Wait…
Is he talking about Dia?
“I’m guessing that means she also didn’t tell you about our little run-in?” He smirks.
No.
Fuck.
They had a “run-in”?
When?
“You should’ve seen her.” He cracks a wheezy laugh, relishing in a memory I want to shove up his ass. “Naked in your bed, helpless, vulnerable. Poor thing was heartbroken, thinking you abandoned her.”
I can’t breathe, the blood sizzling in my veins.
“I get why you like her. She’s a hot piece of ass. And fuck, those tits. I just might have to track her down and finish what I started once we’re done here.” He whisks his head back to tell his buddy, “You feeling a threesome? Girl’s got two holes for a reason.”
Then I lose it.
Plain and simple.
He touched her.
He. Touched. Her.
I’m barely aware of how fast I tackle him to the ground. There’s nothing around me, no voice of reason blaring inside my head, no survival instincts warning me about the weapon in his pocket. There’s just red. And blood.
His blood.
“You motherfucker, you think you can touch her? You think you can hurt her? You’re dead. You’re so fucking dead,” I shout to the point of straining my voice as I crash my fist into his jaw.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Until he’s but a bloody, panicky mess under me. I grip his collar so hard, I squeeze the breath out of him but never stop pummeling his face with blows. His groans of pain do nothing but fuel my rage.
He forced himself on her.
Because I wasn’t there.
Because I walked out on her.
Images of her waking up to his disgusting, sweaty body weighing her down blur together before my eyes, but nothing compares to the blinding pain I feel when something sharp slices through my forearm.
Then it’s not just his blood anymore.
It’s mine, too.
A lot of it.
He stabbed me in the forearm.
The pain is enough to snap me out of whatever trance I was in. I have the reflex of removing the knife from my flesh—which, I’ll admit, was a stupid idea because the bleeding immediately worsens.