I park outside the pizza parlor where her loser of a date takes her. I don’t like the fucking twat. Skinny, pimple-faced loser from drama club who thinksway too fuckingmuchof himself. Obviously, as evidenced by his thinking he deserves to breathe the same fuckingairshe does.
But I can’t stop her. I know I can’t.
I can protect her though.
I put on a hat and sunglasses and dress in nondescript clothing. She’s sharp as fuck, and I don’t want her to start recognizing me. Getting too close might be… dangerous.
“Hey,” Bianca says, waving to the fucking twat who didn’t even have the decency to pick her up.
The guy smiles and waves at her, but I immediately clock him for what he is because he doesn’t even know how tonotstare at her chest and arse and hide the fact that he’s asked her out because he wants to fuck her.
Of all the fucking…
I walk past them, grab a slice of pizza and a drink, then sit in the far corner where I can see them, but she has her back to me. It’s awkward as fuck. The date goes downhill fast.
From my corner table, I watch the bastard lean too close when Bianca talks, his eyes dropping to her mouth, her chest, anywhere but her fucking face. The lass is nervous, twisting her hair and playing with the little paper for her straw.
I’m going to kill him.
Not tonight. Not here. But I'm going to feckin' kill him.
The bastard's been on his phone three times since they sat down. He’s checking football scores or texting his mates while she sits there across from him, smiling like she's supposed to pretend she doesn't notice.
He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.
She's nervous. I can tell by the way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, but she's trying… laughing at his jokes, even though I can see from here that they're not funny.
He doesn't even notice.
Doesn't notice the way she lights up when she talks. Doesn't notice how she leans forward when she's interested in something. Doesn't notice that he's sitting across from something precious and rare, and he's treating her like she's fucking wallpaper.
She deserves better than this.
Better than some arsehole who can't put his phone down for an hour. Better than a boy who doesn't see what's right in front of him. Better than someone who makes her feel like she's not enough.
If she were mine, I'd never look away. Not for a second. I'd memorize every expression, every laugh, every goddamn breath. She'd never have to wonder if I was interested, if I was listening, if I cared.
She'd know.
Because I'd make damn sure she knew.
Myknuckles ache from gripping my cup.
She laughs at something he says, but it's the wrong laugh. I know her laughs by now—the real ones that light up her whole face, the shy ones when she's pleased, and the nervous ones when she's trying to be kind to someone who doesn't deserve it.
And this fucker doesn't deserve it.
He reaches across the table and takes her hand. I go still. Blood pumps hot and furious in my veins when she stops moving but doesn’t pull away because she’s way too fucking polite. But I see her shoulders tense, and that’senough.
I'm halfway out of my seat when he leans in even closer and says something that makes her face go red.
Bianca pushes up from the table. “I have to use the restroom,” she says in a rush.
Perfect.
I give it thirty seconds after she disappears down the hallway, then I'm moving. The bastard's checking his phone, smirking to himself, when I slide into Bianca's empty seat.
He looks up, his eyes wide and afraid. I slide off my sunglasses and give the same look I give my opponents before I beat their fucking arses.
