Page 3 of For the Love of Layla

He groans weakly as I release his head. A tooth popping loose and sliding across the desk on the last impact. It’s not enough, nowhere near enough.

My Layla… She’s mine. The thought of his hands on her…

He lets his head slump to the desk, his hands flat on either side of his head, “All this over a whore?” He gurgles, spitting blood from his mouth.

Bad move.

A growl forms deep in my chest as I grab the gold letter opener from his desk, “Watch your fucking mouth!” I yell, as I stab it through the back of his right hand making him scream like a dying chimp. He tries to pull his hand from the desk but it’s pinned there, the letter opener going all the way through and deep into the wood.

She’s mine.

I reassure myself for the millionth time since last night. All mine. He moans in pain as I grip the letter opener, wiggling it back and forth in the same hand that touched her. Nobody is here, so I don’t hide how much I’m enjoying this. As the flesh peels back around the dull blade, he cries out weakly. A smile falls on my face as I reach forward, pulling up the side of his muddled mouth into a smile to match mine. Bending until I’m eye level with the fuck, “I think Layla would agree this is quite the improvement from what you had before. What will your wife think, Samuel…should I ask her myself?” He whimpers. Dare I say a tear falls from his swelling eyes, streaking through the blood there. “Should I bust her head-”

My head snaps up as the door opens, “Mr. Danvers, I got the-” My heart stops as Layla takes in the scene in front of her, her amber-colored eyes twisting in horror.

I told you to stay home today, disobedient little star.

“Oh, my god! Oh my god, Liam. What the fuck have you done?” She shouts as she drops the booklets in her hands. Frantic as she goes to his side, taking the extensive damage I’ve done to his face. Her hands hovering above him, unsure what’s safe to touch. Her concern for him only adds to my foul mood. You shouldn’t fucking care. They aren’t the right words, but they come anyway as heat bubbles in my chest, “Why the fuck do you care?”

The way she looks at me makes my stomach roll, twisting into knots. I take a deep breath, “Baby, I told you there would be consequences for his actions.”

Her mouth drops open as he wheezes, “Call for help…” She reaches for his phone, whimpering when she realizes it’s covered in blood just like the rest of his desk.

“I thought you meant you’d fire him, not try to kill him!” She snaps.

Fucking hell, this went south fast.

Chapter two

Warning Signs

Layla

I bring the coffee cup to my lips, not bothering to check the temperature before taking a sip.

Fuck! There goes tasting my breakfast.

“See, that’s why iced coffee is superior.” Ava mutters, dramatically sipping her iced chai tea latte. She always orders the same thing, then complains because she never tries anything new. I roll my eyes before glancing over to the counter, my stomach rumbling in protest at the lack of food.

That’s what you get for skipping dinner.

I sigh, this cafe is always busy despite it being a mom and pop shop. Self-proclaimed whole in the wall. Ava and I happened by it the night I methim. I was so frazzled and worked up by the enigmatic man who bought the magazine I write for I practically floated to our table. I still haven’t decided if twisting my ankle that day was the best or worst thing that ever happened to me.

Six Months Ago, Layla

I look up from my computer screen for the first time in three hours. My neck aches and my eyes strain to adjust to the lighting in the room. Black and purple circles dance around my field of vision. Why do your eyes do that? Is it only mine? A blip of anxiety sweeps across my chest, and I do my best to assure myself it’s normal and I’m probably fine. Mr. Danvers insisted I work at the ultra-cramped secondary desk in his office today. “Because my last article was pitiful.” I now have to run everything by him.

Cocksucker.

Like writing paragraph long captions under the asinine ill-informed quoted opinions of Instagram influencers requires literary genius. You know ultra-rich one percent assholes always have very groundbreaking stances on the rate of homelessness among LGBTQ+ youth in the city. They don’t fucking care, not in any genuine sense. Certainly don’t see any donations coming in for the charities I list at the bottom of the articles.

Less of your opinions and more of theirs, Layla.

I remind myself for the hundredth time today that many people would kill for my position, even if it wasn’t what I had in mind for myself.

Oliva knocks lightly before entering, “Sir, Mr. Curran is here to discuss the-”

He cuts her off, raising a hand, not bothering to acknowledge her further. She presses her overdrawn lips together tightly before walking back out.

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