Page 79 of Broken Headboards
“I do have proof, asshole. Let me just call my office, and I’ll shove all the proof you want down your damn throat.”
“Yeah? I’ll do the same then,” he shoots back, and we both reach for our phones at the same time. It almost likes we’re both drawing guns, like in one of those Western films. All we need is a good whistler and some saloon doors will bust open out of nowhere. Because Clarendon Tower isn’t big enough for the two of us.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I ask him as he points his cellphone toward my headboard and snaps a picture. Without waiting for his reply, I do the exact same thing.
“Getting some proof of your treachery,” he says to me.
“Then you should be taking pictures of your own headboard, Austin,” I seethe.
“I’m not going to fall for that,” he whispers, shaking his head. Then, he takes one step forward, shoves his phone inside one pocket and grabs my headboard. “Your stole the design for my headboard, which means that this belongs to me.”
He tries to pull my headboard, so I just grab it as tight as I can.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“Reclaiming what’s mine,” he snarls.
“Yeah? Why didn’t you ask? I’ll give you what’s yours,” I hiss back at him, and then just send my right foot flying against his ankle. The moment the tip of my heels connects with his leg, an expression of pain washes over his face and he takes one step back, immediately letting go of my headboard.
“What the hell?” he asks.
“Don’t mess with me, Austin,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Or what?” he asks, anger in his eyes.
Is he actually challenging me? Because I won’t back down. If he’s willing to stoop this low to win the contest, then I’m more than willing to kick his ass. And yeah, I mean it. I might be a girl, but I guarantee you—nothing brings down a man faster than a kick in the balls.
I grip my headboard so tight that all blood drains from my fingers and, before I can stop myself, I lift the damn thing up. Austin cocks one surprised eyebrow at me, and I swing the whole headboard in his direction as if it were a battle-axe.
“What the fuck are you doing, Lancelot?” He asks me, jumping back and avoiding a direct hit.
“Admit it,” I insist, preparing to swing at him again. “You spied on me, and you stole the design!”
“Fat fucking chance, Tess!” He replies, my headboard moving fast toward him again. To avoid being hit, this time he has to raise his headboard like a shield, and mine smashes against it with a loud thump. Wood splinters fly everywhere, and I hear a few screams around us as a crowd starts to form.
Yeah, these assholes want a show?
I’ll give them a show.
“You’re batshit crazy,” he mutters. Well, shit, what a high and mighty thing to say, given that now he’s the one using his headboard like a fucking broadsword. He brings it down in a fast arch, using it to break mine in half. More wood splinters fly everywhere, and I’m left holding two separate pieces in my hand. Gritting my teeth, I throw one of them away and hold the other with both my hands.
“This isn’t fucking Star Wars, Tess,” he tries to say, but I silence him by battering his headboard with the remaining piece of wood in my hands. Each blow I strike on him echoes throughout the lobby, and a grin spreads over my lips as I see all the ornaments on his headboards completely ruined.
“And this isn’tThe Thomas Crown Affaireither,” I cry out. “So stop stealing my shit!”
“I never stole your shit,” he spits out. “You were the one that started this shitshow when you spied on me. What did you use to say? Business is war, huh?”
“Yeah, it is war,” I growl, this time using what’s left of my headboard as a battering ram. Rushing toward him, I smash it straight against his, breaking it in half just like he did to mine. I can hear all these assholes around us snapping pictures, the echoes of theirooohsandaaahscrawling deep into my mind and fueling my rage. “What? Never seen a business meeting go down?” I ask them, and a few of them actually jump back, afraid I might give them chase.
Yeah, Tess ‘Psycho’ Armstrong is in the house.
Charging again, I force Austin to back down until I have him pinned against the receptionist’s counter. I move forward, hellbent on spearing him, but he just jumps on top of the counter.
“It’s over, Tess!” he cries out. “I have the high ground!”
“This isn’t over,” I growl back, swinging the headboard fast. He jumps up, and the wood flies right under his feet. Climbing down from the counter, he pushes his headboard against mine, and somehow manages to flick it out of my hands.
Fuck.
