Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)

“You can’t know that.” The words don’t come out as easily as I want them to. He doesn’t think I can handle his world, and I can’t find the words to convince him that I can. I’m not sure I can stomach the things he’s mentioned—not that I’ll ever admit it.

“You aren’t fucking listening. Why aren’t you listening?” He’s shouting now and stepping away from me. I see his temper rising as his eyes dart around the room, searching for something to take his aggression out on. He stomps over to a wooden chair and places his hands on the back and leans into it. His shoulders are rising and falling with each strained breath and the bulge of his muscles as he fights for control of himself, which he’s clearly losing. Somewhere in the back of my head, I’m telling myself to run for it to avoid the blowup, but I can’t move. Even if I could get my feet to work, I’d stay. Leaving would only prove him right, that I can’t handle his world.

“Well?” he screams. His entire body vibrates with his anger. Even his facial features seem incapable of staying still. I can’t decide if it’s sexy or intimidating or maybe a mix of both. “Why aren’t you fucking listening? You used to listen. You did as you were told.”

“Because I’m not that girl anymore!” I shout back on my way to the bar where I sit on one of the stools. If he’s trying to run me out with this sudden mood swing, it’s not going to work. I make a grand show of sitting on the stool and getting comfortable, ensuring it sends the right message. I’m livid, partially because our moment’s been broken by his attitude problem and partially because I’m just a yeller and I hate how quick I am to raise my voice and it bothers me that he’s brought this infuriating trait out in me.

“Fuck!” His straightens his back and glares at the chair he was just leaning on. In one swift movement, he lifts the chair over his shoulder and throws it with all his might at the exposed brick wall. The chair sails past me and smashes into the brick. I jump at the loud crashing noise it makes even though I knew it was coming and it wasn’t really all that close to me. That stupid worrywart voice is going off in my head again, telling me to leave, but I ignore her. I’m far too angry with him for ruining our moment. I like our moments, and he can’t just go around ruining them because he feels a foot stomping session coming on.

Asshole.

“Go ahead and throw another one. See if I care,” I say and pivot around on my stool to fill one of the clean glasses that’s on the dry rack with water from the tap. I don’t really like the water from the tap, but I’m thirsty and it’s either this or the J?germeister that’s just down the bar from me. I’ve been aching for a real drink since I broke my sobriety, and even though I haven’t slipped up again, the gnawing desire won’t go away. Especially when I’m feeling crazy, like now, I just want to drown out all of the insufferable feelings I’m experiencing. I remind myself, like now, how good the crazy feels one I reach the peak. I’m not there yet, and my fingers itch to reach for the green bottle, but I focus on what’s important here—Ian.

When I’m settled back in my seat and taking a sip of my water, he moves on to another chair and lifts it over his shoulder, then waits. I nod and give him a hand wave, inviting him to throw the fucking thing.

“What do I care? This isn’t my furniture,” I say calmly and take another sip. As far as I’m concerned, they could use an update in décor anyway. Nothing really matches in here, and half of it’s so old and beat up that it’s probably doing the guys a favor to break it to pieces.

He throws the chair, and just like the last one, it breaks into pieces of all different sizes against the brick wall.

“You like this? You really want to be with this?” he says. His face is red, and there’s a line of sweat on his brow. He turns over a retro-styled metal table that looks like it could be out of a 1950s Sears catalog. I give him a bitchy eyebrow, and in response he gives me a snapped pool cue that somebody left lying up against one of the couches. When I don’t respond to the pool cue, he kicks over another chair, and he does it so hard that he breaks one of the legs in the process.

I set my glass of water down on the bar and give him a slow clap, like I’m proud of his He-man accomplishments. As expected, it just pisses him off further. He moves quickly toward me, like a lion stalking its prey, knocking over everything in his path. He doesn’t bother to simply walk around the furniture. Instead, he insists upon toppling it over, kicking it out of his way, and making a big show out of the whole thing.