The Saint Jones [Completed]

chapter 59: Get Out!

This was definitely the worst dinner I have ever had. Everybody was mostly silent, except for the few little conversations Cher was trying to establish. She lost her creativity when she started talking about the weather outside.

I was eating so quick, I almost choked with my own food. I wanted one thing it was to get out of here before something bad got out of my mouth. But all these efforts was useless as I'm still here, sitting on this chair in front of a stranger who's presence is annoying me to death.

"Cher, don't you think we should clean up the table," the woman at my right says to Cher. Her name? Céline or something close to that.

I see Cher move her head before she gets up. I can feel her eyes one me but I refrain from looking at her, instead I keep looking at him, even if he has no idea. He looks at them for a moment as they take our plates away, nodding at them timidly, playing with his lower lip.

My stomach is almost hurting as if what I just ate wasn't compatible to my inside. I want to ask for another glass of water but my voice is practically stuck in the back of my throat, it doesn't want to get out.

"I'm happy to meet you," he says after a moment, I knew he was debating whether to talk or not.

"Same," I force the word out, my voice so low and monotone. Man, I just want to get out of here.

"You know... You can take this off?" My eyes lifts and falls on his face, he's directly looking at my sunglasses, with curiosity. He has moved forwards, hands on the table.

"What?"

"Your sunglasses."

Wrong move man.

The furry is raising up the back of my neck, making me extremely uncomfortable. I told Cher that I would not be uncomfortable but unfortunately, the contrary is happening. The side of my jaws are getting tighter, I feel like my nerves doesn't want to work properly anymore.

No one, no fucking one tells me if I can take off my sunglasses or not, not him anyway. It's my face, if I want to wear them, I wear them and if he doesn't like it, then he can gladly go away or look elsewhere. See, he's infuriating me so easily, it feels like he's a container of petrol and me a fire container, when the two meet, one must explode.

For the good ending of this dinner, I decide to go away from him, because his presence is doing things with my head.

"Excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom," I stand up and practically rush there.

"Okay, it's the one with–..."

But before he could continue, I turn the corner, not daring to look at Cher who's behind the bar, then I get in the bathroom, the first opened door. I lock it behind me and let my head rest against the door. I sigh deeply and take my sunglasses off, feeling slightly better.

Involuntarily, my head turns to my left, only to find a huge mirror there, above the counter. My eyes are getting red and freaking glossy. Slowly I move toward the counter, placing my palms on it. In and out I breath, trying my best to calm down.

I regret coming here, I knew nothing good would've happened. I already hate him and now, I detest him. What's the problem of others, thinking they can give orders as if it's natural? No one gives me orders, no one out of my job. And this stupid smile on his stupid face, if only I could tear it off.

Anger, my enemy. Getting angry means getting out of control, which also means being aggressive. The thing about my temper is that sometimes I can't control myself and regret my actions afterwards. But to spare me a battle of kick– boxing in this room, it's better if I get out of here completely.