Page 81 of Whiskey Throttle
Hollister lunges, shoving his friend aside. His fists connect with my son's face with such lightning speed that it shocks us all. Right into his mouth. He smiles, a bloody mess. Maniacal. As if feeling the physical pain is better than the emotional pain. He spits blood onto the floor, laughing like a madman.
“Is that all you got, motherfucker? Ha, MOTHER FUCKER. Literally. My mother fucker. Fucking my mother.”
I want to vomit.
My stomach churns from the toxic poison coating his words. It's always been challenging between us, but this is another level. I can't comprehend how horribly he views me. Yet this is an insight into how deep the unresolved pain runs between us.
I've always held out hope that we could eventually be repaired. This seems to have burned down any hope. More charred ashes ground into the scorched soil of our relationship.
“KOKAMI!” The slender one yells, and everyone stops. I don't understand what's happening, but it seems to bring a temporary calm to the chaos. “Not here, guys. Think of Emilio.”
The very person we all forgot about until now. His comment to put their friend at the forefront takes the fight out of everyone. The tension lowers a fraction until Dom is fighting against the hold he's been placed in.
“Get the fuck off me.”
His friend releases him cautiously, ready to grab him again if needed. Dominic straightens his jacket. His chest still heaves with pent-up rage. His eyes dart between Hollister and me. The betrayal is evident in his glare.
Hollister's fingers touch his open cut, pulling away with bloody fingertips that he smears on his shirt. His knuckles are red and raw. Evident that he landed a hit on Dominic.
“I will not hesitate to kick your ass if you disrespect her again,” Hollister mutters, his voice low and dangerous while he flexes his fingers to relieve the stinging pain. “No fucking matter who you are.”
Dominic barks out a bitter laugh.
Cynical and disgusted.
“Right. Because you're just all noble and shit. Banging my mom for what? A little fun? A hot piece of ass?”
His words hit their mark in both of us. I see the flash of pain in Hollister's eyes. It comes from a place of hurt, yet he's intentionally hurting us.
“Watch it,” the bulky friend warns Dominic in a commanding rumble.
The phone. The reason that started this burns in my palm. I move beside Hollister to hand it to him, then face the brutality of my son's rage.
“Dominic,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. I try to reach out, to connect, but his eyes are cold, distant. He's looking at me like I'm the enemy. “Please, let's just talk about this another time. Now is not?—”
“Talk? You want to talk now? You should have thought about that before you spread your legs for him.” He scoffs, a harsh sound that cuts through the air. “How long has this been going on? That fucking art show? Or when you were bawling about my father for the hundredth time.”
His emotions surge. His hands begin to tremble. His friends take notice, closing in on him.
“Ms. Barrett, can you . . . Hollister?”
His slender friend pivots, never finishing what he was going to say. It's as if they move with an understanding that I'm not a part of. It doesn't matter. I hand Hollister his phone. He stares at it for a long second and then plucks it out of my fingers to slip it into his pants pocket.
“You're out of line, Dominic. I get that you're upset, but you don't talk to her like that.”
Dominic's sneer is violent. The cracking of his knuckles is made worse by the tension between them.
“Or what? You'll hit me again? You'll fuck her again? Which is it, Hollister? You going to be her knight in shining armor or the dick she rides? Ever thought she might just be using you? Or are you using her?” His hand raises to his chin, stroking his shadowy beard. “Does she know about all the women you fuck and toss aside. Is that what you'll do to her?”
Hollister's hands clench at his sides, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he looks at me, his eyes softening.
“Barbara, why don't you?—”
“Barbara?”
He shoves his bulky friend away from him. Absolutely unnecessary and uncalled for. The poor guy frowns, running a hand through his hair and looking more stressed.
“Now that's fucking rich.”
