Reed drags his gaze from mine to Erica’s. “You, to talk to you.”
She adjusts her coveralls, but not quick enough to hide the bruising mark from Reed’s eagle eyes. I see it hit him like a punch to the gut, but Erica’s beelining for the door, focused on work. She tosses over her shoulder, “Play nice. Don’t get blood on the lunch table.”
With that, she’s gone, leaving Reed and me alone in the breakroom.
He glares at me, any pretense of politeness evaporating. He’d beat the shit out of me if he could, but we both know he won’t. One, because he can’t. I’m a big fucker, and even if he wanted to, he can’t take me. Two, he won’t hurt Erica that way. And that tells me more about him than anything.
He’s hurting and that Band-Aid needs to get ripped off like I told Erica ages ago. She’s been doing it, but not fast enough, not with enough yank. For all her blustering, she’s kind at heart. I am too, but I have no softness for Reed. Not when softness is cruelty.
“Guess I’ll have to play nice and not fuck you up for hurting her like that.” He’s spouting off about the hickey, knowing full well that it didn’t hurt her. But it hurt him. The too-fast rise and fall of his chest and the pain deep in his eyes tell me that much.
I lace my fingers together, putting them behind my head with my elbows and legs spread. It’s a show of force, that I’m totally at ease in what should be his environment, with him throwing threats.
“She was telling me to play nice. You” —I lift my chin his way— “are actually nice. Me, not so much.” I smirk and tilt my head, knowing the cocky arrogance will irritate him.
“Asshole,” he snarls.
“Meant it as a compliment.” Truthfully, it is. Reed is a good guy. He’s just a mouse caught in a wheel, and he doesn’t know how to get out. I’m gonna show him, though.
Band-Aid removal in three, two, one . . .
“I get it, Reed. You’ve had a vision your whole life. Whether it was yours or someone else’s doesn’t even matter anymore because it plays in your head like a favorite movie. Problem is? She ain’t watching the same one. She cares about you, she loves you, but not like you want. If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else. But it’s not you, won’t ever be. You need to move on from her.”
He flinches, probably because she’s told me so much and also because it’s all true, and though he won’t admit it, not even to himself, he knows it. “Fuck you. You think you’re special? Nah, you ain’t nothing. And when she needs a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, I’m who she comes to.”
Time to hit the jugular. “Maybe so, because that’s what friends do for each other. But what about when she wants dick? It ain’t yours she’s going for, hasn’t been in a long time.” What Erica and I have is a lot more than dick, but it’s what he needs to hear to get it through that thick skull of his.
His hands curl into fists, but he holds his ground, booted feet rooted to the floor. I stand slowly, making no sudden movements, cross my arms over my chest, and look him in the eye.
“She loves you, but not like that. I swear to fuck, I’m not being an asshole here. I really am trying to play nice. Because you’re important to her, but so am I.” The weight of that is heavy, but it’s a responsibility I welcome. A reminder that I can handle so much more than what I’ve been shouldering recently. That I’m good at it, even if seems like I’m stumbling around aimlessly.
“What the fuck ever, man. Just don’t fucking hurt her or I will fucking kill you.” He points a finger at me threateningly. He might be tied with Erica and me on the record number of curse words in one sentence.
“Let’s be honest. I’m not going to hurt her. When and if this ever implodes, it’ll be me left broken and hurting.” The similarity to how Reed feels right now is painfully obvious to us both. “Luckily, I’ve got brothers with the balls to tell me to tape my shit together, build a bridge, and get over it.”
It’s silent for a long second, the tension thick, and I realize that I might have to actually fight this fucker. It’ll break my longest streak of not punching someone since elementary school. Not that I take particular pride in the number of fights I’ve been in. It’s nice not having swollen, bruised knuckles, but if that’s what it takes, I’ve never backed down. And I won’t start today.