Wicked Games

4. Little White Lies

                                                 4. LITTLE WHITE LIES

Time stood still before stumbling into slow motion. I was past the point of deciphering the seconds from the minutes that ticked by - everything was happening all at once, way too fast. My heart pounding in my throat, all senses screaming ‘Danger’ to me, I fought against the overwhelming urge to run out of that room and not stop running until I had crossed city lines. Several different shapes and sizes of items hurtled across the room to me at lightning speed. Every time he flung something it would miss by a heartbeat and, soon, this wasn’t a satisfying enough outlet for Blake’s anger – so he lunged at me.

It was so strange, I didn’t even move - unlike before when he was chucking stuff at me. In a way, it was me letting him get it out of his system. Let’s get this straight, though. In my book, getting it out of his system allowed the guy a few punches, and Blakey-boy was beginning to take the piss. Just a little. After receiving what I considered punishment enough, my irritation was making an appearance. But that didn’t mean I didn’t fight back, because I gave as good as I got.

Single-handedly lifting me back off the ground, his grip tightened on my arm as he shoved me against the wall. Breathing heavy and seething with rage, he didn’t even get a chance to voice whatever thought it was that had gotten him so fired up because not a second after my head hit the cool surface – trapping me between him and a hard place - he was thrown off me and Emilie was latched onto my waist like a fly to shit.

Maaaaan.

“Aaliyah,” she rasped. Her eyes were shooting between Jason, Blake – who looked like a lion zeroing on his prey - and I. That prey being me. His eyes ablaze yet so teeth-shatteringly cold were only heightening my own fury. Jason was adamant he wasn’t going to let Blake another centimetre closer to me and Blake, just as determined to escape his brothers’ vice-like grip, refused to settle. Setting that steely glare on me, he barked, “I’m only going to ask you this one more time – what the fuck is she doing here, Jason.”

The whole time he kept his eyes on me. And me on him. Stone cold sober.

Before Jason embarked on another hopeless attempt at diffusing the situation, I folded my arms over each other, disguising the furious trembling with curled fists. Lightning bursts of anger shot through me, the hypocrisy of this whole situation.

“She is right here, why don’t you ask me yourself huh?”

It was like watching a cartoon; I bet he didn’t expect me to answer. His whole body visibly tensed at the sound of my voice and his ears turned red. I suppose you could have said that I knew how to tick his boxes’, rough him up the wrong way, you know.

Ever since we were kids, I knew just when I had hit that nerve, because his ears would turn beetroot-red, first the tips until the heat engulfed his entire ear, and his knuckles would pop… loudly. Which is how I knew I did something right, this time;

“I wasn’t talking to you, you little bitch! Shut your mouth before I ---”.