CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ARES NICOLAIDES
TWO YEARS AGO
JOEY WAS PISSING ME OFF.
“Are you serious?” Joey’s eyes remain fixed on the book in front of him as he nods, clearly engrossed in his reading. I sigh impatiently, tapping my foot on the ground. “Come on, Joey, I have to go pick up Adonis.”
He shoots me a glare, irritation evident in his expression. “Boy, if you don’t get out of my face this instant, the words on this page will be printed on your face!”
I roll my eyes, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. “Fine, ten minutes,” I grumble, storming out of the library and heading towards my parked car. Fumbling for my keys, I’m interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Let go!” The urgency in the voice snaps my attention, and I turn to see the woman from the alleyway the other day. What was her name again?
Alexandra Jones.
I watch at she begins fighting of a man who had his hands around her bag, why does this have to happen whilst I am here? Do I help her?
Of course you do, you idiot.
But what if she’s one of those feminists who will then get irritated that I did. I don’t want to seem like a misogynistic bastard.
But the man then does something that I don’t like, he pushes her right onto the ground, I rush over to her and grab the back of the man’s jacket before throwing him onto the ground. Her bag flies out of his hand to the side of the road, I use this chance to hover over him and slam my fist right into his face.
With a swift motion, I deliver another punch straight to his face, the satisfying sound of impact echoing in the air. As he crumples to the ground, subdued, I turn to Alexandra, offering her a hand up. But she pushes it away and helps herself up, walking over to her bag which rested on the edge of the road. She picks up the items that had fallen out, and the man that once rested on the floor has now disappeared.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“Took you long enough.” She shoots back at me.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, did you not hear me? So, a sight and a hearing problem.”
Okay. She’s fucking rude.
“Normally people say, ‘thank you’ when they’re helped.”
“You call that helping! You were fucking watching like it was a James Bond film.”
My jaw clenches as I struggle to contain my anger. “You know what? Forget it,” I mutter, turning away from her dismissively. “Next time, I’ll be sure to let you handle things on your own.”
As I walk away, her mocking laughter follows me, echoing in my ears and fuelling the fire of my frustration. This woman.
“Might as well have!”