Page 21 of Before You Fell

I want him to give me one clean excuse to let my hands do what they are itching to do. I want him to square his shoulders, lift his chin, play decent man defending the pretty songwriter, because then I can stop pretending this is a conversation and introduce his face to my fist.

Preferably hard enough that he forgets every hallway he ever planned to take her into.

He glances at Willow. “Maybe another time.”

“No,” I say, my voice coming out low and mean. “Not another fucking time. Not tomorrow or later. Not when I’m drunk, distracted, or balls-deep in someone else. You want air, Marcus? Breathe somewhere that isn’t fucking near her.”

Willow’s whole body goes still as Marcus eyes me before turning and leaving.

I don’t watch him go because I don’t give a fuck where he goes. Down the hall. Into traffic. Straight into a wall. Not my fucking problem.

The only part that matters is that he is moving away from her.

Willow watches him for one second before she turns on me.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I lift one shoulder. “Long list, Wills.”

“I'm serious, Phoenix.”

Her voice cuts sharp. Her green eyes flash and her cheeks carry the slightest hint of color, the kind that tells me I have shoved my hand straight into the wire and made it spark. I have been doing that to her since we were kids. Poking. Pushing. Saying shit I shouldn’t say just to watch her stop pretending she doesn’t feel anything.

Angry Willow is a dangerous thing. Fucking beautiful, too.

Willow’s beauty hits different because she never offers it. She just stands there with those brown eyes cutting into me, honey-brown hair falling around her face, cheeks flushed from fury, and somehow looks more untouchable than every woman in this room trying to be touched.

I hate how beautiful she is when she is mad. Detest how it gets under my skin and makes every other girl in the room appear temporary. Disposable. Easy to forget.

Willow looks at me as if she would rather stab me than kiss me, and the sickest part is, both options sound rather amusing.

“Then stop asking easy questions,” I say.

Her eyes burn harder. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Pretty sure I just did.”

“You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

“I didn’t.”

“You told him to leave.”

“Because he was done talking.”

“No, Phoenix. You decided he was fucking done.”

“Some men need help knowing when they are finished. I protected you from making a stupid choice, Willow.”

Her laugh cuts hard. “Protected me?”

“Yeah.”

“From Marcus?” She folds her arms across her chest and tips her head, looking me up and down as if the stupidest thing in this room is wearing my face. “The man asked if I wanted air, Phoenix. He didn’t drag me into a van.”

My jaw ticks. “From men.”

“From men,” she repeats.