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"Uh, yeah," I struggle to get my words out as I gulp. His gaze was still concentrated on the floor. "Did you know banging your head on a wall for one hour burns one hundred and fifty calories? You should try it sometime."
His eyes flicker up to mine before back to the floor, "that didn't work. Now I just want to bang his head against a wall until his fucking brains are everywhere."
"Right," I say awkwardly, trying to find something else to say. "Did you know that the twenty ninth of May is officially Put a Pillow on Your Fridge Day?"
"I want to suffocate him with a pillow now," he growls at the thought and I frown. "I said distract me not make me think of more ways to kill him."
"Sorry," I sigh. "I shouldn't have made you angry."
His eyes look back up to me and he pushes himself off of the door and slowly strides over to me, placing a hand on my cheek so that I look up at him. His eyes were no longer dark and menacing like they were at the party. They were soft and full of so many mixed emotions.
"You didn't do anything," he reassured me, his other hand on my waist as his eyes bore into mine. "You're so fucking innocent in this and that's why I want to murder Tristan. He tried to make you smoke fucking weed. He tried to get you high. I don't want drugs to ruin you like they have for me."
His words, though laced in venom for Tristan, were sweet. Maybe it showed that he does care for me, and it meant more than he knew. It was progress in our confusing friendship.
"I wasn't going to do them," I reassure him and he nods, his hands burning into my skin and his eyebrows are furrowed as he looks down at me. "Is something wrong?"
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, "no, nothings wrong. I'm just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how I'm gonna kill Tristan," he mutters and I let out a sigh. Tristan was high, so he wasn't in the right state of mind and he probably didn't mean to peer pressure me.
"You don't need to kill him, he didn't mean any harm."
"I don't care—"
"Brad," I warn him and he rolls his eyes, his hand dropping from my cheek and I miss the feeling. "Don't kill him."
"You don't understand," Brad steps away from me, his hand brushing against my waist before he runs it through his hair stressfully. "He tried to make you do weed."
"You do weed," I counter. "So what if I did it, too? You're not my dad, you don't have the right tell me what to do."
"I'm just fucking looking out for you!"
"I don't need to be looked out for," I roll my eyes and he groans, running his hand through his hair again. "I'm not a baby."
"This is why I said take my mind off of him," Brad snaps. "Because now we're arguing over an idiot."
