Petty Rage by Thandiwe Mpofu

Chapter 7

NOAH

Past

ME: Tell me something that hurts but you still cherish.

Kimmy: Something that hurts?

ME:Yes.

Kimmy: One time when my mother wasn’t… out of her mind on drugs… she called me something.

ME: Butterfly?

Kimmy: How did you know?

ME: I pay attention to you & you also talk in your restless sleep.

Kimmy: You never sleep. I also pay attention to you.

ME:Do you miss it?

Kimmy:… yes.

Kimmy:Is that why you called me Butterfly?

Me:That. And the tattoo across your heart.

ME:And just so we’re fucking clear, I don’t call you that because of your mother.

Kimmy:Why then?

ME:Because I’m not your fucking mother. I’ll never take you for granted. When I call you that, just know I got you. I fucking see you and I need you to trust me.

Kimmy:… okay Blue Fairy. (Also, why Blue Fairy?)

ME:Why the fuck not?

Kimmy:I’m serious.

ME:I know you are. But you claim to be smart. Give it your best shot!

Kimmy: You grant wishes. I know that. But there’s more than that.

ME:What else?

Kimmy:Something that’s been right there but you’ve been hiding from everyone else.

ME: I’m an open book.But out of curiosity, what am I hiding?

Kimmy: If you can be blue, there’s a chance you’ll go black.

Kimmy:And something else I know. You’re already halfway down the road to irredeemable darkness.

Present

To be fucking clear, this isn’t usually how the morning after goes.

It’s still Hell Day but when the thing with Kim first started, the morning after was a bit bearable because all I could think of in the morning was her.

The way she squeezes my dick with her gorgeous, greedy tight pussy.

The way she looks into my eyes when I’m coming for her.

The way our darkness seems to merge in a way neither one of us understands but appreciates because it fucking alleviates the pressure in the chest for the rest of the day.

Not this time, apparently.

But then again, what else was I expecting when I told her we were never going to do that shit again, all because I couldn’t handle the power she has over me.

I take a piss and then because I’m already in there, I take a shower, my mind racing with what George just said.

That was a bit harsh, I know but I don’t care. I don’t think I care about anything else these days.

There was a time when my ex-best friend and I would have a shit load of fun every time we linked up. George was my guy.

We had the type of friendship where we fucked the same girl and called it a fucking day.

He was there when I got my first tattoo.

He was privy to some shit I did—like tracking down and fucking up every shithead that had something to say about Craig when he was still alive.

It was a pretty long list—consisting of jocks at Westbrook Blues High who thought they could just shove Craig in a locker and fucking lock him up in there for hours.

Douchebags who thought they could whisper shit about my brother when he passed through the school halls or spray paint the word faggot on his locker.

I went after them. George knew. But only Kim knows just how brutal I was when I got my hands on them—thanks to her unwanted stalking.

Case in point, he was my brother and he stabbed me in the back. Then after all that turmoil, he shows up, fully alive with a baby in tow, whose mother was one of Astraea’s bullies and Kim’s twisted stepsister’s best friend.

In this case, I know better than to think Emmett will just drop it like that. He’s probably regrouping, calculating and strategizing just so when he attacks me later when I go back to the large as fuck living room, I find him still there, obviously waiting for me.

“That was harsh,” he says, looking like the Godfather in that fucking chair, legs crossed with a hooded gaze to go.

“He’ll get over it.”

“He’s still one of us.”

“Is he?” I snap. “See, I remember what you said in that club last night. You said I’m the one who has no regard for my wellbeing, but then, I never faked my own death and put everyone who I love in a tailspin, did I?”

“Didn’t you also say I don’t have enough guaranteed heartbeats in this fucking chest to be lying?” the god says, his voice soft, smooth, betraying nothing.

“Did I lie?” I rub my forehead, feeling the onset of a new headache as the room spins around me for a second. How much did I fucking drink?

“No, but if we’re talking about being careless with one’s life, should we talk about the way you’ve been on a marathon to drink your own body weight, getting high on those joints you keep in every corner of this penthouse? Because if you’ve decided that’s the only acceptable way that you’re going to commit suicide, then I’ll draft a letter and send it to my father right now and tell that fucker that he doesn’t have to worry about one suicidal jerk and then I’ll put your fucking signature on it!”

He says that so calmly, too calmly in fact you’d think he’s actually unbothered by all this, but I know better.

This entire thing about his father and what the man did, I can see it’s been weighing on him. To be honest, it’s been like that for years, wondering what happened to his mother and now this.

No one knows the weight of dealing with the sins of the father than the Blue fucking Boys.

“I’m not going to off myself,” I bite out.

“I’d like to think so but then again, it’s the anniversary of Craig’s death today. You wouldn’t want to be that kind of asshole.”

“When I told you to not fucking talk about this shit last night, I meant shut your trap about it forever, but here you are, bringing it up again. It makes me think you don’t give a damn about how I feel.”

“The only person that doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings is you, Noah,” he says coldly. “You know that we’re all a target! You know that things always go south when we’re not united and keep shit from each other, and yet, you give George the cold shoulder but still call him while you were drunk and high. He picked you up, carried your sorry ass all the way up here—”

“There’s an elevator.”

“—and you don’t even give him the time of day,” he finishes, like I never uttered a word. “I get that you’re an angry, hateful bastard these days but for fuck’s sake, pick a fucking struggle and run with it, will you!”

“I did pick a fucking struggle, Emmett. It’s called living with you!”

“Then fuck off and live elsewhere.”

“Like hell I’ll leave you alone!”

Silence.

We stare at each other, no one says a word. We’re stubborn as fuck, that’s a given but everyone fucking knows I’d do anything for my best friends. My brothers. My boys. And that includes sticking together even you’d rather not speak, or be in the same room, for years.

It can also be called abandonment issues, but no one asked for that diagnosis, so fuck it.

“If you’re just here because of my heart—"

“I am here for you, jerk!” I snap, cutting him off. I know he doesn’t like talking about his heart condition and I won’t ever force him to. I’ll do my part and always be there for him, drunk or halfway sober. “Now shut up and tell me where the coffee is.”

“Where it always is.”

“Where?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” The brute god gets up and heads to the coffee machine all annoyed and shit and I smirk, making my way to the couch by the window. “Fuck, you played me.”

“I like how you make my coffee.”

“There’s no butler service here. If you want someone to make your damn coffee, go to any one of your mansions.”

“Uh, hell fucking no! I’m not going back to Westbrook Blues.”

Silence.

Shit.

“I wasn’t thinking of the Blues. That’s all you.”

“Yeah, well, I knew you were alluding to it.”

“No. You have mansions with butlers all over this freaking planet. I meant you could go to any one of those, but you went straight to Westbrook Blues, Blue Fairy.”

Fuck. That was an easy bait. “I guess that’s where your mind and your fucking shirt is.”

“My shirt?”

“George found you without one, singing to the trees.”

“I was high.”

“And broken.”

Well then.

“About George…”

“I’m staying the fuck away from him.”

“And yet still you called him when you needed help? Make it make sense.”

He does have a point, but I’m just not ready for that. Maybe I never will be.

“You know, it’s cute that you talk about feelings and being united when just a few months ago, you and King were keeping shit from me.” I walk over to the kitchen. “So don’t talk to me about that shit!”

“We apologized at the cabin. It’s you that won’t forgive or forget for that matter.”

Silence.

Emmett and I don’t usually fight or blow up at each other at all. This is a huge penthouse with three fucking levels.

He has his floor, I have mine, and this is the common floor. We never get in each other’s way. Usually because he’s almost always in his studio, music filtering through the door, fighting demons that only he sees while I’m drowning in quicksand that everyone can see.

“I’m not ready to deal with all this, okay,” I admit, looking out at the bustling busy city below. “Just let me get through this day as best as I can without bending all out of shape.”

“Speaking of bending out of shape, how was Kimberly? Did she fucking burn your ass?”

Everything in me lights up, tightening at the mention of the she-devil’s name.

“Seriously?” I snap, opening my eyes fully to look at him.

“After what you did last night? You deserve it,” he says, opening and closing cabinets fucking loudly. “I swear the two of you… you’re something else.”

He’s not wrong.

No one can say we don’t know how to hurt each other because we do.

But somehow, I feel like shit after last night, haunted by the look in her eyes the moment I said sex dolls don’t lie.

I’m pretty fucking sure it triggered something in her and I know it’s connected with the crisscrossing scars that cover her back.

I groan as an acute searing pain slithers across my chest all over again. What happened to you, Butterfly, and why the fuck can’t I get you out of my damn head when you don’t deserve to be a thought?

“Forget your brew. Pass me my fucking Jack.”

I can feel his withering gaze on me, but I don’t move from where I lie on the couch, feeling like I might just throw up.

“There’s no alcohol in this house.”

My eyes fly open.

“Excuse me?”

“I swept this place from top to fucking bottom and got rid of your stash. I can’t believe you have a flask in all your fucking suit jackets.”

“Emergency stash. Besides, who gives a damn about my suits? I hardly wear that shit.”

“Yeah well, that’s about to change,” the asshole says, the tone of his voice making me look at him. I can feel the impending bomb about to drop, but I hold my tongue, watching him.

“Why?”

Living with Emmett is both a fucking blessing and a curse all wrapped in one huge jerk, just like his personality.

The god-like asshole is like a coin with two sides, and from day to day, you never know which side you’re going to get.

It seems today he woke up and chose violence with a dash of suspense. I’m not a fan.

“What’s going on, Emmett?”

“You’re going to get sober.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Yes, you are, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Kim also does.”

I look away.

“I don’t give a damn what she has to say about me.”

“Of course, you don’t,” he mutters, moving around the large kitchen. “That’s why you just tore apart that fluffy throw pillow your mother bought us.”

Stunned, I look down only to see the feathers all over my lap and the couch. When did I even grab the damn pillow?

“That violence in you…” he trails off. “But then again, you are never this calm and you slept last night.”

“I was drunk.”

“Even when you’re drunk, you don’t sleep for more than an hour. She really worked you over, didn’t she?”

“Shut up!”

“You not only saw her, you spent time with her, didn’t you?”

“Emmett—”

“Would you look at that! You two fucked, didn’t you?”

And there it is.

“It’s none of your business,” I snap but inside, I’m somehow… calm.

Because fuck me, how could I stay away from her when she’s the only one who knows exactly what kind of cesspool of trouble I’ve been drowning in?

Today is the worst day of my fucking life.

The images that were all too real, the memories that chase me every day, the date on the calendar, everything just comes rushing to the forefront of my fucking mind and I know, no one understands the clawing in my chest or the fucking depths of agony in me like she does.

So, I went to her. Now it’s over.

“Damn, dude,” Emmett whistles.

“Shut up.” But the words feel like they’ve been doused in some freaking bath salts and bath foam, a softness that I haven’t felt in a while.

“Holy shit! Not even hellfire to those words! Where the fuck is my damn phone? I need to text Astraea.”

“I hope you fucking lost it or dropped it in the fucking toilet.”

Emmett’s one weird being that never has his phone on him at all.

He’s not on social media, something I couldn’t handle before, but now, I’m grateful for that since Kim Possible wiped her own existence off there six months ago. There’s no point anymore.

“Nah, it’s somewhere.”

“Why the fuck are you in my fucking face today? Don’t you have an empire to run? Or school to get to or something else that keeps you firmly out of my business as per your usual self-absorbed attitude?” I grit out, snatching the mug from his hand. “Now look, my coffee’s gone cold.”

“It was already cold.”

Of course it was.

“Here’s something no one ever tells you, Emmett. Not everyone is like you! We can’t all survive in the fucking cold.”

“Are you this mad at my coffee making skills or are you pissed at yourself?” Emmett questions almost gleefully. “You know, sticking it in your pants will save your life one day.”

Isn’t that the gospel truth?

If I’d just stuck to my usual den of sin spots, and let the useless shit do what it always does, which is to keep me numb and out of touch with the unmentionables, I’d never have given in to go see her last night.

But here’s the thing. I’d wanted to go to her from the moment I woke up this week.

Angrily, I get up from the couch Mom bought us the day we moved in and make my way to our state-of-the-fucking-art kitchen that she designed to fix myself a better cup of coffee, since this gloating god of a roommate can’t do the bare minimum of keeping the damn coffee hot as it’s supposed to be when one is hungover and smelling like sex and cheap perfume.

I’m doing my best to try and hold on to an elusive high that I got last night, even after Kim Possible slapped me across the face.

I rub my jaw, thinking back to last night.

That fiery spitfire rode me long and hard like she didn’t want me to go.

In a game of tug of war, no one can best me but her and I like playing games, but only with worthy opponents.

The thing is, she’s more than worthy, but wholly unworthy and so undeserving at the same time.

I swear, that girl knows how to fucking hold my cock in her tight pussy, and milk me to kingdom come with a scandalous look on her beautiful face that somehow broke me last night as I looked into her eyes.

The way her tits bounced, the way she ground on me, the way she hated me in the end, her eyes liquid and molten with unshed tears, gleaming with lust intermingled with unspeakable horror that I felt stirring in me.

A small smile graces my fucking face, but I’m only aware of it when I hear Emmett’s sardonic chuckle.

“Shit. Astraea was right. You’re a fucking goner for that girl, man.”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell her a thing!” I state, pointing at him with a spoon. “I mean it, Emmett!”

“You know she’ll find out eventually.”

That might be true, but not from Kim Possible, that’s for damn sure.

I have no desire to divulge that shit anyway because it doesn’t matter. It never did, I just never realized it.

But still, I can just about taste her sweetness on my tongue still.

“Fuck,” I whisper. “Kimmy.”

Her name falls from my lips like a litany. A litany that sparks an unexpected and strange inferno of indescribable hate and longing in me.

Most days, I’m successful in taming (and masking from prying eyes, i.e. Emmett) my thoughts and fucking emotions about her.

But on Hell Days, the anniversary of the most tragic, haunting thing that fucked my life up so royally and so thoroughly leaving a wide, gaping hole in my soul, I not only can’t stop thinking of her, I… hunted her down like prey.

Sexy, beautiful, heartbreaking, deceptive prey.

Kimmy.

No, she doesn’t affect me like that. She can’t. That steamy, hectic and apparently, deceptive chapter that I thought would last, is now done and closed. Forever.

We made that abundantly clear last night.

“Damn,” Emmett whistles. “You’re done for that girl.”

“There’s nothing between her and me.”

“Sure.”

“You’re fucking crude today! And for your own information, asshole, I get my pipes cleaned almost every single day on this miserable earth.”

“No, you don’t,” he simply says, watching me still.

How does he know that?

“What the fuck is going on, Emmett? I won’t ask you again.”

“I told you. No more alcohol of any kind.”

That’s where I fucking draw the line!

“As far as I know, between the two of us, I’m the one who’s healthy. I don’t think that’s something you can say now, can you?” I grit out.

I feel Emmett’s brooding, angry silence before I even make another move. That snide remark really hit close to home, and now I feel bad about saying that.

Emmett’s health issue is not something I take lightly. If anything, it’s freaking me the fuck out right now and I don’t know how to deal with it.

The asshole’s more than my best friend, he’s my brother and I fucking don’t know how long I have with him, so, I’m going to stay with him for as long as that stuttering heart staggers on.

“Sorry.”

“Why?” he mutters. “You obviously meant it.”

Did I? Or is King right? Am I scaling new levels of assholery that have never been reached before? Lashing out at people who I care about because deep down, I hate myself?

“I didn’t mean that specifically,” I mumble.

Silence.

“Well, it’s true either way,” Emmett says. I watch him intently.

He looks like a Roman god of war or something. He might be rubbish at cooking but he knows how to brew a fucking cup of better than anyone.

“The extra big mug, please and thank you.”

“Again. Not your butler service.”

There’s a static silence in the room. I know Emmett wants to tell me something but he’s beating about the fucking bush.

I open my eyes only to see Emmett peering down at me with an analyzing, unnerving gaze that see everything. There’s no such thing as privacy when it comes to this guy.

“Are you ready to tell me the shit you’ve been trying to tell me?”

“Drink this.”

He passes me the extra-large mug of coffee, engraved with the words ‘To my Blue Fairy. I love you. Baby Blue.’

It was a gift from Astraea that I cherished. Hell, everything from her I cherish; but then there’s her friend… everything from her, I hate and have this urge to smite away.

“Anyway, while you were playing with fire, I know you can’t control, you received a phone call.”

The mood in the penthouse shifts in an instant.

I feel my shoulders tense up as a shiver races up and down my spine. I already know who called before Emmett even says his name.

“Dave called,” Emmett mutters, watching me silently.

I school my facial features as best as I can, feeling the bruise Kim Possible inflicted on my gorgeous face burning just a little, reminding me that she’ll always find a way to fuck me up no matter what.

“So?”

“So, aren’t you going to ask what he said?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Well, I knew you’d say that but this time, man, you need to listen to the message,” he says with a low, serious tone that makes another round of shivers race down my back.

Well damn. Emmett knows better than to even mention Dave fucking Montreal so if he’s braving the elements now like he is, then something is wrong.

“Is that why you were waiting for me to wake up?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t even deny it.

I stir my coffee, distinctly aware that I stirred it twice already. My muscles are locked with tension, anger coursing through my veins.

A day after the anniversary of Craig’s death…

“When did he call?”

“After midnight.”

Of course. He was waiting for this day, as if he even knows or remembers what day this is.

“Is my mom—”

“You need to listen to the message, Noah.”

I don’t want to hear his fucking voice. And the fact that the bastard’s been looking for me for the past two years… it’s fucked up and I want no part of it.

Emmett stands—I hadn’t even noticed that he was sitting with his iPad, probably reading the New York Times Journal, another Emmett Easton usual.

“I was going to fly out to New York to meet with King about that project, but just say the word and I’ll stay.”

Fuck.

Him saying that means only one thing. There’s trouble in the air.

“I’m not going to Westbrook Blues,” I grit out, staring daggers at one of my best friends.

He holds my gaze, unflinchingly.

Then, with an ominous effect that falls over the room in an instant, darkening my mood even further as alarms start blaring at the back of my fucking head, he gestures at our home phone, then back at me.

“This time, I think you will want to go back.”

And with that, he turns and leaves the penthouse, the door closing with a soft click that precedes the hailstorm that’s about to hit.

Just then, my phone vibrates with a text. I guess Emmett or George plugged it in to charge. Again, treating me like a fucking child. But when I read the text, my blood runs cold.

BEST FRIEND/MOTHER: Noah, you’re not answering your phone but, baby boy, come home right now, if you can. There’s a letter here for you. It says it’s from Craig.

WHAT THE FUCK?