Page 3 of I Still Love You

I peel his hand off my chest and admit to a tiny, white lie. “I won’t do anything more than share a few words with him. ‘Kay? Does that soothe that soft heart of yours, Macey baby?” I give him a light slap on the cheek before moving around him, thankful as fuck he doesn’t pull me back again. Rather than tagging along, he really should hoist me the hell out of here.

I’m on a mission as I make my way down the bar, the eyes of the liquor bottles on my left watching my every step. It’s as if they grow arms and reach out for me, too. Just like Mason did a minute ago, they would much rather see me knock back cheap tequila or drink down a boilermaker than confront this asshole.

Hot on my heels, Mason follows as my backup while I make it to the other end of the bar. For a second, it’s like we’re behind our high school, ready to punch Timmy’s lights out for picking on Mackenzie during theater art. When Mason’s verbal threats went nowhere with him, I sucker punched him in the jaw. Guess what, though? He never said another word to Mackenzie.

The front of the bar, though the center of this remodeled, old-fashioned speakeasy, isn’t the main attraction. Black, half-worn leather booths line the walls behind us, each one filled with patrons happy to indulge and forget about the parts of their life they’ve been dying to put on the back burner for the past week. Half of the recessed lighting shines down a dark, menacing red rather than the clear incandescent bulbs Mason has back at his 3-bedroom inner-city apartment.

Tiny fire ants rain down on me from the ceiling, causing my skin to flame as I slap the back of my hand against my target’s bicep. I nod my chin at the brown-haired lady, giving her the opportunity to skedaddle as he turns to see me. She dashes toward the exit without the company she arrived with, knowing damn well I just saved her from whatever shady shit this guy had planned.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, the predatorial smile lining his lips falling as he tosses a glance my way. “Can I help you?”

“Can you help me?” I let out a short menacing laugh, one that typically only comes out when I’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m not the fun drunk I was in college or even a few years ago. “You want to know if you can help me?”

Eyeing me warily, he turns to lift his hands in surrender, his gaze bouncing between Mase and me. “Listen, dude. I don’t want any trouble. Just trying to enjoy a night out.”

“Enjoy a night out?” My laughter simmers, and I sniff as I rub my thumb across my nose. “I’ve watched you,” I point to the end of the bar where we came from, “from right down there, put your hands on one too many women tonight.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” He plays it off cool and confident, though I see the discomfort in his stance when he steps back and observes his surroundings.

“You’re full of shit, and you know it. If this was my bar, I’d take you out back by your scruff and teach you a fucking lesson.”

He narrows his eyes and licks his lips. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not the owner then, huh, buddy?”

Anger burns below the surface of my skin. It rages on, spreading like wildfire through my veins as my heart pumps scarlet liquid in and out, in and out. I expand my chest with a lungful of air and hold it in. My hands become puppets, leaving my pockets and flexing in the dimly lit space, the alcohol my puppet master.

My eyes, which I’m sure are bloodshot from the emotion—and booze—settling in behind them, set him ablaze. Deep down, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m not normally a violent guy. Jesus Christ, I’d give the jacket off my back to anyone who’d ask, but I can’t fucking stand when men treat women like they’re less than, like they’re objects to play with. It makes my shoulders tense, my skin itch, and my fingers draw sparks as I curl them into a fist.

At this moment, I’m reminded of the golden-haired goddess that wrecked me in more ways than I care to admit. My release is so close I can taste it, making me recall the exact moment the devastation she created took away every ounce of hope she ever instilled in me.

Leaning closer, I rest my hand on the edge of the bar as he lowers to the stool, the sharp edge of the blackened marble biting into my palm. My lips, inches from his head, linger. “It is a good fucking thing. Means I can wring your neck out right here instead.”

My free hand moves to the back of his neck, and before I know it, I’m slamming his head into the same sharp edge of the bar that nips my other palm. It all happens so fast, my vision tunneling and obscuring my view. The reality of what I’m doing—assaulting this man—sinks under the haze of my actions, and not an ounce of rationality lightens my dark thoughts.

He grunts when I yank him back, only to bash his head a second time. From the corner of my eye, the guy sitting next to him shrieks, grabs his beer, and scoots from his stool. I zone out further, ignoring the chaos brought on by my actions and the barely-there weight that lands on my shoulder.

When I finally release him, he presses his hand to his face. Crimson stains his skin, leaking from his nose. “You motherfucker,” he spits, smearing a curve of red across his upper lip.

Suddenly, the fire ants from earlier scatter, and cool water replaces them. I flick my attention to the side, where the chill is coming from, and notice a bartender hosing a stream of water over us as the place erupts with shrieks and screams. It sprinkles over the two of us from behind the bar and does nothing to put out the storm raging inside me. In fact, it only eggs me on, like water on a grease fire; I can’t be tamed.

I puff my chest out, lift my fists and sneer, “Round two, asshole. Let’s hope it’s enough to knock some sense into that thick fucking skull of yours. Teaches you to keep your hands to your goddamn self.”

He snickers and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off.”

“I could but won’t,” I say with a vicious grin. My tunnel vision tightens. So much so that I can’t pinpoint what’s going on in the background. All I see is red. I see red, and I see this guy, and if I have anything to do about it, I’ll merge them into one.

I extend my fist quickly and jab him straight in the mouth. He tumbles back, his back flattening against the bar, and spits out a mouthful of blood on my shoes. I take it as an insult that results in me cracking my neck side to side. However, when I bend slightly to assess the damage on my white shoes, I open myself up for a cheap shot.

A thump rings in my ears, and a dull sting fades out near my hairline as my head jostles to the side. The whole thing knocks me back a step, making me wobble long enough to throw me off balance. Mason catches me from behind, his arms hooking under my own and righting me on my feet.

I’d let Mase have this if our roles were reversed. I’d let him stand in the front and dole out punches, but it’s me who needs to quiet the fury. To numb the aftershock of pain in the center of my chest that always intensifies after consuming a few drinks.

When I snap my gaze back to him, I catch the turned over beer bottle clasped in his hand. He spins it like he’s done it before, rolling it over his knuckles before grasping it tighter and threatening to hit me as he shuffles back and forth with wide, ready eyes. I brush away a sense of coolness on my face and realize it wasn’t his fist that got me; it was the bottle. Blood smears between my fingertips.

“Okay.” I shrug, rolling out my shoulders and ready to K.O. his ass. “Game over.”

Pressure presses into my arm from behind again, but I push the thought of it away. Then a hand wraps around the nape of my neck, and a forehead presses into the side of my head, pulling me from the moment. My brother’s voice comes into focus, and it’s the only other sound I hear besides the whitewater rapids thrashing in my blood.

“Luke! Snap the fuck out of it. It’s time to go.” Mason’s grip on my neck tightens, distracting me from the man in front of me and the wetness on my cheek. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

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