Page 47 of Her Dark Angel

Either way, the more I kiss Nash, the more I start to wonder whether it’ll happen again. Hoping it’ll happen again.

16

NASH

As my car crawls to a stop in the driveway, my hands ache from their grip on the steering wheel. I have an intense urge to tug at my hair to redirect the pain in my chest to another part of my body. This shit hurts. And I’m so mad at myself that I could scream until my lungs go raw.

I can’t believe I nearly had a fucking panic attack in front of Kinsley while trying to tell her about being bullied in high school. At that moment, with her pretty blue eyes watching me struggle to breathe and form a goddamn sentence, I have never felt more fucking pathetic.

What is it about the little devil and her soft, innocent voice that makes me want to open up to her like a goddamn flower blooming in the spring? It frustrates the fuck out of me, and yet, I’m helpless to do anything about it when my mind clearly works on its own accord.

My knuckle collides with the leather steering wheel repeatedly until they sting from the worn skin around the bones ripping open. Years of getting into fistfights will do that to you. Beads of blood drip down my knuckle and onto my pants, but I don’t care to stop. The burn in my chest only starts to subside when my hand aches so bad I’m reminded I’m sitting in my car in the dark, beating the shit out of the steering wheel.

Exhaling a sharp breath, I inspect the knuckle on my right hand under the dim lighting of the streetlamps. The skin is torn to shit and blood coats my hand, dripping down my wrist.

“Fuck,” I breathe, and run my left hand through my hair, tugging at the roots harshly. “That little devil is going to be the fucking death of me.”

Now that the ache in my chest has seemingly gone away and it feels like my head is clear and I can breathe again, my attention turns to the music blasting from inside my house and the multiple cars parked in the driveway I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived.

Looking around at the cars, I frown.

What the fuck?

When I left the house earlier, it was empty because I wanted to be alone after the bomb Mandy dropped on us today. And now, through the windows to the living room, I see multiple men I don’t recognize grinding against women I also haven’t seen before. The rock music is slightly muffled inside the car, and all the frustration I felt moments ago comes rushing back like a tidal wave.

This is the last thing I wanted to come home to.

Flinging the car door open, I step out into the cool April air and slam the door closed behind me. The sound is barely audible above the music filtering out through the open front door. Is there a fucking open-door policy or something? Not in my goddamn house there isn’t.

Nobody glances in my direction when I walk through the front door. People are strewn throughout the foyer with cans of beer in their hands or in the living room, dancing and grinding on each other to the rhythm of the music. Anger licks at my sides as I march through the room, my gaze hard as I try to locate the person behind this fucking party.

A cold hand stops me in my tracks. I turn my attention to the petite blonde woman a whole foot shorter than me, wearing nothing but a bright pink leotard and an oversized denim jacket. Her fingers dance up my chest until they’re wrapped around the back of my neck.

“Nash, baby, you’re back,” the woman drawls, her words slightly slurred. She is on her way to being drunk off her ass very soon if the beer can in her hand is any indication.

I slap her hand away, ignoring the disappointment that passes through her pale brown eyes. “Who the fuck invited you here?”

She frowns, licking her red-painted lips. “I think it was some guy named Johnny. He told us that you said?—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence before I continue walking through the room. With how red my face feels, I wouldn’t be surprised if steam were coming out of my ears.

Of fucking course Johnny is the one who threw this party. I’m not surprised since it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

But it is a first that I’m fucking pissed about. After the rough day I’ve had, and the fact I have blood all over my hand from a split knuckle, I just want to crawl into bed and forget about what happened with Kinsley. Just the panic attack part, not the rest of the night. I happened to enjoy spending time with the little blondie until she tried to worm her way into the depths of my soul.

God, she’s infuriating but fucking beautiful at the same time.

After scanning the room, I locate Johnny in the second living room around the corner, a bottle of Budweiser in hand. He’s lounging on the black leather couch with Hudson and the blue-haired woman he was with the other day. Is her name Iris? I can’t fucking remember.

My fists clench at my sides. Hudson’s red shirt blurs in with my vision, my mind seemingly consuming me with the memories of my dad sitting on the couch drinking those same fucking beers.

As I enter the room, I feel all eyes on me, but I don’t care. I march toward Johnny, his eyes finding me at the last minute when I grab him by the collar of his shirt and hoist him to his feet. He’s nowhere near my height, so he has to tilt his head back to look me in the eye, which I’m sure reflects the depths of Hell right now.

“What the fuck is all this,” I growl through my teeth, my grip on his shirt tightening.

Johnny’s eyes widen, fear passing through them for a split second before an unconvincing smile turns up the corner of his lips. “H-hey, Nash. How was your night?”

“Don’t fuck with me right now, Johnny. I’m not in the mood.”

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