Page 67 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

Byron's eyes move between us, the first flicker of uncertainty joining the anger on his face. "Tell me what?"

I shrug, meeting his hard gaze. "She doesn't want you back, man."

Byron's attention snaps to Saylor, who seems determined to win a staring contest with the carpet fibers.

She's silent, frozen.

"You know why?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock concern, every word calculated to hurt the both of them.

Something finally snaps inside her. Saylor's head whips toward me, eyes blazing with a cocktail of emotions so complex I can't begin to decipher them. Anger, certainly. Fear, possibly. Something else that looks dangerously like heartbreak.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she hisses, each word sharpened to a point.

A twisted satisfaction blooms in my chest at having finally captured her attention. At forcing her to acknowledge me, to stop pretending I don't exist in this excruciating triangle we've created.

"Just clearing the air," I say with a shrug, maintaining eye contact now that I've finally earned it.

I reach across the coffee table with deliberate slowness, plucking her curry container from its place. Without breaking eye contact, I take a bite, the spices hitting my tongue with familiar heat.

"Not spicy enough," I comment, as if to acknowledge how she promised to make her spicy curry for me. And I can only assume that Byron is trying to smooth things over with her by buying her favorite dish. Degrading it brings me pure fucking joy.

Their glares bore into me — former enemies temporarily allied against a common threat. The irony isn't lost on me.

"Now I understand why you always hated him," Byron says to Saylor, not shifting his gaze from my face.

"That's not the case anymore," I counter, matching his stare with equal intensity. "Is it, Saylor?"

The words hang in the air like smoke, acrid and choking. Each passing second ratchets the tension higher, a rubber band stretching toward inevitable breaking.

"She doesn't want to be with you anymore," I tell Byron, abandoning pretense for blunt cruelty. "Accept it and move on."

"This is exactly why you hated him," Byron says to Saylor as if I'm not sitting right here. She can't look at him though, and that alone squeezes my heart. "Look at him. He is just––"

"What?" I taunt, hating the tone coming out of his mouth, hating that the girl I'm starting to fall for ran back to her ex. "I'm what?"

"Get the fuck out of here."

I glare at him, anger simmering in my bones. I shake my head without realizing it, and then Byron is at my feet, knocking the curry out of my hands. The curry container goes flying, the contents arcing through the air in slow motion before splattering against the far wall. Orange sauce drips down, pooling on the carpet below.

I remain perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. His chest heaves with emotion, fists clenched at his sides, body vibrating with barely contained fury as he looms over me.

With deliberate calm, I rise to my full height, using those three extra inches to maximum effect. Looking down at him makes me almost laugh.

"She wears her sexy lingerie for me now," I say.

Pain explodes across my face, bright and clarifying. The impact of his fist against my jaw comes as no surprise. I taste copper as my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. The second blow catches my cheekbone, sending fresh shockwaves of agony through my skull.

I don't raise my hands to defend myself. Don't attempt to block the third hit, or the fourth. Each punch lands with increasing force, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil churning inside me.

It's a strategy I perfected growing up with Sandy — sometimes it's more effective to absorb the blows than to fight back. Each hit I take and don't return only escalates Byron's frustration, makes him feel increasingly out of control.

Saylor's voice cuts through the haze of pain, high and desperate, begging us to stop. The situation takes on a dreamlike quality, as if I'm watching it happen to someone else from a great distance. What did she expect? This collision course was set the moment she decided to lie to me, to sneak behind my back for a secret meetup with my best friend.

In some twisted way, I'm doing Byron a favor. He needs this outlet for his rage — needs to physically punish me for my betrayal, needs to feel like he's defending what was once his. And I deserve this beating. I don't deserve his kindness, his patience, or his friendship. He should kick my ass for being the piece of shit friend that I am.

My foot catches on the edge of the area rug, sending me staggering backward. I lose balance, crashing to the floor with bone-jarring force. Instead of stopping, Byron follows me down, raining blows against my face. Pain radiates from my ribs, my face, my shoulder, white-hot and all-consuming.

Through vision blurred with pain, I see Saylor grabbing at Byron's arm, trying to pull him away. Her face is in pure panic mode, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pleads for him to stop. He jerks his elbow back reflexively, without looking, catching her square in the face with a sickening thud.

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