Page 28 of Home in Nevada

“Jeff, STOP!” Tiffany’s scream cuts through the chaos, but I don’t listen.

The guy manages to shove me off balance, but I lunge back, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down with me. We tumble off the bed in a flurry of fists and curses, the thudding of bodies hitting the floor echoing through the room.

Tiffany throws herself into the fight, clawing at my back, her nails raking through my shirt, but I barely feel it.

“GET OFF OF HIM!” she shrieks, her voice breaking into sobs as she claws at my back, her strength fueled by sheer panic. “This isn’t his fault, Jeff! It’s me—you’re angry at me! Leave him alone!”

I stumble back, my chest heaving, my fists still clenched so tight my knuckles burn. Tiffany steps between us, her tear-streaked face filled with fury and desperation.

“Get the fuck out of my room, Jeff!” she yells, her voice hoarse. “NOW!”

The words hit me like a slap, cutting through the haze of rage. My breathing is ragged, blood dripping down my face, my shirt sticking to my skin. The man on the floor is clutching his ribs, his face contorted in pain.

I glance down at the box with the watch, lying discarded on the carpet, the lid slightly askew. Picking it up, I shoot one last glare at Tiffany, my chest tightening.

Without another word, I storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me. The sound reverberates through the hallway, but it doesn’t feel loud enough to drown out the chaos still roaring in my head.

The drive back to my apartment is a blur of neon lights and dark streets. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly it feels like I might rip it off. My mind races, replaying the scene over and over, disbelief and rage battling for dominance.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, I catch my reflection—a bloodied nose, a split lip, streaks of red smeared across my jaw. I barely recognize the person staring back at me. My hand trembles as I swipe at the blood, but it only smears across my shirt, the fabric soaking it up like a stain I’ll never be able to wash out.

Fuck.

The word echoes in my head, growing louder with each passing second. My chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.

Slamming my palm against the steering wheel, I let out a furious yell. The hollow thud reverberates through the car, but it’s not enough to drown out the storm raging inside me. My mind flashes back to the room, to Tiffany’s voice breaking as she screamed at me to stop, to the guy’s wide-eyed panic, to the look on her face—fear, anger, and something that cut deeper than I was ready to face.

Everything’s ruined.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to surprise her, make her smile, prove that things could still be good between us. That I wasn’t the mess Lucy thought I was. That Tiffany and I could work through anything.

Instead, I’ve destroyed everything.

The rage twists into something sharper, something that burns hotter. But it’s not just anger anymore—it’s humiliation, regret, and shame. It churns in my gut, clawing at me from the inside.

I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles white, as a wave of exhaustion crashes over me. My whole body feels heavy, weighed down by the mess I’ve made, the choices I can’t take back.

The mirror catches my eye again, and for a moment, I think about the look on Tiffany’s face as she stood between me and him. Her words echo in my head:It’s me—you’re angry at me.

She’s right.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t erase the way my fists felt slamming into him, or the way her voice broke as she pulled me back.

I slam my fist against the steering wheel again, harder than before. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and real, but it does nothing to silence the chaos raging inside me.

What the fuck have I done?

By the time I park in front of my apartment, I’m shaking. I throw the car into park, not even bothering to straighten it, and stumble inside. The door slams shut behind me, rattling on its hinges.

I head straight for the bathroom, my legs unsteady, my chest heaving. I flick on the light, gripping the sink as I stare at the mirror.

The reflection staring back at me looks like a stranger—my nose swollen and throbbing, streaks of blood smeared across my face, my shirt torn and filthy. I splash cold water on my face, the sting waking me up a little, and lean closer to the mirror.

At least my nose isn’t broken. Small fucking consolation.

I press a towel to my face, the adrenaline slowly draining, leaving only a dull ache in my chest. The anger isn’t gone, not even close. But beneath it, something sharper digs in—shame, regret, humiliation.

I slide down to sit on the bathroom floor, the cool tiles against my back as I stare at the towel in my hands, now streaked with blood. My fists clench again, my knuckles aching.

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