5. Preston #2
My breathing deepens, growing harsher than if I were doing intense cardio, my chest rising and falling in sync with my jumbled nerves.
The ones that even my concoction of alcohol and painkillers didn’t seem to quiet—I rate this mix three out of five for inconsistency reasons.
“So…” Osborn trudges toward me ever so calmly, and I’m watching his every step as if he’ll pounce on me at any second.
Which is ridiculous. I pounce on people, not the other way around.
“Is this a kink?” He stops a few steps away from me and kicks away one of the murdered sticks. “Wearing and destroying my stuff, I mean.”
I narrow my eyes, then remember I did put his skates on because I wanted to do a round on the ice while drunk and possibly high. Another decision the me from less than an hour ago thought was genius, and he’s obviously getting disowned as we speak.
You’re so fired, demon.
“Those skates are too big for you, my prince. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Aw, worried about me? How touching. Hold on, let me shed a few tears for the effort.” I pretend to wipe my eyes.
“Worried? Not really. I just hate cleaning up blood off my ice.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t bleed for you.”
“No, but you’d bleed on me, wouldn’t you?”
He says that in a gruff tone as he takes a step forward. With the skates, we’re about the same height, and I actually get to look down at him.
I hold my ground, refusing to move—because fuck this shit—but my fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “You sound deranged. Should I file a restraining order?”
“I should be the one filing one of those, considering you delivered yourself into my ice rink in the middle of the night, acting like an epic sore loser.” He reaches a hand to my face.
I slap it away with the bottle, sending droplets of alcohol on the ice. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why?” He tilts his head slowly as if I’m a puzzle he’s intending to solve. “Afraid of something?”
“Yeah, catching a disease from this shithole. It’s a health hazard to be here, FYI, so if you want donations, all you have to do is become my servant for a week.”
“My, is that another kink? Tell me more.”
This motherfucker has loose screws. I’m trying to remember if he’s always been such an epic pain in the ass.
Granted, I’ve only met Osborn on the ice.
I’m pretty sure he was mostly…well, a little son of a bitch who stole the attention of the media effortlessly, but he was more like Kane. Silent and boring.
Now, he’s just…different.
I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but something has shifted in the way he talks. He’s almost as antagonizing as I am.
“What are you thinking about? Talk to me.” He reaches a hand out again, and this time, I slam my free palm against his windpipe, choking him in an instant, stopping him short of making contact.
“What part of don’t touch me do you not understand, motherfucker?”
He puts both hands in the air. “It was innocent.”
“Nothing is fucking innocent about touching!”
My voice rises, and I breathe harshly, tightening my grip so hard, I can feel the tendons coil and flex in his neck.
“You want to kill me?” he strains, his face turning red. “Go ahead, baby. I’m sure you’ll make it look phenomenal.”
B-baby.
Did this asshole call me baby?
I’m going to fucking kill him—
“Love the look on your face, Armstrong.” His muscles pull tight, his words barely leaving his throat, but he’s still fucking yapping.
“Learn how to shut the fuck up!”
“Oh no. Losing your cool? Don’t like being cornered?”
“Keep dreaming.” I shove him away. “I don’t get cornered.”
“Everyone does…eventually.” He flicks his fingers over the red marks I left on his throat. My chest does something at that view. “Some just make it look good.”
I let a cruel little smile carve its way onto my lips. “You think I look good?”
“I think you know exactly what you look like. That’s the problem.”
“Then stop looking.”
“No. I don’t think I will.” He runs his gaze over me from my face to my chest to the skates, then back up again. The longer he stares, the brighter the burn settles in my stomach, tightening and squeezing as if I’m about to be sick.
His eyes settle on mine, calm but with something lurking just below the surface. “I’m liking the view a bit too much.”
“Unlike it, then.”
“Is that a word?”
“It is now.”
“If you say so.” He reaches out again. “How about we pick up where we left off? I’m happy to listen to your counteroffer.”
“What?”
“I made you an offer, inviting you to sit on my cock, remember?”
That static heightens, humming in the background, attempting to overflow my thoughts, but I force a mocking smirk. “Are you gay? Is that what this is?”
His smile widens. “Do you want me to be gay?”
“Why would I? I’m just checking, considering all your shameless flirting.”
“Shameless, huh?”
This little prick and his way of asking questions as a reply are annoying as fuck. “Yes, shameless.”
“That means you’re aware I’m flirting?”
“You’re brazenly obvious.”
“I’m glad you noticed. I was starting to wonder if it was going over your head.”
“So you are gay.”
“If you like. I can be—for current intents and purposes. I’m more into everyone and don’t personally care for labels.”
What the fuck does that mean? Pansexual? No, he didn’t say that when he could’ve, so is the correct term unlabeled?
Though, I wasn’t aware he’s into everyone.
I know for a fact that he has relationships with girls. He dated Dalton—Kane’s current obsession. Her real name is Dahlia, but she’ll never hear me say it out loud.
Is that one of my petty episodes? Possibly.
I lift my chin. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m as straight as they come.”
He runs his gaze over me again with that infuriating smirk curling his lips. “You are, huh?”
“Yes. You can admire from afar, though, or join the ‘I Want to Have Sex with Preston’ club. It’s quite packed in there, so take care.”
“Instead of a club, I prefer the real thing.” He kills the distance between us in a fraction of a second.
My eyes widen when he wraps a hand around my nape and starts leaning forward. My skin feels too tight, every inch stretched wrong, as if I’m free-falling into that abyss in my head.
That deep disgust rears its head, and nausea fills my throat.
In a moment of absolute panic, I fist my hand and punch Osborn in the face. He loses his balance, his hand dropping from my nape as he falls.
As I turn around and leave, his mocking laughter fills my ear.
Forget about petty revenge. I’m so going to make this guy’s life hell for daring to touch me.
No one touches me like that.
No one.