Blesk giggles as we continue our immature, testosterone-based banter.
I shuffle my feet, feeling the bourbon moving a little too fast through my limbs now. Blesk wraps her hand around my forearm, as if supporting me.
That’s when it happens.
Someone shouts, “I know that arse!”
Jax’s face drops. That’s the only warning I get before the sound of a slap. Blesk bumps me when her legs shift under her. Did— Did someone just slap her arse?
I whirl around. “What the fuck?”
Max fucking Butcher.
“Woah, no disrespect, Slater. Had a few too many.” That smirk—I hate that smirk. “You’d know all about having a few too many.”
I clench my fists at my sides. I want to speak, but my teeth won’t unlock and my jaw is starting to ache.
Then Blesk laughs—not a nervous laugh either. This one is laced with ease and recognition as if she’s genuinely pleased to see him. I look at her. I glare at him. I try to figure out which urge inside is going to win. Is it putting Max through the wall behind him? Or laughing this off because she’s okay?
Why is she smiling at him like that?
My molars hurt.
“Hey, sweetheart, I forgot your name,” Max says, grinning at her, lips lopsided and arrogant, as he holds out his hand. “Know that arse, just not the name.”
My eyes go directly to his hand, and I watch as she places hers delicately in it. Then his fingers wrap around hers, and maybe it’s in my head, maybe I’m just too drunk, but it is more sensual than necessary. Her hand. His hand. My eye twitches.
I fantasize about grabbing the chair to my right and shattering it over his head. Two things stop me. One: Blesk hates fighting. Any retaliation against Max would definitely upset her. Two: it would end with me being bludgeoned and him walking away with a few meagre scratches—his dad’s a pro boxer and his brothers grew up fighting. That doesn’t bother me as much as Blesk having to witness it again.
But if he puts his paws on her again, I swear I won’t be able to stop myself.
“Blesk,” she answers. “Erik Bellamy’s sister.”
Fuck that name.
“Ah.” He smirks, leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “Right.” He pats me on the arm, and I want to break his hand. “I went to school with her dickhead brother.” Amused by my expression, he tilts his head to eyeball me. “So, I hear you beat the shit out of him?”
Fuck—news travels fast.
Of course, Max is from the District, too; we District kids don’t have any bloody private lives.
Blesk narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head. She clearly doesn’t want me joining this testosterone-fuelled banter. “Not something I’m proud of,” I lie.
Biggest fucking lie of my life.
Palming his jaw until it cracks, he scoffs in disbelief. “Yeah, right.” Then he pats me again like I’m a dog, knowing I can’t do a thing if I want to keep all my teeth. “Strange we both knocked Erik out over the same girl. Didn’t think we had the same taste.”
Over the same?—
What the fuck?
The words pierce my ears like arrows through a target. I say nothing. I just look at Blesk…then back at him. Our eyes lock. “We don’t. Most girls have more respect than you, Butcher.” I want Blesk to know I’m not like that. I always remember their names…mostly. “If girls actually knew what a dickhead you are, they wouldn’t consent to going home with you.”
“I never take them home.” Max’s arm shoots sideways without him glancing, snagging a redhead by the wrist and dragging her to his side. She stumbles slightly, and he doesn’t catch her. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t seem to care. He looks at me. “I’m going to do fucked-up, disrespectful things to you tonight, and I won’t know your name tomorrow, if I learn it at all.” His eyes stay on mine. “Do you consent?”
The girl bites her lip. “Yeah.”
I groan at the spectacle.
