Leather And Lace

1

2016

"Fuck-" I hiss through my teeth, my jaw clenched as the feeling shoots through my body.

"Quit being a pussy and continue." The low voice groans, annoyance radiating off his tone. It's not the first time I'm doing something like this. To be quite honest, I've done this multiple times before. And I've always enjoyed doing it for whatever sick reason.

My eyes shot up from the guy's bloody face. He was barely recognizable anymore. My hand stopped mid-swing because of the sharp pain I felt in my right hand. It caused me to drop the hold I had on the boy's shirt, his weak body falling back against the concrete underneath us.

I brought my left hand to the right one, grabbing my wrist tightly to relieve some of the pain. I even tried shaking it off but it only made it worse and intensified the pain that came from my knuckles and slowly traveled up to my wrist and forearm.

The guy I was straddling and giving a face makeover to groaned once I stopped punching but now I was looking at the guy who was standing close to us, his head turned the opposite way to act as some sort of guard and watch out for passersby.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to do this in the back of a Tesco parking lot.

"I think my hand broke." I speak up finally, my throat feeling dry from not having spoken for the past few minutes. I honestly don't know how long we've been here. All I know is that my aching fist is covered in crimson and that I'm certain the H S initials are stamped onto the guy's jaw.

"Can you not even throw a punch correctly?" He grumbles again, this time taking a look back at the beaten-up guy underneath me, ignoring my eyes and turning back to watch the road. "Alright, I think he's gotten enough. Here-" he says as he takes out a handkerchief from his pocket, tossing it on the ground next to me without looking "clean your hand and let's get going."

I release the hold I had on my right hand, reaching to pick up the white fabric with fancy details embroidered around the rim, and carefully wiping my broken hand into it. The crimson paint quickly stained the white fabric, leaving my hand looking cleaner than it was just a second ago.

Poor nan, she's probably screaming in her grave, seeing me ruin her work of art with something such as blood.

Once my hand was clean enough, I balled the cloth up into my hand, getting up from the ground and shoving my hands into my pockets. The chilly November air brushed against my flushed cheeks, raising goosebumps across my skin. I probably should've worn a warmer jacket.

The curly-headed one next to me turned around, taking a short glance at the beaten man on the ground who was now struggling to move. His movements were followed by low and weak groans of struggle.

"Hope ya learned your lesson now, Cameron." He says with a serious yet mocking tone, shoving his own hands into his pockets and carelessly walking away.

Without saying a word I took one last glance at the guy on the ground and followed him with long strides to catch up.

Now you may wonder why this was necessary, or what lesson the curly one's talking about.

I'll get there eventually, don't worry.

But right now, we're in big trouble. Life-threatening even.