes wide. And then I see it—recognition, sharpand sudden, cutting through the fog of whatever chemicals he drowned in last night.
“Hey, man—”
“Don’t speak.” The words come out low, measured. The kind of voice that makes people start praying. “Not yet.”
He blinks, his breath misting in the cold morning air, his lungs working too fast. “What the hell is this?”
I lean in. Close enough to smell stale booze on his breath. Close enough to count the burst blood vessels in his eyes.
“You touched something that doesn’t belong to you.”
His brows knit in confusion. Then he laughs—a wet, nervous sound. “Look, if this is about that girl—”
My hand closes around his throat like a noose and his eyes bulge.
“Say her name again,” I snarl, “and I’ll break your fucking teeth.”
He claws at my wrist, rasping. “I didn’t do anything, man. She was all over me—”
Wrong answer.
“I don’t give a fuck if she gave you a goddamn lap dance before stripping naked and throwing herself in your lap. You don’t touch her. You don’tlookat her. You don’tbreathein her direction.”
His face turns a deep, furious red as he chokes. I hold him there, just long enough to feel the panic set in. Then I ease up enough for him to wheeze in a breath.
“Understand?”
He nods, frantically. “Yeah. Okay. Jesus. I’m sorry, O’Malley.”
I release his throat, and he slumps against the wall, rubbing his neck. But the second his eyes flick to the side—like he’s considering running—I grab his right arm and twist it behind his back.
He yelps. “Fuck—okay—wait—”
I lean in, voice cold enough to frost glass. “I said, stay away from her.”
And then I jerk his arm higher until I feel the joint strain. He screams.
“Please—Matt—shit—”
His elbow pops first—a wet, sickening crack—then the bone gives way with a sharp snap.
Jason howls, dropping to his knees, clutching the mess of his arm against his chest, snot and spit and tears streaming down his face.
“Jesus Christ—my fucking arm—”
I crouch in front of him, my heart pounding, and my breath shallow.
“You’re lucky it’s just your arm,” I whisper, leaning in so he can feel every word scrape down his spine. “You go near Lily Davis again, and next time it won’t be something you walk away from.”
He’s crying now—ragged little sobs, nodding over and over like some broken marionette. Pathetic. His fear should calm me but it barely dents the rage humming in my blood.
I push off him, rising to my full height, my shadow swallowing his crumpled form on the floor. Then I spit—sharp and final—right beside his cheek.
“Stay the fuck away from her. Or I’ll make sure no hospital on earth can piece you back together.”
I turn, walk back toward the car, and don’t look back.
