Possessive Daddy Next Door

We hang out for a while longer. The day passes, like any other day since I came home. I don’t do anything important and I try to act like my life isn’t on hold. Evening turns to night and I find myself lounging down in the living room, drinking a glass of wine and trying to read some paranormal romance novel about a vampire who’s missing his fangs and a sexy blonde southern girl that happens to love fangless vamps. It’s confusing but I’m into it when I hear some noise coming from the kitchen.

I frown a little, sip my wine. The noise gets worse then there’s a crash. I bookmark my page and get up. There’s yelling and I can hear Dorian’s voice, his French accent extremely angry. “You little piece of trash,” he hollers. “You pathetic wimp. How dare you come into my kitchen? How dare you come drunk?”

“Oh, fuck off, Dorian,” the other voice says, just as loud. “You French twat. You’re so overrated, you and your stupid omelets.”

I gasp. I can’t believe someone would insult his omelets. There’s another crash and a man comes stumbling into the living room. He’s wearing a cooking staff uniform, black shirt and black pants with a white hat on his head. Dorian comes out after him, brandishing a large wooden spoon, his eyes wide with rage.

“You come to my kitchen drunk, you make a mess of the soup, you’re a disgrace. Get the hell out.”

“No!” the guy shouts. I don’t recognize him. He looks young, with acne on his face and glasses askew. “You fuck off. I came drunk because you’re such a fucking asshole, Dorian. I can’t take it anymore.”

Dorian swipes at him with the spoon and the guy stumbles away, running into a couch. He spins around and spots me, eyes going wide. I stand there not sure what to do. Dorian comes after him again, cursing in French, and hits the guy with the spoon. He throws his hands up and shoves the Frenchman away.

“Fuck off, you fuck,” he says.

“Get out, you little bastard!” Dorian hits him with the spoon again and again until the guy finally clocks Dorian in the face hard enough to send the Frenchman sprawling.

“Dorian!” I run to his side without thinking. He groans from the floor and rubs his chin.

“Oh, merde, oh, putain. Ms. Delia, I am so sorry. I did not know you were here, I never would have let this cretin out of the kitchen, he is drunk, you see, storming about, the little bastard.”

“It’s okay, Dorian,” I say as the guy stumbles away from us, his eyes wide. “It’s really okay. Are you hurt?”

“Ah, merde,” he says, rubbing his face. “Got a lucky hit in. Bring him over here, I will beat him with my spoon.”

“You stay here,” I say, standing up. I look at the drunk guy who stares back at me with malice in his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Greg,” he says. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of the fucking rich assholes that own this place?”

“I’m Delia,” I say. “And yes, I’m one of the rich assholes. Although my parents own the place.”

“Fuck you,” he says. “Rich asshole. I fucking hate all of you. And especially that French fuck over there. That fucking asshole.” He spits right onto the carpet.

“Hey,” I say, “don’t do that.”

He laughs and takes a step toward me. “The fuck you say?”

I step back, eyes wide. I realize he’s bigger than me, even if he is drunk. He was strong enough to knock Dorian to the floor with one punch. He could hurt me way worse.

“I mean, I didn’t—”

I don’t get enough words out before someone comes from the side and grabs Greg. The drunk man gasps as the new figure flips him off his feet and slams his face into the floor. I stare as Max grabs Greg’s wrist and bends it up behind his back, shoving his face into the carpet with his other hand, growling like an animal.

“Don’t you ever threaten her,” he says. “Do you hear me? Don’t you ever, ever threaten her.” Max leans closer. “Apologize right now, or I’ll break your wrist.”

“You wouldn’t,” Greg says.

Max pushes harder and Greg screams in pain.

“I will. Apologize.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t.”

“Say it again. And mean it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just drunk and I hate that French asshole. I’m so sorry.”

Max looks at me. “Good?”

I nod once, eyes wide. “I’m okay.”

“Fine.” He looks back at Greg. “I’m not going to break your wrist, only because she’s watching. But if she weren’t here, I’d hurt you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Greg whimpers.

Patricks comes running into the room followed by a couple other security personnel. They run over to where Max is and grab Greg, hauling him up.