Page 20 of Whiskey Sour
“Every night, they’re in a different location and spread the word through texts. People can sign up to participate in different levels of fighting.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And the fighters can be anyone?”
“Anyone.”
Even guys like me. I’m a pretty chill, for the most part. I love my best friend, I love my job, and I love my life. I try to be calm and rational, because Skylar always needs some steady guidance.
But it would be a lie to say that I haven’t felt an itch. An itch to return to the past I left behind, not because I miss it, but because I miss the feeling of it. Skylar and I didn’t exactly grow up normal. We were put in a shitty situation in an even shittier foster home, and I had to do things to make sure he was safe.
Things I’ve never told him. Things I’ve kept to myself. Things that are all rushing back to me being here.
Cracked knuckles.
Bloody faces.
Desperate cries.
“Cool. Want to hang here for a bit and watch a few fights, then grab some food?” When I nod, he smirks. “Great. I just— Wait. Why do I recognize that guy?”
I turn to where Knox is narrowing his eyes and scowl. The guy he’s referring to looks familiar because Knox has met him before. Not just met, he kicked him out of a party once. The same party he kicked me out of, too, for starting a fight.
I thought I had seen the last of Ricky the Dicky.
Because of some twisted god, he ends up spotting us and heads over. Cocky swagger intact, he drags a girl along behind him, some sort of fucked-up trophy on his skinny arm.
“Cassius, right?” He smiles widely, almost mockingly. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
“Ricky,” I spit, enjoying the way his face twitches at the nickname. I don’t have anything to say to this man that would even be remotely pleasant. Hoping he’ll get the hint, I leave it at that, but I never claimed this man was smart.
“How’s Skylar doing?” he asks as he ignores the girl on his arm. “Been thinking about him recently.”
Knox scowls. “Don’t.”
Ricky raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Everyone’s fine.” I try to keep the peace when Knox growls in his direction and Ricky takes a step forward. “It was good seeing you. Now, my friend and I have to?—”
“I’ve been thinking about calling him,” he says nonchalantly, and I hate the dirty smirk on his face. “Man, he was such a tight fuck. Didn’t really care for the dick too much, but he likes to take it from behind, so we’re all good there.”
My blood boils. Images surface that I always try to keep locked away. I’m no stranger to the fact that Skylar’s had sex—lots of it—with every boyfriend he’s had. We don’t live in the best apartment, and the walls are thin. Because of that, I’ve had to endure years of hearing him cry out for someone else.
Skylar bent over the bed while someone else rails him.
Skylar on his back while someone else fucks him.
Skylar on his knees while someone else feeds him their dick.
Trying to rein in my anger, I clench and unclench my fists. Because when I dare to think of Skylar with someone else, I go psycho. Hell, I almost beat the living shit out of Ricky just for making him cry. Still, that’s not me anymore. I’ve grown, damn it. I’m not a piece of trailer trash shit anymore, and I’m proud of that.
“I know you have his number.” Ricky continues, maybe blissfully unaware that I’m two seconds from knocking his teeth in. “I never saved it on my phone.”
“Asshole,” Knox mutters under his breath.
I shake my head. “I’m not giving you Skylar’s number.”
Finally, that self-righteous smirk drops. Ricky looks pissed as he roughly shoves the girl he came with away. “And why the fuck not?”
I try to bite my tongue but, fuck me, it’s hard. “Because you’re a raging dickhead who has no right going anywhere near Skylar ever again! Just fuck off and leave us alone!”
