Page 14 of Hearts Etched in Glass (The Afton Adders #2)

My skin becomes hotter as I feel my blood pressure rising like a boiling kettle.

Just say something , I repeat in my mind.

“You are my everything, Tilly. I was your first, you owe me your life!” he throws in my face, nearly spitting the words at me.

I am now an inferno.

Finally, I allow myself to snap. The tiny demon residing in my subconscious rejoices.

Throwing my trembling hands in the air, I shout back, not caring who all may hear in this crowded street.

“You mean stole!? For you stole my first time, Ronald. You stole something that was supposed to be special. With someone that actually gave a shit about me!” My hands are now clenched at my sides. I recognize Ron’s next move because his gaze evolves from malice, hurt and frustration to pure rage.

He raises his hand to strike me as I raise my arms, ready to block his blow.

But a soothing voice sings into my ears, as a towering figure stands between Ronald and me.

“You, pray tell, did what? To my Tilly,” Marcus asks, ever so calmly, but the threat is there. The underlying adder that is ready to strike.

Marcus has Ron’s wrist in a white-knuckled grasp, clutching it firmly in the air.

“Unhand me you beast!” Ronald shouts, then tries to punch Marcus with his other fist, but he evades the attack, ducking from Ronald’s other limb, and delivering an uppercut to Ronald’s diaphragm, making him lurch forward.

Swiftly, Marcus takes the wrist he’s still holding and moves it behind Ronald’s back.

“Apologize for every disgusting thing you did to her.” Ronald screams as my parents yell at Marcus to unhand him.

“Apologize or I snap your wrist,” he threatens in Ronald’s ear .

His voice is cracked, as a tear slides down his cheek. Marcus must have applied some pressure to his hold, for Ronald shrieks.

“I’m sorry!” he gasps. Then a copper comes around the corner in his navy uniform. He tilts his head at Marcus and approaches, as Ronald begs, “Please. Please help me, he is assaulting me!”

The officer tilts his hat at us, ignoring my sniveling mother, who tries to reach for his arm.

“What seems to be the matter?” he asks Marcus, but Ronald tries to interject.

Marcus gestures his head at Ronald. “This man almost assaulted Tilly, so I defended her. I believe he has done other heinous things to her as well, officer. I think he is a threat to society at the moment and may need to be detained until he can calm down.” The officer nods his head, pulls out his handcuffs and takes a yelling, whining Ronald away.

“How dare you!” My mother pokes at Marcus’s chest, and he waves her finger away from his body and says, “How dare you place your daughter in jeopardy. How dare you be terrible fucking parents and be ignorant to his vile behavior. You are two living, breathing, human shits dressed in pompous clothing.” Then Marcus turns to me with his arm held out.

“Let’s go, Til. Don’t even say goodbye to them, they are not worth it, until they know your worth. ”

Later that night, Marcus had to leave for his evening plans. I was curious to where he was heading but he stated it was nothing of importance and he would be back afterwards. Biscuit is sitting in the lounge chair across from me as he proceeds to teach me his favorite game, checkers.

I love Biscuit’s company and adore his robust personality. Many do not take him seriously, but he is full of laughter and is wise beyond his years. His pudgy fingers carefully pick up the chip as he explains the game to me.

“Oh, watch this Tilly dear!” He shouts in excitement as he bounces the chip over three of mine, in a pattern. “And now it gets flipped over and is a king!”

I giggle, taking a sip of my cherry blossom tea and clapping at him.

“You will need to teach me, how you can spot all those maneuvers. You are a real checkers champion, I praise.” He proudly sits back in his seat at my words. His hands playfully tapping on his stout stomach.

“I played against a German on Christmas. Ya see we stopped fighting for Christmas, during The Great War. We made a truce and somehow a miracle happened, and we enjoyed some damn normalcy for a few hours. That man knew how to play checkers, and don’t tell him, but I use his moves to this day.

” He reaches to his chin and scratches the bit of stubble slowly growing.

Leaning forward in my seat I ask, “Biscuit, how old are you?” His eyes light up with surprise at my question.

“Oi! You nevah ask a handsome brute his age, it’s rude, love.” He smooths his hands over his suspenders and snaps them on his round abdomen. Giving me a right laugh.

“But I think I’m 37. Or maybe 39? Oh shite.” He rubs his eyes and then looks down at his hands trying to do the math, but we are interrupted by a loud knock on my front door .

“Tilly! Open up. I need to speak with you!” Ronald’s voice booms over the wooden frame as fear strikes a chord through me.

How does he know where I live ?

“Jesus, is this that fucken bellend Marcus gave me a brief about?” Biscuit looks at me, thumb pointed to the door.

I nod, but the words don’t come out as I crawl to the corner of the couch, clutching my fleece blanket.

Biscuit stands and marches towards the front door. Before I can stop him, he swings the door open. His pleasant demeanor now formed into hatred and tension.

“Oi! Numbnuts. She don’t want ya. You revolt her. We wanna kill you, so leave. Unless you wanna die,” he says with so much certainty in his tone, I can barely recognize my sweet once Biscuit.

“Excuse me, who the fuck are you?” Ronald sneers, his form shadowing over Biscuit's shorter stature. Ronald tries to shove past him, but Biscuit fiercely stands, unmovable. He cocks his head to the side as a malicious grin forms.

“I always wanted to do this.” Biscuit moves his hand to his pocket pulling out a snub nose revolver, then starts shooting the ground.

“Dance, motherfucker, dance!” Ronald begins hopping on either foot, his Oxfords gleaming from the streetlight, as panic set in his eyes, while he yelps in terror.

Biscuit peers up at Ronald and gives him a wink.

Then I can hear Ronald’s strides recede when he runs away from my home.

Biscuit yells at his retreating figure, “Better not come round again! Or you’ll get buttered by Biscuit!

” Then he dramatically shuts my front door, locking it tight and saunters over to his seat.

My mouth is agape as I clutch my blanket to my chest. “Biscuit, did you wink at Ronald?”

He gives me a grunted laugh as he sets up the checkers board once more. “Yup, he’s my bitch now!”

Biscuit plucks his tea from the table to take a loud, drawn out sip.

“Oi! Til, did I ever tell you I was a marksman?” Biscuit stares back at me with nonchalance, holding the teacup with his pinky held high in the air.