Page 149 of Wild Thing
“You so much as look at her again…” Brax squeezed his hand tighter. Steven's eyes began to bulge. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Keeping a tight grip on Steven’s throat, Brax punched him in the face again, the force breaking his nose with a sickening crunch.
I winced at the sound.
Finally, Brax released his vise grip from Steven's throat. Steven gasped for air, sliding down the window, pawing at his throat and nose. Blood seeped between his fingers. He was fading in and out of consciousness.
Brax stomped over to where Steven had dropped his pants. He picked them up, angrily throwing them at Steven.
“Get up, motherfucker.”
Steven tried and stumbled to the floor. Between his drunkenness and the fact that he just had the living shit beaten out of him, he couldn’t get to his feet.
Steven needed to be physically removed.
Brax walked over to where Steven was hunched over and hoisted him up by his shirt. Forcibly, he dragged him out of the room and tossed him out into the hallway, along with Steven's pants.
Brax stood at the door, threatening Steven viciously one last time.
“Come near Dylan again and you’re dead. Mark my words, cunt.”
Steven groaned in agony and agreement, bleeding profusely from his nose. He looked utterly pathetic as he grimaced in pain, trying to cover his limp dick with his pants.
Brax slammed the door shut and rushed over to me. We didn’t wait to see Steven pick his sorry ass up off the floor.
I sat in a crumpled heap on the chair. There were shards of glass in my hair, my face, my hands.
Ripping off his shirt, Brax squatted down in front of me. He scrunched up his shirt and gently applied pressure to the many cuts on my head and face.
I fell forward into his arms. He held me, gently rocking me back and forth to comfort me. The weight of what had happened crushed me like an anvil.
I let out a sob, my head spilling blood onto his skin.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You're okay now. Let me see you.”
He cradled my face in his fingers, his lethal hands now the promise of safety. “I’m going to remove the glass from your face, okay?”
I nodded in agreement.
Stroking my face, he inspected the cuts and slices. "Do you have any tweezers in your bathroom?"
“In my vanity case.”
He disappeared for a second, a minute, an hour—time meant nothing anymore—before he was back and kneeling before me, tweezers, tissues and alcohol swabs in his hands.
“I'm going to clean your head up as much as I can, okay? Hopefully we don’t need to go and get stitches.”
Wincing at his touch, he tended to each wound and abrasion on my face. The largest of which was on my hairline from thatfirst impact into the mirror. Brax didn’t mention stitches again, which I took as a good sign.
“Where is she?” I asked meekly.
He knew I was talking about Ally.
“Gone.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn't push it. She wasn't my biggest concern anymore.
My head was pounding. I felt like I'd be strung upside down and spun around, again and again. I wondered if maybe I was concussed.
