Perfect Redemption

Nine: In Which He's The Man Of The Summer

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[ J A X ' S P O V ]

I don't see much of Blaire during the weekend.

After the whole fiasco with the paparazzi on Saturday morning, she bolted soon after she agreed to be my bodyguard. Baxton was relieved, of course, to know that I had someone who could look after me and handle the paparazzi for me while I'm here in LA for the summer. But fuck him.

I can't believe he would do such a thing. It's like he's purposely trying to find ways to torture me-first by forcing me to share the mansion with a girl and the next, assigning said girl to be my bodyguard.

I thought LA would be my sanctuary.

But now I realize it's actually my very own personal hell.

Guess it's fitting-seeing as how I'm the motherfucking devil.

I've been called that among other nasty names over the years and I'm used to it. Dickhead. Asshole. Bitch. Demon. Jackass. Fucktard. Lucifer. I like the last one the best. I not only get called those names from girls but guys too. The ones that I beat the shit up every weekend back at Boston just for the heck of it.

I not only do underground fighting. I literally take the fighting to people who may or may not deserve it.

What? I need to release all my pent up anger somewhere. And fighting is the only way I can do that. If I kept all the hate and anger to myself, I will blow my shit up.

So I do it. I walk alone in the streets sometimes, silently calling out for trouble. And when trouble does find me, I hit back. I pounce and strike like a lion-hitting, punching, swinging, kicking. I attack, showing little to mercy. If I'm feeling a little bit less devilish, I'll let them go after I'm done with them. But most of the time, I leave them unconscious.

I like doing this. Inflicting pain on other people. I crave that and the control that comes along with it-knowing the outcome of every situation before I even walk into a fight. I'm calculative, I'm mean and I'm smart.

I don't need to pick my battles.

I win all of them.

They call me Deadbeat for a reason. I have no soul and no heart. I'm cunning, fierce, and I'm merciless.

No mercy. No second chances. Take everything and give nothing.

It's what I've been taught since young. It's all I've ever known my whole life. It's the only way I know how to survive in this fucked up world.

If Blaire knows about the fucked up shit that I've done, I don't know what she'll think of me.

Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute.

Since when do I care about what she thought of me? I'm supposed to be hating her guts, especially after the stunt she pulled which landed the paparazzi straight to our front fucking door. She basically handed me my death on a silver platter.

And now she's going to be my bodyguard.

I laugh at just the mere thought of it. It's so stupid. I can't believe my dad would pull something off like this. He always liked games and especially liked playing them with me. A little part of me thinks that this is it. He's not stupid; he knows that setting Blaire up as my bodyguard is one of the most irrational decisions he has ever made. He knows I can protect myself better than she can protect me.

I mean... have you even seen me?

Not to brag but I have guns. Big guns. I can lift a guy up in one hand and throw him down to the ground. I can pound the shit out of a person without even breaking a sweat-and I mean that in both contexts. If the paparazzi wanted to get through me, they'll be met with my motherfucking fists first.