Uninhibited

Hold you together

**
"Fight club says what? Oh shoot, I forgot, we don't talk about fight club. But did you guys see me invert that dip fuck's testicles?" Court twirls around, humming with post-battle adrenaline.

The muscle of the establishment had speedily ushered our group outside into the wintry evening. They didn't take a side, especially after Chaz assured he'd cover any damages, but they needed to keep the drinks flowing and their customers satisfied. Without additional live entertainment.

At the start of our disorganized rumble, Court had supplied a violent strike with the tip of her boot, making mincemeat of Jonathan's family jewels. That resulted in him doubling over, more worried about protecting his package than shielding himself from Trey's oncoming fist. The same fist that plowed into his skull with startling force, facilitating the need for a septum realignment.

I'd ignored the further names Jonathan called me in a last-ditch effort to save himself. Any of his threats and words became empty and senseless. Trey swiped his reddened knuckles along his unscathed jaw, then he stared at me with the most indecipherable stare I've ever received—bar none. Not a single version of the Trey's I've come to know, adore, love, and lust, held my anxious gaze. As if I'd awoken something in him. And not something good.

My initial instinct was to bum-rush Jonathan and add to the sloppy street-fighting moves Court attempted to duplicate. But that plan of thinking, that sweltering need for revenge, meant nothing to me when I saw Trey's face; when I watched as he escorted himself out the door in a shoulder-checking huff.

Chaz had refused to gang up on a guy who was begging and sniveling like a petulant weenie. Classy, right? Is there some unspoken rule that Trey should be the one to avenge me? Not sure how it works.

Court? She wasn't above it. I'm doubtful Chaz would've been able to get a hit in, even without the moral compass he was sporting. She went ballistic. Does being a mother make you lose your actual shit? He had to peel the five-foot spitfire off fucknuts cowering body while she spewed inventive, and... strange insults, thrashing around like a rabid animal. Or perhaps just a fierce friend.

As the bar management had swarmed, Jonathan claimed assault, receiving no sympathy from his fiancé—or ex? I'm gonna predict she's not in it for the long haul, since she wiggled the ring from her finger and binged it at him. He complained about how much it cost while scouring the floor amongst the feet of partially interested onlookers.

Chaz ensured him, and me, that there'd be serious consequences for his actions. He then added—after he one-armed a flailing Court by the waist and secured his other arm around me—that if Jonathan ever glanced my way, or uttered my name, he would twist his balls until they tore from his body and shove one up his nostril and the other down his throat until he choked to death.

I'd watch.

Anyway, violence isn't always the answer, even if it feels cathartic. Even if I'm convinced a bitch slap would've sparked a tiny flint of redemption in my chest. Weirdly enough, I felt sorry for Jonathan, crawling along the floor, not a soul in his corner.