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CHAPTER TWO

carter

I don’t know what happens in my head. I don't know where the girl is, either. That happens sometimes, even when I don’t want it to. A casualty of whatever parasite lives in my brain. I see red, and then the rest of the world disappears.

Including Red, apparently.

When this shit happens, the only thing that matters is knocking some sense into whoever needs it. I lose track of my surroundings, I lose my bearings on my sanity, and I really don’t know when to stop. I don’t know how to stop. That’s the worst part about it all. About being this person.

One second, I’m smiling down at the hottest mouth I’ve ever seen, and the next, I hear the unmistakable sound of someone smacking her ass with an open palm. She physically fell forward, right into me. That’s how roughly this piece of shit touched her.

I don’t even blink. Don’t even worry about the repercussions, either. I just fucking lose it.

It’s practically a hobby by now.

Someone’s drink falls to the floor and shatters at our feet. I step right in this asshole’s way before he can run off, and I bury my hands in the stupid shirt he can’t stop crying about. His face pales when I haul him off the ground, holding him up like a fucking ragdoll.

Pathetic.

He opens his mouth, but the only thing I want to hear from that trap is the sound of his teeth breaking in his skull. I rear back, landing a solid punch to his face. It’s a hard one. A brutal one. I hear his bones cracking, watch his head fall back and his eyes roll with it.

For one horrifying second, I think I’ve killed him. The way he falls back is kind of terrifying, and if I were anyone else, that would have been enough to make me stop. Because I’m me, it just fuels my anger instead.

Blood explodes from his mouth, but I can’t see or think of anything else besides what this idiot just did.

“Since you’re such a fan of assault, maybe you’ll enjoy this,” I sneer when his nearly vacant eyes meet mine again. He’s out of it, head lolling back. For some reason, that pisses me off more. So, I hit him again.

I know there is chaos around me, but all my brain will let me focus on is his face and the groans that leave his mouth. There are hands on my back, tugging on my shoulder, trying to force me away from the situation, but I’m not ready to let him go.

I’m not somebody who gives up until I want to, and he hasn’t quite learned his lesson yet.

My ears are ringing, blocking out the screaming, the music, and the shit his friends are yelling at security in a desperate attempt to get someone to intervene.

It’s just me and Suit Guy in this bar right now, and he’s going to leave too afraid to touch another woman without her consent ever again—maybe with a few less teeth, to top it all off.

He makes another pained sound, so I shake him a bit to make sure the message is sinking in.

Stay awake, you little prick.

“Shame that you complained about some vodka on your shirt, huh?” I laugh, humourlessly. “All of this blood is going to be a bit harder to get out.”

My hands are finally torn from his clothing.

It’s because I let them be. I know I’m teetering on the line here.

The way he’s looking through me instead of at me is a clear sign that he’s barely conscious.

I’m going to hurt him beyond what he can come back from.

Hell, I might have already done that. I need someone to physically remove me from this situation before I lose everything.

Mark my words, I’d do it. I don’t like that I would, but my brain doesn’t work like a normal brain, and if I let go of myself completely—I’ll go too far. I’d feel terribly guilty after. Obviously, I’m not a psychopath. But in that actual moment, I’d want it more than anything.

“Calm the fuck down!” It’s Boston, growling in my ear. He yanks me back toward our booth, further away from the scene. I get the immediate whiff of bubblegum, and it surprisingly calms me enough to take a breath.

Callum Saltzman is between us, one hand outstretched toward me and the other toward Suit Guy, like I’m a fucking velociraptor and he’s trying to prevent me from biting the heads off all the humans in the vicinity.

I blink, the bar slowly coming back into focus. The lights and the sounds trickle back in, like when your ears pop in the middle of a road trip, and only then do you realize how quiet everything really was. People start appearing like mirages out of thin air .

The guy’s friends are keeping him upright, but he’s sagging against them like he can’t hold his own weight. Not a good sign. There is a woman in front of him with dark hair, hands clamped on his cheeks, inspecting his face and his injuries.

I smirk at him over her shoulder, loving the sheer terror all over his face when sees me.

Saltzy drops his hands, shaking his head over and over.

He’s talking to one of the friends—cool, calm, and collected.

He’s trying to mediate this. Trying to stop a story before it starts.

It’s too late, though. This will get out.

There is a bar full of witnesses and one little prick that needs far too much validation to own his mistakes like a man.

My heart is still racing, hands still itching for a fight.

“Aw, let him go!” I taunt his friends. Saltzy whirls around and glares at me. “He likes putting his hands where they don’t belong!”

“You’re a fucking liability,” Boston grumbles. His big arms are wrapped completely around my chest now. He smacks me gently on the collarbone and drops his voice. “But that dickhead might have deserved that.”

Yeah. Understatement of the year.

All he had to do was walk away. All he had to do was not touch her.

Why did he have to do that?

Oh, shit. Red .

I blink, glancing around the bar. I completely forget about Suit Guy for a second and worry about the woman he risked dying over.

Where is she?

Fuck. I hope I didn’t hurt her. I scan the area, my heart picking up for an entirely new reason now. One that is much worse, in my opinion. Collateral is always my nightmare.

When I swing, I tend to lose track of my surroundings.

I block out everything but my fists, my anger, and the unlucky person on the receiving end of them both.

People have gotten hurt in the crossfire before.

Shit happens that I don’t intend for, like shattering a glass and cutting someone’s foot, or pushing someone when I lunge for someone else.

It’s why I know there is something wrong with me. That’s the reason.

I don’t see her anywhere, but I do see a pair of blue eyes storming through the crowd. Locked on me.

Significantly less pretty than the brown ones I was just smiling down at.

Shit .

Elliot Nile, part owner of Icebox , marches right up to me.

He’s a tiny little thing. A hipster who doesn’t need glasses, but wears them because he thinks they make him look smarter.

Good dude. Mellow. Gets me out of a bind from time to time in situations exactly like this, so I excuse the stupid glasses.

He pushes himself right into my space. He might be the only dude capable of acting like he’s never been intimidated by me, and he’s the size of an ant.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to do this shit in my bar?”

This might be the eighth hundred and twenty- seventh time, so I’m not entirely sure when it’s supposed to sink in.

“He was harassing?—”

“I don’t care, Forkerro,” Elliot snaps, holding up a hand to silence me. “That kid’s dad is a police officer. Did you know that? Regulars here. They’re en route, so you have two choices: I can let you out the back door or you can face the consequences head-on for a change.”

“Fuck,” Boston mutters in my ear, his sigh heavy.

Yeah, fuck .

It’s not like if I ran, I have the blessing of anonymity, anyway. There really isn’t a way I get out of this unscathed .

Leaving out the back door might sound appealing, but it’s also running from the scene of the crime.

I don’t want to leave until I know if Red’s alright, anyway.

A thousand scenarios about my impending future run through my head like a movie montage: coach finding out, the press having a field day with this story, how this kid’s dad is a fucking cop and he’s probably going to try and throw the book at me.

It’s all going to happen whether I high tail it out of here like a coward or just own my shit.

Who I am can only get me so many passes in life. I’m not sure I’ve deserved the hundreds I’ve already been given.

I sigh, glancing toward the door, where cops slowly begin entering the bar one by one.

“Thanks, Elliot, but I’m not going anywhere,” I say, shaking out my fist. It doesn’t matter how many punches you throw, it always hurts like a bitch afterward.

I risk a look at Suit Guy, who is now sitting up and icing his face.

His eyes are burning into mine with a fury that wasn’t there earlier.

I know the type. Only gets brave once they have back-up. “Someone might want to call Coach.”

And maybe Lemmy, too. The lawyer sent from heaven.

“What?” Saltzy spins around, glaring at me. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

Boston sighs for the tenth time and lets go of me.

He runs his hand over his mouth, peering toward the seven officers making their way through the crowd.

They take in the scene slowly, in that methodical and calculating way that cops do.

Their eyes skim over the bloodied kid and land on the professional hockey team.

They land on me.

“Because,” I say, glancing back at my Captain, “I’m about to get arrested.”