8. Weston

There are three apartments on the top floor of our building. I’m PH01. Sutton’s, which is now occupied by the newest pain in my ass, is PH03. The one in the middle, PH02, belongs to Jackson Yates.

And as much as Renee is already driving me batshit crazy in the short time we’ve known each other, one thing is still true: if you put me in a room with her, Jackson Yates, and the Devil himself, and handed me a gun with three bullets in it, I’d put the whole barrage in Jackson’s smug face.

After what he did to my family, the motherfucker has more than earned it.

So after a day full of shit at the arena and butting heads with Renee, it figures that he’s in the hallway when I step out of the elevator.

I can’t catch a fucking break.

Where to even begin? Jackson Yates is a pretty little rich boy who moonlights as a high fashion model when he isn’t busy snorting his daddy’s money up his nose. He’s the definition of a piece of shit.

There’s only one reason I don’t beat his ass bloody every time I see him: that very thing has happened before, so to avoid both of us getting kicked out of our very nice building where we’re both very comfortable, we came up with a truce.

It’s simple, really: as long as he doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t approach me or breathe my air, I won’t kill him.

“Yo, Wes, you met the new chick? Sutton’s friend?”

Goddammit. So much for the truce.

I roll my eyes. Of course he’s interested. He sees fresh meat and his dick turns into a heat-seeking missile.

I shoot him a look. We aren’t pals who are going to stand around talking about the new chick on the block, so I don’t know what he’s thinking trying to make conversation.

I ignore him as I punch the code into my door. But he struts over anyway, like we’re that kind of friendly. Of course, I fumble the damn code and the green light doesn’t come on. The door beeps shrilly three times.

“I think her name’s Rayne or Reilly, some shit like that. Hell of an ass on her.” He’s tiptoeing on the boundaries of our truce as he leans against the wall and looks at me coolly.

I spin around. “Listen, asshole: I don’t give a shit what you do or who you talk to. As of now, our deal stands. Stay away from me and my family and I won’t fuck up your pretty face. Got it?”

He’s not fazed, though. He must still be a little coked-up, because normally, he’d keep his distance, especially when I’m radiating violence like I am right now.

“This one looks nice and tight,” he remarks as if I hadn’t spoken. “Haven’t seen any dudes visiting, either. It’s open season.”

I clench my eyes closed. But as soon as I do, I realize that’s a bad idea. It’s a mess in there, in the darkness of my own thoughts. The last thought I need in my head is a mental image of this piece of shit banging Renee into his headboard.

So I rip my eyes back open and advance on Jackson. “Look, dickhead,” I snarl, “she’s too good for your little pencil dick.” I poke my finger into his chest, which sends him stumbling backwards. “Stay the hell away from her.”

He rights himself, straightens his shirt out, and laughs. “You claiming ownership?”

“No, I’m telling you to stay away from her.”

His pretty boy face twists into a pout. “She’s not family. She doesn’t count as part of the deal.”

“You can tell yourself that when I’m dangling you out the window by your ankles.” I sigh and let my fist come unfurled. “For humanity’s sake, I think the best thing would be for you to stay celibate.”

Jackson smirks. “Don’t make it such a big deal. It’s not like I’m gonna marry the slut. I don’t have to be her boyfriend to fuck her.”

This piece of shit.I can’t hear any more. I drop my bag, stalk toward him and curl my hands into the front of his shirt. My initial thought is to put my fist into his face. But I manage to keep myself calm enough to do the sensible thing: slam him into the wall, press my forearm into his throat, and squeeze the shit out of his face until he’s looking me in the eye.

She might be a stalker, but she’s my stalker.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, but I’ll make an exception this time for your benefit: you do not talk to her. You do not approach her. If I see you so much as glance at her, I’ll fuck you up so bad you’re going to need flashcards to remember your own name. You hear me?” He doesn’t answer so I rap his cheek lightly a couple times to regain his attention. The third one that follows is just for fun. “You hear me, you fuck?”

If he doesn’t answer soon, this wall is going to have a Jackson Yates-sized dent in it.

Finally, he nods. Well, nods as much as he can, though he can’t really do much because my arm is still shoved against his windpipe. Just a little pressure and I could cut off all the oxygen to his brain.

“I’ll leave her alone if she tells me she isn’t interested,” he croaks.

Disgusted, I drop him and back off. “Watch your step, Jackson. I mean what I’m saying.”

I punch my code in and kick my door open, then slam it shut behind me. Last thing I need is the bad press that would come from whooping his ass, even though no one deserves it more than he does.

It also occurs to me that I should probably warn Renee about Jackson. Should let her know that he’s a pretty face with a dumpster fire of a soul underneath it.

Or maybe I should just let her make her own bed and lay in it with that asshole, if that’s what she chooses.

But even as I think the thought, I know I can’t do that. He’s worse than a disease. Even she doesn’t deserve to be tainted by him.

I’ve issued my warning, though. That’s the extent of my dedication to her.

For now.