Page 148 of Charming Like Us
My gaze tears back to my little brother. I hold up my hands. “I’m just standing here, bro.”
He scratches his jaw, his gaze pierced with venom. The scar under his eye—I wasn’t there when he was KO’d in the ring. A hard punch split the skin on his cheekbone.
“You need to say something to me?” I ask very gently, not trying to set him off.
I amgenuinelyconfused on why he’s so heated off so little. And I want to know.
“You’re the one who’s not talking,” Quinn retorts. “You’re juststaringat me like I flushed your Doritos down the drain.”
I crack a grin. “Good analogy, bro.”
He glowers. “Fuck you.”
What the hell? “Quinn—”
“Just say it!” He gets in my face. “You think I should’ve called it in. You think I should update Akara on everylittlemovement I make because I can’t do my job—”
“I never said that you can’t do your job.” My eyes narrow in confusion, hurt. “Do I think you should’ve called this one in? Yeah. Do I wish you did? Yeah.”
He groans into a frustrated growl.
“I never said you’re a bad bodyguard.”
“You didn’t have to!”
“Is that what this is about?” I question.
“Fuck off,” he growls, shoving me back with two hands to my chest.
I rock from the force and step back on my own accord. Giving us space. “Just talk to me, bro.”Please.
He’s stewing. Glaring.
I snap. “This feud is in your fucking head, Quinn!” I point an angry finger at my temple.
“In my head?!” He rams his hands at my chest, and I stumble back against the golf cart we up-righted together. We draw attention, but if I even look away from Quinn, it feels like the whole golf course will explode.
“Quinn.” I come forward.
He grabs the collar of my shirt like he’s trying to shake me. There’s so much fucking pain in his face that I don’t understand.
Voices pitch all around us, but the cacophony bleeds away.
It’s just me and my twenty-two-year-old brother.
Talk to me.
He takes a swing.
I duck—he knew I’d duck.
His right hook slams into my ribcage. Wind knocks out of me. I heave for breath. We honestly don’t physically fight like this a lot. I’ve been hit plenty of times in my life, but the worst ones always come from my brother.
He comes back, and we grip each other. Wrestling upright, trying to get a strong hold, and we draw each other further away from the golf cart.
His fist connects with my gut again.
Fuck.
