His body indurates, his eyes widening and his lips nearly disjoining in utter shock. He raises his hand to brush his cheek, as if unable to apprehend what just took place. He humorlessly laughs once, before he clamps his mouth shut, dragging a deep breath into his lungs, and I have a feeling he's been holding his breath for long. His eyes latch me immobile in my place with a cold, imperturbable look, and my heart commences a sprint in my chest. I acted on impulse, unable to conciliate my demons and my unstoppable temper. Both of them were battling with my vacationing logical side, and as usual, the wrathful part won. We keep an eternal staring contest, and his expression never falters or morphs into another. He looks like a werewolf before shifting, on the edge of flaring up. He parts his mouth to talk this time, and his voice comes out toneless. “I hope you have an explanation for that.”

I stand my ground, refusing to let his intense gaze intimidate me. Instead, I stare back, cocking my head to the side, and recalling what my co-worker told me. It works just fine to rejuvenate my anger anew. “I just received a call from my co-worker telling me that I'm fired. I hope YOU have an explanation for that.” I fold my arms, and uncontrollably, my feet being to tap on the ground in vexation.

I witness it, realisation sinking in, and I ascertain that a part of me was expecting, or rather hoping that Brenda was wrong, and the thought clobbers me so hard like thunder impinges in the coldest of nights.

I was starting to trust him.

I don't know what's happening to me. My life has become crazier ever since I met him, and I have no single clarification to it. A lot of off-putting events are befalling my life, and I'm becoming more sullen. Does he see the impact his presence has on my life?

And to make things worse, I was beginning to confide in him. What an idiot. I never learn.

He shifts on his feet, looking around the room and examining his paintings as if it's the first time he chances upon them, but I know that he's evading my gaze, and what a fool he is, I'm not someone who takes avoidance well. I grab the painting palette from the table, before slapping it flat across his hard chest. “You don't get to ignore me, asshole.” 

That works, making his head whip to leer at me. His lips press into a straight line, his eyes saturated with indignation. “What the fuck was that for?” He yells at me, before looking down at his blue-coated tee, scowling.

I advance toward him, ready for a fight. “You don't get to yell at me, either.” I yell back, looking at him with feral anger.

He scowls back, gritting out, “Jesus, you're a fucking savage. Next time you'll grow a dick and a pair of balls.”

It stings, but I cover it up so well. He wants his comment to spark a reaction, as if he could deal with my anger if It really actuates. I won't give it to him, though. Instead, I plaster a sarcastic expression on my face, smirking. “Well, I'd only compensate for your lack of skill in that department.”

His eyes glint, but not in anger as I presupposed. He cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow teasingly at me. “I assure you that I'm very successful in that department, Candy. Wanna give it a try?”

My eyes widen momentarily, before I catch myself, fixing a repulsed look on my tomato-red face. “No, thank you. I'm not one of the sluts who let you use them for one night and get rid of them.” I spout, trying to camouflage the hurt I felt yesterday when he abandoned me in the hallway like I'm nothing but one of them.

His smirk deepens even more. “Careful Candy, or I may just assume you're jealous.”

I vent out an aciduous laugh, raising my eyebrows in a bantering way. “Then your ego needs a quick-fix diet as soon as possible.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just chill.”

I sizzle, unable to keep my voice quiet. “Chill? You want me to fucking chill?” I ask him, beckoning to myself. “Well, I'm sorry, but people don't usually make other people lose their jobs for no reason.”

He snaps too, his two big hands clamping on my shoulder to fasten me in my place. “You're such an obtuse idiot. Can't you see it? The dude is dangerous and I'm trying to get you out of trouble.”

I position my hands flat on his chest, refusing to let them concede to the robust hardness under them, before giving my best shot at propelling him away. “I'm not an idiot, you freaking jerk, and I'm sure as hell I didn't hire you as my freaking bodyguard. I fight my own battles.”

His hands tighten even more. “Oh believe me, this battle is too hard for you.”

I gnash my teeth together, straining to budge away from him. “Then it's none of your business. Why are you friends with a dangerous guy like him anyway?”

He lets go of me this time, rolling his shoulders. “None of your business. The job is not a big deal anyway. If you don't want me to find you another one, suit yourself.”

My hands wad into fists, ready to hammer his face into a crumpled can. “Of course something like that seems trivial to you. A spoiled brat who thinks he can control the world.”

I didn't know why my words get to him. He moves so fast, until his face is only inches away from me, and instinctively, I retreat back a few feet. “You don't know shit about me.” He growls, his voice dead serious.

I anchor myself in my place, meeting his untamed eyes with contempt. “Please don't tell me you bought your Porsche from selling skimmed milk.” I say sardonically, before continuing. “Oh, are you a prostitute? I'm not judging you or anything. I'm a feminist and I believe you have the right-”

He cuts me off, burying his fingers in his hair and pulling at it in aggravation. “Just kill me, God. I can't deal with her anymore.”

“I'm surprised you believe in God. I thought you worshipped yourself.” I keep taunting him, inwardly roaring with laughter.

“I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” He curls both of his hands around my thin arms, slightly shaking me. “Now, leave.”

I can't help the smirk that takes over my face. “Not before you tell me why that guy is dangerous.”

He chuckles, letting go of me. “Good luck with that.” I part my mouth to come back, but what he does next mercilessly halts me. He looks down to study his coated shirt, a brassy lower contorting his countenance, before encroaching it up to reveal his taut, incised stomach. A gauzy shed of blue bedecks his mouthwateringly cleaved abs, and for some weird reason, it makes my heart gallop to a higher rate. He doesn't stop there. Huffing and puffing, he grips the hem, pulling the tee over his head. I think I stop breathing, being so close to him while he's half naked. It makes me want to touch him. He gives me his back, bending down to retrieve the painting palette from the ground, which has left a mark on the wooden floor. He mutters, “I don't know how I'm going to clean that.”

I don't even concentrate on what he says, my eyes are centralized on the small composed tattoo on his right shoulder blade. It's hard to pore over it when he keeps moving. He moves slightly up, discarding the palette on the table, and just before he fully straightens himself, I benignly situate a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. The physical contact sends an electrified shock to my hand, and I almost retract it. I feel possessed, unable to deny the urges I get when I'm around him. He concretes like a statue, not moving an inch, allowing me to look closely and scrutinise it.

‘Muffled melancholy, and deafening void, and no witness.’ It reads.

I unblinkingly stare at the words the way I reminisce about my memories. The pertinence between them is so overwhelming that I feel a lump materializing in my throat. I notice his back heaving up and tumbling down in fast, laborious breaths. He doesn't change his posture, his fingers clutching the ends of the table in an impermeable grip.

I can't help it when my fingers move on their own, skimming the letters like an ostrich feather. It's like I determine something, and my body misinterprets it, acting in an entirely opposing way, betraying me and whoever founded logic. I open my mouth to talk, and unintentionally, my voice comes out sensual and throaty. “It's beautiful. Makes me want to get one.”

He reacts so fast, flinching away and unbending, as if my words were a whip slashing across his back. He spins, and I find his eyes looking so heavy with darkness, the vein on his forehead twitching. “Believe me, there's nothing beautiful about me.”

My eyebrows furrow, unable to decipher the idea of him not seeing the resplendence that radiates off him. “There's always a light. Nothing is entirely blue.”

He laughs earnestly once, retreating back. “I told you that you're innocent, and I'm not into good girls, especially those who are meant to leave scars. My world is shattered enough.”

I know what he connotes with the last part. His dead girlfriend has damaged him enough, but it doesn't stop me from vocalizing what my stubborn side reckons. “Good thing I'm not one.”

He doesn't miss a beat. “You are. Don't think I don't see through you. It's all a facade to disguise what you really are.” He reasons. I open my mouth to say something, but he interrupts. “A glass of liquor won't make you bad, it makes you even easier lamb.”

I cross my arms, getting more irritated, but still thankful that he didn't mention the secret I blurted out the other day. “Oh? Why don't you enlighten me with your definition of “bad” then?”

His mouth spreads into a devilish smile, and for some reason, it sends a chill down my spine. “You'll have to see for yourself then. Wait here.”

A frown takes over my face as I watch him exit the room, and I decide to wait, looking around the room and taking closer looks at his work. I locate the canvas of the redhead, and seeing it peevishly gnaws at me. I don't know how much time goes by with me tarring here and him contriving God knows what, but then he comes into the room, dressed in a fitted cotton-jersey Henley that flaunts his muscles in the most luscious way, matched with dusty bleach jeans and Timberland boots.

My mouth waters at the sight of him, and in this moment, I can't seem to decide whether I want to keep staring at his beautiful figure, or make him do without all those clothes. I conclude that both options are just as inappropriate.

We depart his place in his car, and he never tells me where we're going. Truth be said, I don't trust him. Taking risks is nothing I should do with someone whom I don't confide in, but I find myself getting galvanized, avid to see another part of the absolute psycho I'm friends-ish with. He keeps driving in silence, dodging my questions, until he pulls the car into a stop in front of a massive house.

Three things I notice about the place.

The first thing is that the house is environed by cars and motor bikes of all types, cramming up the place. The second is the lights and music that blare out of the house. They're not bad, but I still wonder why the police is not here yet. The third, and the most curious, is the glint in Dylan's eyes. He looks at the place as if it was the last donut on the planet, and that glint makes me hanker for whatever it is that's inside.

“What is that place?” My voice comes out small and baffled.

His eyes flicker to me for a second, his mouth forming a smile, before they move back to stare at the place once more with an unreadable expression. “That, Candy, is heaven and hell consolidated in one place. ”

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*Sorry for the late-ish update. Had a few events going on. Anyways, hope you liked the chapter. Don't forget to vote and tell me your opinions ❤. All the love x*