Page 66 of Throttle

My gaze darts between his golden one, attempting to grasp his exact intention. Regardless of the fine print, if that’s what he wants, then I’ll give him that.

I sigh in defeat. “Yeah. That’s for the best.” My chest aches and tears are about to roll down my cheeks any second now.

“Fuck, T.” He tries to tilt my chin to him, but I shake it off.

“I think you should leave.”

And there. The tear teasing to escape, slips.

“I never meant for this to happen.” His voice etching into my soul.

I respond with a pained expression, watching him vanish as the door shuts.

The potential end of our friendship is Earth shattering.

Me: You have my full permission to kick Throttle’s ass.

Angel: Hell yes! Throttle’s my boy. My brother. But I will take him down.

Angel: Are you okay? Maybe it is finally time for you to move on.

I think about how to respond. If I want to respond.

Me: Yeah.

Maybe this time, I mean it.

TWENTY-TWO

Throttle

I haven’t left, staring at her apartment door like it’s going to re-open. The betrayal I saw in her angelic eyes was enough to rip me in two. She’s better off without me entirely. It’s for the best.

I hear slow footsteps behind me and brace for any confrontation. As soon as they grow nearer, I swing around locking my fingers into the guy’s shirt.

“Hey. Hey, son. I mean no harm.” The old man smiles, baring yellow, rotting teeth while holding up a bottle of whiskey. “Care to join? Been desperate for a drinking buddy for a long time.”

I release him and he stumbles back, slowly sitting his ass down on the hallway floor. His prosthetic in front.

I don’t like him hanging out this close to her place, but something tells me he’s not bringing her any trouble. Just a drunken old man.

I glance at the door one more time before looking back at the old man on the floor. I have no idea why, but I slink down next to him. He looks like he could have been big, well-built back in his day, but right now he just looks frail and weak as if he’s been through hell and back.

“That a boy.” He takes out a tiny glass from his pocket and pours a shot into it.

I hold up the glass, studying the cleanliness of it. It’s not.

He shrugs. “Alcohol should kill it.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically.

“Cheers to life. I guess.” He clinks his glass to mine and both of us drink up, me enjoying the slight burn.

“Names Frank,” he hiccups.

“Throttle.” I nod, resting my arms on my bent knees.

“What kind of fucking name is that, kid?”

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