12. Twelve #2
Liam's eyes narrow as one corner of his mouth curls upward, not a smile, but a promise. Without a spoken word, and any of this making sense to me, I will pay for this later.
As Tyler invades my space more and more, the high I feel is slowly crashing down. My head is swimming with alcohol, a swirling sadness clutching my chest with the realization that Liam will never remind me of Joe and the fight I thought I had in me is disappearing.
Where had that girl gone?
Waves of grief engulf me, and I’m fighting an urge to scream.
“I...” I can’t finish my sentence as I’m squirming in Tyler’s grip.
“If you want to keep that hand, I’d move it.” Liam’s voice slices through the music, and he is suddenly in front of Tyler. They’re both tall, but Liam is overwhelmingly commanding. My mouth goes dry at the storm rolling off him.
Tyler faces him, his grip on me tightening. “You again? You've got a problem, man?”
Liam’s eyes flicker to mine just once before returning to Tyler, his stare heavy, unblinking. “You’ve got three seconds to remove your hand from her waist.” Liam says, smiling like a creep.
Tyler snarls at Liam. “Isn’t your brother underground already?
Don’t you have some kind of grief group to attend?
” I sharply look at Tyler, aghast for saying such a horrid thing, but before I can do anything, Liam effortlessly clean punches Tyler straight in his nose, causing his head to roll backwards and blood gushing out.
“Motherfu—!” Tyler screams in pain. Liam is apoplectic, pain laces his face with indescribable anger, and I can’t blame him for one second. I had lost my brother too; I was familiar with that untouchable territory.
Liam grabs him by the shirt while I am still gaping. Security rushes their way, and when they see it’s Liam, they dutifully turn a blind eye. Well, that’s interesting.
“Next time I’ll give you fewer than three seconds.” Liam grits through his teeth, smacks his shoulder like best buds, and stares at me.
“Sweetheart,” he says, loud enough to cut through the music. “You’ve got a death wish.”
Funny, I had that same thought just a little while ago.
“And… that’s my cue.” I walk away as fast as I can bring my legs to the restrooms feeling like I have a tail stuck between my legs.
The restroom’s door clicks shut behind me, the bass rattles the mirror and lodges in my chest. The violet, fluorescent light is harsh as the mirror catches a flush in my cheeks I can’t entirely blame on the dancing.
I shut my eyes close, and images vault me to Liam’s fist colliding with Tyler’s face, the shock on everyone’s lips.
I lean against the sink, taking a slow breath, trying to steady the pulse in my neck and chest, but I can’t get a hold of it.
The door opens and my heart skitters, but it’s only a girl walking in, holding vomit in her mouth, barely making it to the stall. I feel the way she looks.
While I contemplate that, the door slams open again, and I’m jerked, spinning, my back hitting the wall hard.
Pain radiates, making me hiss. A broad chest, a wall of heat and muscle, presses into me with unyielding force.
He shoves the door closed with a sharp kick, and his hand crashes against the wall beside my head.
His other hand shoots up, fingers curling firmly around my jaw, tilting my face until his icy blue stare pins me there like prey. He is so cruelly fucking beautiful it makes my mouth dry.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Liam’s voice is gravel.
My chest heaves. “I—”
“You told Tyler to come find you?” He seethes. “You wanted me to see you hanging all over him?”
Tears prickle my eyes, and I feel every inch constrict under him, equivalent to being crushed and swallowed by a monstrous wave. “I just—”
“I thought I made myself clear he wouldn’t put his hands on you again.”
My pulse trips. Anger rises in my throat. “You don’t get to tell me who can touch me, Liam!”
The vomiting girl in the stall pops out, stumbling on herself, looking like she got rammed by too many vodka shots. “You guys are intense. Get a room!” And it makes me wonder what kind of relationship she must be into if this altercation calls for a room.
Liam reaches for the door to let her out but still cages me in with his other arm as to make sure this conversation is not over and locks the restroom’s door behind her.
“You can’t lock—” I insist, but his expressionless face is enough for me to know he doesn’t give a shit.
“I can, and I will.” He grunts and brings his hand to my waist.
“You think grief means rubbing into the first vulture? You’re serving it up to him like bait, but you’ve got no clue what world you’re standing on. Pathetic.” He hisses in my face, gliding his fingers down to my collarbone. “That’s not what Joe would want for you.”
I swallow hard at that last sentence, but the lump in my throat stays, feeling his fingers trail down to the straps on my dress and flicking one off, revealing my naked shoulder.
“Why do you even care? You hate me.” I mutter.
His eyes narrow. “Hate?” He challenges airily, leaning closer. “No. Hating requires a fuckload of caring. What I feel is worse.”
My stomach twists at the humiliation, and I sadistically want to dig my fate further with words that come out as quickly as I regret them. “At least Tyler doesn’t look at me like I’m poison.”