Running Game(166)

There was nothing out of place.

No signs of a struggle.

Except…

My heart sank as soon as I spotted the letter on the bed. Scrawled in girlish handwriting, I first spotted her signature at the bottom as I snatched it up under the light.

Trent,

I’ve enjoyed our time together. I really have. But it’s time for me to let you be who you need to be. We both know this wasn’t going to last… Please don’t hate me. And don’t look for me. You won’t find me.

Angel

My hand clenched, but I restrained myself from shredding the letter apart in the instant.

And there, on the pillow?

The tablet I had bought her while we had been on the bus. It was just sitting there, as if it weren’t hers. She’d left it because she’d honestly thought it didn’t really belong to her.

Fury built up inside.

Boiling, pulsating anger.

No, I snarled to myself.

You don’t get to do this to me.

Irrationally, my mind boiling with pain and regret, I felt like I had just been stabbed – right in the fucking heart. The knife twisted again and again as the letter fell to the bed from my lifeless fingers, and I fought the whipping storm of emotion that was threatening to tear me apart.

No, I repeated to myself with rising hostility.

This isn’t happening.

This CAN’T be happening.

But something didn’t add up.

Through the hatred and the anger, a small spark of rationality spoke through. Like a calming knife through the bubbling, snarling flesh of my fury, it cut through the bullshit and whispered something into my ear.

She wouldn’t do this.

I paused, letting the thought continue on. It was calming, soothing, but most of all…it sounded like it was making sense.

This isn’t Angel.

Not without interference.

Not without the right push.

Something had happened…and I was going to find out exactly what. But I didn’t have to think long or hard before a single name popped into my head.

Steven.

He’d hated her from the start.

What was the word he’d used?

Liability.

I picked up the phone, forcing a friendly smile across my face. It was one of the hardest things I’d had to do.

“Steven! Are you around?”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something. Where are you?”

“I’m just picking up my car,” I lied. “I should be home in about forty-five minutes. Think you can meet me there?”

“Now’s not a good time, man.”

He sounded apprehensive.

Which told me I was right.

“It’s important. I think you’re right about Angel – she’s a liability. Time I cut her loose. But you, being my PR guy and all…mind backing me up?”

“What? R-really? But she’s…I mean, uh…”

“Steven, stop fucking babbling. She put herself up in a hotel and she’s on her way to my place. Can you come straight over?”

“I’m not so sure this is a good time…”

“C’mon, Steven. You and I, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Help me out here and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“…Alright. Half an hour?”

“Sounds good to me.”

About thirty minutes later, there was a knock at my door. Through the peephole, I could see the lanky, condescending fucker.

“Door’s open!” I called out, muffling my voice and taking a step out of the way.

The door popped open.

A moment later, Steven walked in.

“H-hello? Angel? Trent?”

I stepped forward from behind the door, slamming it shut. He barely had time to turn before I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and slammed him up into the wall, knocking a large photo frame down and shattering the glass.

“Trent – buddy – what the fuck are you–?”

Roaring with anger, I threw him across the room. He hit the ground hard, trying to scramble to his feet as I rushed towards him.

“Back the fuck off–” he started.

I landed a solid punch against his cheek, sending him sprawling into my sectional couch. As he struggled to climb back up, I jumped on him, landing a knee in his chest and knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Oof!” he cried painfully.

As I started to hit him repeatedly, Steven tried to dislodge me – first by force, then by throwing weak punches, and finally by attempting to scratch me.

I finally climbed off of him, and he lunged forwards. But instead of reaching me, he slipped, hitting his head on my coffee table.

With my anger barely controlled, I pulled his sniffling, shaken form up from the ground. Half-expecting him to be whimpering, he was instead snarling – broken but angry.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he growled.

I held him by the shoulders, my enraged eyes matching his gaze with enough strength to apparently surprise him.