Red Thorns (Thorns Duet 1)

“There was begging, but not from me.” He waves her off. “And you trying to divert the subject back to you is called narcissism, Bree. Don’t be jealous because I said Naomi is pretty.”

My teammate Josh licks his lips. “She reminds me of those Japanese porn actresses. Do you think she makes those erotic-as-fuck noises like them?”

In my mind, I’m jumping across the table, grabbing him by the neck, then bashing his head against the floor. Once, twice, until blood oozes from a crack

in his forehead. Then I go on until he loses some of his teeth and starts wailing like a fucking bitch.

In reality, I remain still. I don’t even reach for my drink. Any change in my body language will betray my thoughts. I’ve learned not only to conceal my emotions but also to never allow anyone to read them.

Thinking about inflicting violence, imagining the whole scene and its repercussions, is what helps me to cope.

Not now, though.

Josh’s words still ring in my head. The fact that he’s picturing Naomi in a porn scenario and fucking stereotyping about it burns hot in my veins. I need payback before I’ll be able to get over it.

Most of those present at the table laugh as he goes on and on about Japanese porn and how he’s an expert. If I change the subject, it’ll be obvious, but there’s no way in fuck I’ll keep quiet for any longer.

The scenario where his head is bashed open on the ground is rushing faster to the surface, demanding to become a reality.

“Those sounds are fake,” Prescott says.

“How do you know?” Josh points his beer at him. “Did you tap a Japanese girl’s exotic ass?”

“No, but I know you’re being a racist bigot right now, not to mention an asshole.”

“Ohh, is the pretty boy feeling triggered?” our teammate taunts.

“Shut the fuck up, Josh. You’re making a joke out of yourself.” I stand and leave without another word.

If I’d stayed for one more second, I would’ve made my fantasy come true, but murder isn’t on the list of things I want my grandpa to get me out of.

I’d owe him for life—more than I already do.

Once I’m in front of my car, I take a moment to suck in a sharp breath.

I shouldn’t be alone, not after I didn’t act on another violent fantasy.

Maybe I should go bug Nate and sleep on his couch. He’s the only person who understands my need to purge and doesn’t judge me for it.

He’s the one I go to when memories of that night become too much.

He knows. He listens.

One problem. Nate isn’t the one I want to see right now.

I retrieve my phone in a last-ditch attempt and pause when I see a text from Naomi.

The pressure that’s been constricting my chest all night long slowly lifts.

She texted first.

It’s a picture. A sketch, to be more precise.

I’ve been taunting her to show me her sketchpad, but she always hid it. Of course, I saw it once when she went to the restroom. I was surprised by the images. She’s a hidden gem, who has a natural talent at drawing.

Sure, her technique needs work, but the gift is definitely there.

Stealing peeks at her sketches behind her back is different from how she’s willingly showing me one now.