I exit my bedroom, ready for what’s to come, for what I’ve been waiting for over the last forty-five minutes or so. Absolute mayhem. I know it’s Brock behind my door, Amber’s truth propelling him straight to me. When I dropped her off at his condo she told me she was telling him about her feelings for me, letting him know she plans on making a decision during the week.
If I know Brock as well as I think I do, the sick fuck’s in the midst of losing his mind, my head on display in a trophy case the only thing running through his thoughts as he waits for me to open the door. Taking proper precautions, I pop the back cover off the surround-sound subwoofer and grab my Smith & Wesson, loading it as I peek out the window from behind the closed blinds.
Well, fuck me. It looks like me and my buddy have a lot more in common than I thought, the both of us holding guns in our hands, his aimed at my front door—straight for my head—mine hanging loosely at my side as I unlatch the lock.
I turn the dead bolt and swing open the door as I lift my gun to his head, getting off on our mirrored poses.
“Come here to kill me, bro?” I question, a smirk on my face as Brock’s glassy eyes shoot open. “Such a shame too. I thought we had a pretty good thing goin’ for us the last couple years.” I step forward, jabbing the barrel of my gun against his right temple as he does the same to mine. “Mm, feels good, doesn’t it? The taste of death so close, so . . . here, it makes ya hard.” My expression goes placid, his turning white as I cock my weapon. “The only things I was ever really sure of were pussy’s wet and life’s a bitch. Plain and simple, that’s all I knew was solid, something that’d never change on me. But never in a million fucking years—ultimate pussy up for grabs or not—did I think my best friend, my partner in crime, would show up to my apartment looking to . . . do me in.”
“You love her, asshole?” he hisses, sweat caking his forehead despite winter’s brutal bite. Body shaking like a roller coaster, Brock moves the barrel of his gun beneath my chin, betrayal possessing his expression as his free hand attacks his pistol in a paranoid grip.
I hold my stance, fear not an option as I simply stare into his eyes.
“Answer me!” he demands, impatience causing him to twitch with anxiety. “Like, really love her?”
“I love her with every breath I breathe,” I answer, the calmness, the undying finality in my tone, a whisper of freedom to my senses as revenge takes over Brock’s.
Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t shoot me, but the dick makes sure I feel him pistol-whip my cheekbone before he charges at me, his bull-like rage knocking me flat on my back as he tackles me to the ground. He chucks his gun across the room, deciding to use his fists as his weapons as they leave a few reminders of his hostility against my stomach, head, and ribs. I show him the same courtesy, pitching my gun onto the linoleum entryway as I clone his reminders. Unleashing all of my frustration for Amber’s past pain, present confusion, and future hurt, I dig into every crevice of his body, letting him know he’s playing with the wrong man, has fucked with the wrong girl’s emotions.
Rolling around on the floor, we beat on each other like rabid gorillas, two strangers in a bar fight, our fists swinging wildly until exhaustion slows us. Before I can blink through another bloodstained blur, we’re both on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, our breathing a battered mess as we drop our arms to the side, physically and emotionally spent.
Silence reigns a second before Brock whispers, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I ask over a cough, blood dripping from my nose as I sit up, backing myself against the couch. “Us beating the fuck outta each other, or us trying to kill each other?” I yank my old football jersey off the entertainment center, using the thing as a towel to soak up my blood. “There’s a few variables here, so why don’t ya enlighten me, bud. Again, what wasn’t supposed to happen?”
I know what he’s referring to, what’s eating him alive. Still, I want to hear him acknowledge it, need to see the regret seep down his face as he says the words.
Brock gets to his knees and backs himself against the wall across from me, his hand reaching out for my jersey as he shakes his head. “You and her falling in love. That’s what wasn’t supposed to happen.” Another whisper, his face pained beyond the damage I caused it as he, too, uses my jersey to sop up the blood pouring from his brow, nose, and bottom lip. “What the fuck was I thinking?” He drops my jersey to the floor, his hands buried in his hair as he starts rocking back and forth. “Goddamnit! What the fuck was I thinking?” Brock grits out, his misty, narrowed eyes pinned to mine as he punches at his chest like Kong himself. “I knew you wanted each other. Knew the two of you had some freakish chemistry I couldn’t compete with! Yet I still shoved her into your arms, all but begging to have my heart demolished in the end.”
Remaining silent, I stare at my friend. Though she has yet to pick either of us, Brock’s already grieving the loss of Amber, hating himself for it, wishing he could take back that one decision as he tugs at his hair like a madman.
And just like that, I don’t wanna witness Brock’s pain, feel his anguish, or step into his terrifying reality. Like me, he could lose the girl he loves, the girl he needs to complete his next breath. A minute ago I wanted to see the asshole suffer. Now the fucker’s got me feeling bad for him, my mind warring over who’s really the dick who dragged us into where we are now.