Peaches

Thirteen

M A T U R E A U D I E N C E S O N L Y!
18+

I was patient, waiting for things to calm down before I left Honeys. The last thing I need now is to make the situation worse by getting involved. Hell, I nearly waited an entire hour after Vic returned from the fight.

From what I had heard, one of the guys had been taken to the ER by ambulance, and the other one had fled the scene when he saw the cops pull into the lot. They say he jumped in his truck and sped off.

Chris.

It was the talk of the night, every girl there acted so surprised. Asking me questions like, 'Was he a regular?' And 'I heard he got a dance from you, what was he like?' And so on.

I brushed their comments and questions off, making sure to play it off like I knew nothing. They were all airheads, just looking for some excitement- they had no idea of the gravity in the situation.

What I've done.

-

He sat on the front porch, wrapping his swollen hands in gauze. Focused on the task before him, he didn't take a moment to look at me as I crept up the driveway. The closer and closer I got, the worse I felt. Looking at his stoic expression, splattered with blood.

Zach's blood.

I stood beside him, staring down at him with questions flooding from my timid expression. "Hey," was all I could make out. Seeing him like this was horrible, betrayed, and defeated. Something told me there was no going back from this.

"What do you want?" He looked up at me, speaking with an eerily calm voice.

"Are you okay?" I inched closer.

"I'm fine." He bit off the string of tape holding down the gauze wrapping over his knuckles.

"I heard Zach was taken-"

"I probably just gave him a concussion." He shrugged, standing up and striding into the house.

"Chris," I followed after him, kicking my heels off at the door. "Can we please just-"

"Peach, I just don't want to talk to you. I'm trying to calm down, okay?" He lifted his guitar from the couch and sat down, twisting the knobs at the top to tune it.

"Can I just," I stepped over to him, my hand hovering over his shoulder before dropping back down to my side. "Would you let me at least mend you up a little?"

He positioned his fingers along the neck of his guitar, softly plucking out a series of chords. It was clear he was avoiding me, ignoring my pressing questions, yet he allowed me to stand beside him and listen to him play.

"Are you hungry?" My voice nearly coming out a whisper, eyeing the goosebumps that rippled up the back of his neck as I spoke. He was feeling an immense amount of pain, mentally and physically, and his music was reflecting that. I needed to comfort him, to apologize and take this pain away. I had so much to say to him, but he was too far from me. Too deep in the muddy depths of his anger.

His bandaged fingers slipped off the strings, disrupting the smooth flow of his music. In a heated fit of frustration, he threw his guitar off of his lap, watching it crash against the far wall. "You need to go." He bit out, hiding the pain in his voice.

"Christian," I started to speak before he jumped off the couch and spun to face me.

"Go." His tall figure towered above me, huffing out grunts of ferocity. His brow furrowed into an unforgiving glare, lips tightened in a thin line, and eyes so dark they were nearly black. "Just fucking go before I-"