War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

When Tommy pulls his mouth from her and hits me with a smug-as-fuck look, I know my gut reaction is right.

I reach the couch at the same time he pushes her off and stands to meet me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I punch him before he gets anything out. As his friends utter protests, and he scrambles to get up from the floor where he landed, I reach down, grip his shirt and pull him the fuck up. I then punch him again.

By the fucking time I’m finished with him, he won’t go near Zara again, let alone think about her again.

“Fury?” Zara’s voice cuts through all the shit in my head and stops me dead in my tracks, mid-punch to Tommy. Glancing her way, I find her slowly sitting up from where he left her on the couch. Confusion is written all over her face.

As I take my attention off Tommy, a kid comes from my side and lands a punch on my left cheek. It’s a piss-poor effort, though, barely registering in my mind. Reaching out, I grab him by the throat and back him up against the wall. “You wanna take a shot, asshole?” I roar, my body filled with the need for violence. It’s a dangerous fucking place for me to be—for these kids to be—so I try like fuck to force that need away.

His face turns red as I squeeze his throat. He claws at my fingers in an effort to loosen my grip, but he has no chance of that. Not when I’m keyed up like I am.

“Zara,” a girl’s voice sounds behind me. “You need to tell your friend to get the fuck out. This isn’t cool. Gary’s gonna kick us all out if he keeps this shit up.”

“She’s fucking wasted, Marissa”—another girl’s voice—“Like she can even understand what you’re saying.”

“Fury? What…”

I turn in time to see Zara trying to stand. She falls to the ground while those two bitches just watch her.

She needs some pointers in choosing friends, that’s for fucking sure.

I let go of the little dickhead and scoop Zara into my arms. Without finishing up what I want to with the shitheads she calls friends, I stalk out of the party, carrying her to the car.

Bundling her in, I do my best to ignore her dishevelled state, but I can’t ignore it. From her tangled, knotty hair, to the make-up residue dirtying her face, to her crumpled dress, she looks like she’s had a rough night. My anger at discovering her here still sits close to the surface, and as soon as she’s sobered up, we’re going to get into this, because this shit has to stop.

16

Fury

* * *

Halfway to her place, Zara lurches forward in her seat and declares she feels sick. Not wanting a repeat of the first time I rescued her from a party, I make a quick decision to stop at my house on the way. It’s closer than hers and might give me half a chance of surviving this night without her vomiting on me again.

We make it just in time and I manage to get her inside to the bathroom before she throws up. She hurls violently, making me wonder just how much, and what, she drank. I stand behind her and help keep her hair out of the way because she’s in no shape to even care about whether or not she ends up with vomit coating it.

“Oh God…. I’m never drinking ag—” Her words are cut off when she throws up again.

“Fuck,” I mutter, turning away. The sounds and smell are pushing me close to joining her.

We stay like this for another five or so minutes when she reaches for toilet paper and wipes her face. Sitting back on her heels, she throws the paper in the toilet and pushes up off the floor.

Flushing the toilet, she turns to face me, wobbly on her feet. Her face pulls into regret as she says drunkenly, “I’m sorry you had to save me from a party again.”

I work my jaw, not wanting to lose my shit with her, but knowing I’m about to. I’m my father’s son after all; my temper gets in the way when I’m worked up over something. And I’m fucking worked up over Zara. “What the fuck made you think that was a good idea? And why the hell would you allow that asshole to put his fucking hands on you?”

Those beautiful eyes of hers water at the same time her face crumples. Shaking her head, she says, “I didn’t want to—” She falters and tears stream down her face while she simply stands there and lets them, not even attempting to finish what she started to say.

I’ve never bothered with relationships, so I don’t have experience with emotional women. Neurotic, demanding, and dramatic women coming after me for more than I want to give, yes, but not this. This is a whole other level of emotion and I’m out of my depth here. However, I’m a logical man and I’m seeing lines connecting between the things I know of her.

She’s been binge drinking a lot lately.

She’s had an abortion.

She’s seeing a shrink.

I reach for her, cupping the back of her head, and pull her to me.

Her hands go to my shirt and she grips it while burying her head in my neck.