Page 50 of His Sound
I take a few steps forward until I can see all of Paul, slumped against the wall behind the box he’s sitting on, his stupid lightning bolt just a smudge on his face now, like a big ugly bruise. His mouth hangs open as he slowly pulls his phone away from his ear.
“Say that again,” I hiss in English. “Talk about her like that in front of me again. Go on. Do it.”
I lunge forwards to grab the collar of his shirt. My arm can’t reach far enough around the Pac-Man game. There’s a beat of silence as I flail like an awkward T-Rex before I let out a very manly, enraged grunt and turn sideways so I can get at him.
“Fucking say it again!” I shout. “I dare you,ésti d’épais de merde!”
He knocks my hand away. “Fuck off, man.”
I can feel every muscle in my body straining for a fight. “You stay the hell away from her!”
The asshole actually starts chuckling.
“That’s not really up to you to decide,” he slurs. “Jealous I’m getting a piece of that ass tonight?”
“I’m never going to let you touch her again.”
“Once more”—he pushes himself up onto his feet and sways—“not really up to you to decide.”
He tries to move past me, but I block the path to the door. Blocking paths is easy when you’re wearing a giant box; Paul stops where he is.
“Don’t make me hurt you.” He sighs.
Now I’m the one chuckling. “Or what?” I lift my hands up and wiggle them. “You’ll come at me with your jazz hands?”
His punch hits me square in the face.
I stumble backwards, clutching my nose. I can’t see. Everything feels like it’s burning. Somehow, I can still hear Paul’s voice through the haze.
“I told you not to make me hurt you.”
The second punch clips me on the ear. The noise of the party fades, taken over by a ringing sound. I stagger back even farther and trip over my own feet. The weight of my costume throws off my balance, and I know I’m going down even before I start to fall. I hit the ground hard, landing on my back out in the main room.
There’s a sharpcrackas my costume splinters. Someone screams.
“What the fuck?” a guy’s voice roars. I’m pretty sure it’s Matt.
There are still spots in front of my eyes as I stare up at the fake cobweb-covered ceiling, and something warm is dripping between my fingers where they’re pressed to my face. The music cuts off. There’s more screaming. Ace’s face appears, hovering over mine.
“Dude, you okay?”
“Tabarnak,” I groan. “I feel fresh as a fucking daisy, Ace.”
After deciding that I’m all right to stand, he and Cole pull me to me feet. I sway a little as they pull what’s left of my costume off me. The wood is fractured in a few places, but luckily the laptop didn’t get smashed. I look down at my hands and realize the warm stuff dripping over my fingers is blood.
A big guy who works for Metro has his hand clamped down on Paul’s shoulder. I can’t believe someone that trashed could hit that hard.
Shayla storms through the crowd, sounding very unlike Wayne Campbell, but very much like herself. “Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”
“He attacked me!” Paul shouts, before I can say anything. “It was self-defence.”
Shayla swivels her head between the two of us, eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re not the one with blood on your face now, Paul, and JP was just wearing a giant box he could hardly move in. You want me to believe heattackedyou?”
“He grabbed me!” Paul insists. “He fucking grabbed me.”
“And why would he grab you?” Shayla demands.
Paul lets out a drunken laugh and knocks the hand off his shoulder. “Because he wants a piece of Molly’s ass. Come on, you’ve all seen it. He was jealous, and he was going to hit me for it. Don’t be a bitch, Shayla.”
