Chapter 42
Ishoved him.
Hard.
Ben stumbled backward, arms flailing, and crashed into the sponsor display behind him. Bottles of expensive vodka shattered.
Ben hit the floor in a spray of alcohol and broken glass.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I said.
My voice didn’t shake. Didn’t waver. It came out hard and clear and furious.
Ben stared up at me from the floor, eyes wide. Shocked. Like he couldn’t believe I’d actually pushed him.
Good.
“Matt—”
“I said don’t touch me.” I was breathing hard, hands still clenched into fists. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I just—” He scrambled to his feet, unsteady. Vodka dripped from his sleeve. Glass crunched under his shoes. “I thought—”
“You thought what? That you could just kiss me and I’d what? Fall back into your arms? Forget everything you did to me?”
“Matt, please, I—”
“No.” I stepped forward. He actually flinched. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up here and act like we’re friends. Like you didn’t destroy my life and walk away without a scratch.”
People were staring now. Security in black suits moving through the crowd. But I didn’t care.
“You’re drunk,” I said. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m making a scene?” Ben laughed. It came out wet and ugly. “You’re the one who shoved me into—” He gestured at the broken display. “You attacked me!”
“You kissed me without my consent.”
“That’s not—” He stepped toward me. Reached for me.
I shoved him again. Not as hard this time, but hard enough that he stumbled back against the wall.
“Don’t,” I said. “Touch. Me.”
“Jesus Christ, Matt, I’m trying to—”
“Knox!”
The voice came from behind me. Loud. Urgent.
I turned.
Andrew was cutting through the crowd like a force of nature. His face was locked in that expression I’d seen before—flat, dangerous, the kind of calm that meant someone was about to get hurt.
A woman in a cocktail dress nearly dropped her drink. A waiter pressed himself flat against the wall. Someone else grabbed their friend and yanked them aside.
Andrew wasn’t running. He didn’t have to. Every step was deliberate, controlled, but there was something in the way he moved—shoulders set, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Ben—that made it clear he was a freight train and nothing was going to stop him.
Chappell and the younger Morrison followed in his wake, but they might as well have been invisible.
Ben saw him coming and actually straightened up. Tried to smooth his jacket. Tried to look composed even though he was covered in vodka and standing in broken glass.
“This isn’t—” Ben started.
“Shut up,” someone else said.
Brandon Archibald appeared from the other direction, moving fast. He grabbed Ben’s arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Get off me.” Ben yanked his arm free. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you’re making this worse.”
“I’m not the one who—”
Andrew reached us. He stopped two feet away from Ben and just stood there, staring at him with that flat, dead-eyed expression.
“Knox,” Archibald said. “This is a misunderstanding.”
Andrew didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. Just kept staring at Ben.
“He attacked me,” Ben said. His voice was louder now. Trying for authority but landing somewhere closer to defensive. “Your—your boyfriend or whatever he is—he shoved me. I was just trying to talk to him and he—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Andrew said quietly.
Ben blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said shut the fuck up.” Andrew still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t raised his voice. “Matthew. What happened.”
Not a question. A command.
“He kissed me,” I said. “I told him to stop. He didn’t.”
Ben’s face changed. “That’s not—that’s not what happened. He’s lying. We have history, he came on to me—”
“Oh, fuck you,” I said.
“We were together for years!” Ben’s voice was rising, getting desperate. “He worked for me, we slept together, he knows what we had—”
“What we had,” I said slowly, “was you using me and then throwing me away when it was convenient.”
“That’s not true!”
Security was closer now. Three guys in black suits, moving through the gathering crowd. Chappell and Morrison had positioned themselves on either side of Andrew. Archibald was still trying to pull Ben backward, away from the confrontation.
“Ben,” Archibald hissed. “Shut up and walk away.”
“No.” Ben shook him off again. “No, he’s—you don’t know him like I do. He’s not what he seems. Matt’s good at playing the victim but he—”
“Sir.” One of the security guards stepped forward. “We need you to calm down.”
“I am calm!” Ben shouted.
“Sir, there’s been property damage and we’re going to need—”
The security guard stopped and bent down. He picked something up from the floor near where Ben had fallen.
A small plastic baggie. Clear. With white powder inside.
Everyone went quiet.
The security guard held it up. “Is this yours?”
Ben’s face went white. “That’s—that’s not mine.”
“It was on the floor right where you fell.”
“Someone must have dropped it. I don’t—I wouldn’t—” Ben reached for it. Actually reached for it, like he was going to snatch it out of the guard’s hand.
The guard pulled it back. “Sir, I’m going to need you to stay calm.”
“It’s not mine!” Ben’s voice was getting higher. Panicked. “It’s probably his—” He pointed at me. “He probably planted it, he’s trying to make me look bad—”
Andrew laughed. Short and sharp and utterly without humor.
“Yeah.” Andrew rolled his eyes. “He planted drugs on you. That makes sense.”
“You don’t understand,” Ben said desperately. “You don’t know what he’s capable of—”
“I know exactly what he’s capable of.” Andrew’s voice was still quiet. Still calm. “He’s capable of putting up with your shit for years. He’s capable of walking away without burning your life down even though you deserved it.”
Ben opened his mouth but no sounds came out.
“And now,” Andrew continued, “he’s capable of standing up for himself. So maybe you should shut the fuck up before you make this worse.”
The security guard was talking into his radio. More guards were arriving. Someone who looked like management was pushing through the crowd.
Archibald grabbed Ben’s arm again. Harder this time. “We’re leaving. Now. Don’t say another fucking word.”
“Brandon—”
“Not. Another. Word.”
They started moving Ben toward the exit. He was still trying to talk, still trying to explain, but Archibald was basically dragging him now.
The security guard with the baggie was talking to his supervisor. Gesturing at Ben’s retreating figure. Radio chatter I couldn’t quite hear.
The crowd was dispersing. Slowly. People still staring, still whispering, but moving away from us.
And then it was just me and Andrew and the Wardens players, standing in a room full of broken glass and spilled vodka.