Breaking Brooklyn

Chapter Twenty

Josephine

"Have you ever heard of a front door?" I hiss, hiking my thumb behind me.

"I did knock on the door," Arthur argues, his expression a mix between salacious and smug. He glances at Brooklyn, noticing his damp fatigues. "It seems you were too distracted to hear."

Brooklyn lowers his weapon, but doesn't holster it. In fact, the pistol is now aimed at Arthur's groin, though the football star isn't bothered. Arthur crosses his arms over his Off-White hoodie, returning his attention to me. 

"I wanted to check on you," he explains. "I read about your car crash, and I was concerned."

"That was weeks ago," I point out.

"Yes," Arthur agrees. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for longer than that. You aren't answering my calls, and you've blocked me on all socials."

"I don't care enough to block you on anything," I scoff, rolling my eyes.

My gaze lands on Brooklyn. A minuscule tremor crosses his features—just a slight twitch of his eye, and a hitch to his lips—which leads me to believe he had a hand in restricting my contact. If Arthur hasn't been able to reach me since before the bridge incident, that means Brooklyn didn't block him out of jealousy. He did it because...

"How did you know Arthur leaked the sex tape?" I ask.

Brooklyn doesn't take his eyes off Arthur, but a muscle in his jaw feathers, indicating he's heard me. "I didn't know."

"Fourth of July," I assume, putting the pieces together. "The first night you guarded me, you installed a tracking app on my phone. You also blocked Arthur."

"He seemed toxic." Brooklyn shrugs, unashamed. "I was right."

Arthur turns to him, bearing his teeth in anger. "You're the one with a fuckin' gun."

"Ah, well," Brooklyn muses, tapping the grip of his pistol. "You're in America, mate. We're fond of our weapons. And in case you aren't aware, there's an interesting bit of state legislature that gives us the freedom to shoot home invaders."

Arthur's brows skyrocket. "I'm not invading anything!"

"You broke into your ex-girlfriend's apartment at zero one hundred hours. That's reasonable cause, Mister King," Brooklyn growls, raising the barrel once more. He notches his chin at Arthur. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall."

Arthur raises his arms in the air, defensive. "I just wanted to talk to her, you bloody psychop—"

"Turn around and put your fucking hands on the wall."

Brooklyn's face is frighteningly blank, but his eyes tell a different story. I don't know how I originally thought his gaze was cold, and dead. His blue-green irises are like shards of ice, swirling with fiery absinthe. Brooklyn paces toward Arthur—arms locked, gun centered on his target. Arthur pales, and spins, planting his hands on the rear wall of my bedroom.

Brooklyn shuts the window to the fire escape, and resets the alarm. I stand in the middle of the suite, shifting from foot to foot as Brooklyn gives Arthur a thorough pat down. His movements are quick and efficient, as if he's done this a thousand times. He keeps the barrel pressed to the base of Arthur's spine. His process is methodical, but he remains hyperaware. If Arthur so much as flinches or changes his breathing, Brooklyn clocks the inconsistency. His gaze flicks to Arthur's wrist or hip, like he's expecting him to attempt disarming. 

Brooklyn removes various items from the pockets of Arthur's jeans—a cell phone, a wallet, and a pack of condoms. At the sight of the condoms, I roll my eyes. Brooklyn paces backward, reclaiming his offensive position.