Page 17 of Choices

This kid has a death wish. Shame we can’t fulfill it.

“Save me some chicken.”

Tutting, she smiles and grabs a plate, loading it up. “Take it. You know once Grease smells me cooking, he’ll come clear it out.”

“You really are a Diamond, Di.”

I almost collide with Grease as I exit. His eyes narrow on me before dropping to the plate in my hand. “There more of that?” He blocks my path. The greedy bastard.

“Diamond made some especially for you.” I grin, biting into another drumstick. He lets out a satisfied grunt, and moves around me.

More brothers file in like animals sniffing out injured prey. I guard my plate, ready to knife anyone if they try to grab for it, as I make my way down the hall to the game room.

This Nicolas problem needs to end. I just want to drink a beer with my chicken and berate myself for considering showing up at Kitty’s room.

Hopefully Nicolas is passed out. We can stick him in a sleeping bag and dump him at a motel. Or shove him on an air mattress and send him down the river. I chuckle to myself at the image in my head as I push open the door to the game room, my laugh dying in my throat as I take in the disturbing sight.

Claire cowers, her shirt gaping, blood dripping from her nose, and mascara streaming down her cheeks. Wild-eyed, Nicolas whips around, saliva coating his lips and chin.

“What the fuck is going on?” My commanding voice breaks through the chaos. The crackle of danger electrifies the air, sending all my hair standing on end. A slither of apprehensionsnakes through me. How the hell am I going to calm this asshole without putting my hands on him?

I dump my plate on the nearest flat surface and take a step forward. Nicolas is almost vibrating, his expression swimming between confusion and rage, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “She’s a cheating whore,” he belts out, making Claire flinch. Pres is about to be extra pissed.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to knock the table. He’s fucking crazy,” she protests, scurrying to my side. I take a step forward, maneuvering her behind me.

“I think you’ve been snorting too much of your own supply and need to calm the fuck down,” I warn him, straightening my shoulders and dominating the space.

I knew he was unstable. Claire’s probably one of many women he’s put hands to. Damn, this could have been Kitty trapped in this room with him. I’d have already broken his neck by now if it was, consequences or not.

“Don’t talk down to me. Do you know who I am?” he seethes.

I don’t expect the asshole to remember who I am. Drugs have fried his brain. “Yeah, I do. Heard there are bodyguards looking for your bony ass.”

His eyes twitch as he shakes his head, frantic, manic, like he’s fighting the demons inside there. The kid has fucking issues. If he were anyone else, I’d take my blade and give him a permanent downward smile.

“I want another drink. Go get me one!” Picking up a tumbler from the pool table, he launches it toward me and Claire. I duck to avoid it striking me. It bounces off the wall and hits the floor with a clunk, skidding to a stop by the door without breaking.

Weak arms.

“You’re fucking crazy!” Claire screeches, hobbling on one leg. Pulling her high heel off, she throws it at him, hitting him in the forehead with the spike. A small red welt raises immediately.A pebble of blood swells and drips down his brow into his eyelashes.Fuck. I grab her before she can throw the other one and shake my head, warning her to back the fuck up.

Touching a hand to the small wound, his brow wrinkles. “Did you throw a shoe at me?”

“Claire, get out of here,” I command, but Nicolas rushes toward her, crashing into the wall of my body when I intercept him and stumbling back. He attempts to come at me, his fist raised pathetically. I laugh, shoving him away. “Calm the fuck down. You already have one wound too many.” Hopefully he won’t remember where it came from when he wakes up in the motel room surrounded by alcohol and drugs.

“Should I get Jericho?” Claire calls out from somewhere behind me. I don’t get to answer before the fucker comes at me again. He picks up a pool ball and chucks it toward me. It cracks off the side of my head as I turn, trying to avoid it. The impact sends a lightning zap through my skull, and the warm trickle of blood becomes a river, soaking my hair.Motherfucker.

“Stop it!” Claire’s voice rings through the air as another ball hits my chest. I catch the next one he throws, the solid sphere filling my palm, and launch the fucker back at him, cracking it off his skull.

“Hurts, doesn’t it, asshole?” I bark out, then immediately realize I fucked up. The kid sways, his eyes unfocused, a dent in the side of his head. He falls back as my feet take off to catch him. My fingers brush the fabric of his shirt, missing him by an inch. His skull thuds off the pool table, the sickening crunch slicing through the still air.

Silence.

I know before I even check for a pulse that he’s dead. I’m not sure if it was the snooker ball or the table…not that it matters.

FUCK.

Blood pools around his head. Wide, blown eyes from the massive amounts of drugs in his system peer up at the ceiling, his mouth stretched open in shock from the impact. Dropping to my knees, I start CPR, pumping his chest. This can’t be happening. He can’t be dead. My own blood drips like a tap, soaking into the white shirt, expanding like spilled ink.

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