7 Cassius #2
My brain goes somewhere I don’t want it to, imagining things I shouldn’t.
I see his hands on her in a bedroom instead of a dance floor—fingers under that skirt, digging into her thighs, sliding the fishnets down.
I see his mouth on her neck, kissing her delicate skin over her pulse point.
I picture him pushing her onto some stranger’s mattress, her bralette discarded on the floor, her eyes going hazy for him.
I picture her saying yes to him, letting him touch what I’ve been trying not to think about for four years. My stomach lurches as nausea hits me, sudden and hard.
I know how this goes. Drunk people at parties think grinding is some kind of promise. He’s already got his hands on her. Already thinks he’s earned something.
My hands curl into fists in my hoodie pockets.
She deserves fun.
She deserves fun.
She deserves—
He drags one hand up, fingers brushing just under the hem of her shirt, dipping closer to bare skin and my mantra snaps in half.
I don’t remember deciding to move. One second I’m against the wall, the next I’m pushing through bodies, the music getting louder, lights strobing across my vision.
Someone bumps my shoulder. I shove past. All I can see is her and that guy’s hands and that fucking smirk on his face because he thinks she’s already his.
Her eyes find me as I get close, confusion flickering there. She slows, half-turning. The guy behind her doesn’t notice yet, still trying to grind like it’s his last night on earth.
It might just be.
“Cass?” she mouths, clearly worried.
I grab the guy’s shoulder.
“Move,” I demand.
He jerks his head toward me, irritated. “Bro, we’re just dancing—”
He doesn’t get to finish. Everything goes red. I see his hand tighten on her hip, not intending to let go. I hear the little hitch of breath she makes when he pulls her back again. And then I’m gone.
Every grounding technique from group evaporates. There’s no counting, no breathing, just white noise and pressure. Then that old familiar snap in my chest comes as my fuse burns out. My fist connects with his jaw before I even register that I’ve swung.
There’s this awful, brief resistance—bone, muscle—then the give of it. A crack I feel all the way up my arm. He stumbles back, swearing as people shriek and notice what’s happening around them.
The music keeps going for half a second like nothing happened, then someone near the speaker yanks a cord, cutting the track off mid-beat. For a moment, the whole party freezes, eyes on me, him, and Zae, and I immediately know I fucked up. The guy I hit clutches his face with eyes wild.
“What the fuck, man?” he yells, voice warped with pain.
Somebody grabs my shoulders from behind. Another hand shoves at my chest, trying to put space between us. I jerk forward anyway, adrenaline roaring, the urge to hit him again crawling under my skin. My vision tunnels, and all I can think is his hands were on her.
“Cass!” Zae’s voice slices through the noise.
I feel her hand on my arm now, small but insistent. “Cass, stop.”
Frat guys materialize from the edges like wannabe security guards. One big dude in a Sigma Tu tank plants himself between me and BroDick, palms out.
“Yo, chill,” Tank says, glaring at me. “What the hell is your problem?”
“He wouldn’t let her go,” I snap, breathing hard. “He had his hands all over—”
“She was dancing with me, you psycho!” BroDick shouts behind Tank, his words slurring a little. There’s already a bruise blooming along his jaw. “She didn’t tell me to stop.”
Tank looks from him to me to Zae. “Is that true?” he demands, turning to her. “Is this dude bothering you?”
Zae looks like she’s been dropped center stage in a play she didn’t ask to be cast in. Her cheeks are flushed from dancing, hair stuck to her neck. Her eyes, though—those are wide and stunned.
You ruined her fun, Cass. You fucking asshole. Look at her. She didn’t want this kind of attention.
She swallows, glancing at me before answering. “He wasn’t… bothering me. We were just dancing.”
I feel something cold slide down my spine at her words, but I can’t blame her. It’s the truth. I’m the one who overreacted.
Tank’s face shutters. “You heard her.” His focus is fully on me now. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
I open my mouth to argue, but two guys behind me tighten their grip, steering me toward the doorway whether I like it or not.
Zae moves with them, still latched onto my arm. “I’ve got him. It’s fine. We’re leaving.”
One of them snorts. “Fucking boyfriend drama bullshit.”
Stupidly, my heart latches onto the word.
Boyfriend. Her boyfriend.
Zae flinches like someone pinched her, but she doesn’t argue, just shoots the guy a glare sharp enough to kill before dragging me toward the front door.
The music kicks back on behind us—louder than before, attempting to blast the whole thing away.
In thirty minutes, this will be another story they tell about the night the psycho punched a dude for no reason.
We get shoved onto the porch with the door slamming shut behind us, muffling the noise. Cool night air hits my face like a sobering slap, then Zae spins on me the second we’re off the steps and on the sidewalk, yanking her arm free. I immediately miss her warmth.
“You hit him? Cass, what the hell?”
She isn’t screaming, but the disappointment in her voice hits harder than the punch I threw.
I start to speak but then stop because there’s no excuse, no defense I can come up with.
My pulse is still hammering, knuckles throbbing where my skin split open.
My adrenaline’s gone, shame taking its place.
Zae steps back, arms wrapping around herself, trying to keep her emotions contained, worried they’ll spill out on the sidewalk. Her eyes cut into me—hurt, confused, scared for me in that specific Zae way that makes everything worse.
I’d rather get dragged out by the whole frat again than see her look at me like that.
I swallow hard.
This wasn’t protecting her.
This was losing control.
And we both know it.