Chapter 4 Cass
Nia blinks, and Christ if it isn’t a trigger to my ticking senses.
Her hair is longer, wavier. The blue of her eyes is dimmer than I remember, and the once-prominent freckles on her cheeks were now lighter, like they’ve been airbrushed into subtlety.
The lavender dress and leather jacket she’s wearing perfectly complement the gentle curves of her lush body, and drive me insane to the point where I can’t see straight for a moment.
“Are you even listening to me, you slut?” someone chides.
I whip my head up, and see Brandon Jones glaring at the back of Nia’s head with a scowl on his face.
Anger sizzles in my veins. I take half a step forward and roughly grab the collar of his blue shirt.
“What did you just call her?” I growl, and when he tries to free himself, I tighten my hold and rock him once before getting in his face.
“What the fuck did you just call her, Brandon?” I feel the patrons watching my encounter with Mr. Dipshit Galore, but I ignore their mindless whispers.
“I don’t have to answer you, Madden,” Brandon says. “I can call her whatever the hell I want. She’s my wife, you hear me? She’s my–”
“Ex-wife, Bran. Ex. Wife,” Nia states from my right.
I feel bile rising in the back of my throat. My rage simmers to ice; my palms turn clammy. The words, the weight of them, the truth of it – it makes me lose my hold on Brandon, who takes that as an opportunity to free himself.
“Took the ground right from under ya, didn’t it?” he mocks with a vicious smile on his smug face. “You left her for New York, so her family picked me to look after her. To marry her. She may have been a sloppy second, but damn she’s hot, and I enjoyed every bit of her b–”
I don’t let him finish; I reel my right arm back and punch him in the jaw.
The fucker howls in pain, and I hear a satisfying pop, which is soon followed by the sound of him crashing against a table and falling onto the beer-stained floor.
A couple of guys help him to his feet, and when he looks at me with murder in his eyes, I sniff and flip him off.
Brandon gives me a once over, and realizes very quickly that he can’t take me.
Trembling in anger, he spits blood on the ground and walks past a shell-shocked Nia before heading for the bar’s open door.
The former high school jock, the wannabe “Mr. Cool,” then runs out into the street like his ass just caught fire.
Some patrons snicker, whereas Nia? Well, she’s frozen in place.
“Hey.” I step in front of her. “Nia.”
She sucks in a breath as she scans my face. “You punched him,” she whispers, then swallows. “You…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “You really punched that dickwad.”
I try not to smile, then test the waters by grabbing her left hand, and have to refrain from cursing when her silk-like skin brushes against my calluses. Christ, how I’ve missed the feel of her touches.
I deprived myself of her, but now that she’s in front of me, I don’t know how long it’ll be before I break and take what I’m going mad for.
Nia watches our joined hands with hesitance on her face. I can see the conflict in her eyes, one where she can’t decide whether to pull away from me, or to stay as is.
I don’t wait for her to pick an option, merely because I’m scared I won’t like it.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask her.
She looks up, opens and closes her mouth, but doesn’t say anything.
“Perfect; I’ll take that as a yes.” I nudge her softly, then walk us over to the other side of the bar with a crazy-big smile on my face.
Man, it feels good to be back.