Page 100 of 1 Last Shot

I think it’s the alcohol that slows down my reaction time. Because in the time that it takes me to react, Isabella’s already putting her hand on his chest and pushing him back.

“Step away from me,” she says forcefully. And God, she looks soproudof herself. She could’ve easily fallen into frozen shock again, could have been the same unsure Isabella that first came to this city. The one that got mugged not too long ago.

Instead, she’s growing into her strength, and her self-assuredness. She’s becoming the person she came here to find.

Meanwhile, I’m moving in the opposite direction.

As the vodka swirls in my stomach, so does my self-disgust. It spreads in my gut, filling my insides until it seeps out through my pores as sweat.

And yet, it does nothing to stop me from acting on my default urges.

"Get yourfuckinghands off her,” I bark, standing from my barstool. "She's with me."

The guy frowns at my reaction, but it doesn't register why. "Doesn’t look like it, man. She looks pretty lonely to me."

"She's not fuckinglonely," I snarl, stepping around Isabella. "I'm right here."

He lets out a mocking laugh. "All I’m saying is if a girl likethatwas out with me, I'd actually give her some attention."

And I'm drunk, but not drunk enough that the burn of shame doesn't register after his words. Because Iknowhe's right. And that shame just reignites my fury all over again.

I shove at his chest as embarrassment coils with all the other emotions. "You're delusional if you think a girl like that would ever be interested in you."

He pushes me back without hesitation. "Get the fuck off me."

"Kane, let's just get out of here," comes Isabella's voice from behind me. I think I feel her tug at my arm.

I yank it away.

The guy smirks at Isabella. "You should listen to her."

Rage boils in my chest. I shove him again, hard enough this time to smash him against the bar top. "Shut thefuckup."

"Kane, please, let's just leave," Isabella begs. "I don't want to be here anymore."

I can't hear her. I can't hearanything.

I shove the guy again, this time crowding him against the bar and gripping his shirt in two shaking fists. "You never should have talked to her," I spit in his face.

"Kane!" I hear Isabella's panicked shout, can feel her urgently pulling at the back of my shirt.

It doesn't matter. Reality is fading away in a swirl of vodka and ice.

"Kane,please!" she begs. "Please don't do this."

There are shouts coming from around us, and a bustle of activity. But nothing registers. I can't even really see the guy's face in front of me, because who he is doesn’t actually matter. I'm too far gone, officially a slave to the urges screaming inside of me.

I don’t feel my fist smash into his skull.

I can’t make sense of the screaming.

I don’t even react to the cops when they appear in the bar.

It vaguely registers that Isabella is trying to get to me, that even whenI’mcausing the problem, she’s still trying to protect me, still begging everyone to leave me alone.

The sight of it shakes loose in me something I haven’t felt in weeks. This feeling of shame, of self-hatred, of being soundeservingof someone as good as Isabella.

And with that mix of feelings comes the defense mechanism I’ve been leaning on my whole life: to push away everyone and everything.

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