Page 31 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“Is that right, you fat bitch?”

Oh. Fuck. Big mistake.

Before I can plan and think of the repercussions, something takes me over. It feels a step above simply losing my temper. It’s more savage, primal. I don’t know. Whatever it is, a mini blackout strikes me.

When I “wake up,” I’ve dragged the lean, tatted douche into the apartment lobby and punched him so hard in the mouth I feel one of his teeth embed in my fist.

“Motherfucker,” I roar, tossing him across the room so he slams into the wall.

He gasps, staring at me wide-eyed as blood pisses from his mouth.

“Call her fat again,” I snarl. “Call her a bitch again! Do it!”

He raises his hands, leaning against the wall, all the fight draining from him.

“What’s wrong?” Bam, bam, bam. I hammer him in the gut three times, each one harder than the last, causing the motherfucker to keel over. “Not as fun being a bully when it’s someone bigger than you? Not as fun when I canfight back?”

On the fourth hit, I’m sure I feel his rib crack. He lets out a pathetic sob and slinks to the floor, curling up into the fetal position. I pull my boot back, fully ready to kick him in the mouth and relieve him of the rest of his teeth, but then Bella yells. Or maybe she’s been yelling this whole time, and I can only hear her now. “Matt!”

I look up to see her staring at me from the doorway. Her mouth is open in shock. Her eyes gleam with judgment and resentment. She looks at me like I’m not even the same species—like I’m a monster. I was right. I can never have an ordinary woman. It doesn’t matter if Bella’s the only person I’ve ever even given aslightdamn about.

As she walks toward the door, my suspicions are confirmed when she hurries out of my way when I walk toward her. Even worse, she raises her hands as though she thinks I’m going to hither.

I jog across the street, climb onto my bike, start the engine, and surge away, adrenaline pounding through me. Bella and her friend can find their own way home now. It’s not like that motherfucker is going to give them any problems.

As I storm away and the anger slowly fades, practical questions erupt in my mind. Was I caught on camera beating his ass? Were there any witnesses? I can handle these problems, of course, but it’s another complication we don’t need right now.

Hell, when I heard him call her that sick name, something just snapped in me. There isn’t a world where I hear somebody talk to Bella like that, and I stand there and don’t do a goddamn thing.

Back in the club, I stare down at the sink as the water swirls the color of blood. I wash my hands, my knuckles pulsing and stinging as I rub soap over the fresh cuts.

Elio walks in, frowning at me in the mirror’s reflection. “Dead or alive?”

“Alive,” I grunt.

“Witnesses?”

“One for sure,” I tell him. “Sofia’s violin tutor. I’m not sure about anybody else. Plenty of people saw me drag him somewhere more private, though.”

“Hmm,” Elio sighs. “We don’t need this.”

“I know.”

“Why, then?”

A dry laugh escapes me—surreal. It’s like the whole world is suddenly a joke. “Because he called her a fat bitch.”

“Plenty of douches out there hurling names at people.”

“Yep.” I splash cold water on my face, conscious of the adrenaline still surging. “How’d it go with the detective work?”

“We’re still hammering.”

“Good.”

Elio tilts his head at me. “Are we going to discuss this?”

“Discuss what?” I grunt.

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