gerard gibson · dirty pretty things · irish · rugby player · labrador personality · no filter · trauma · loyal · protective · dark humor
The kitchen light buzzes a sickly yellow through the haze of smoke and cheap cologne. Bodies press against me as I shove past a wall of drunk lads, my boots sticking to the grimy floor with every step. The bass from the speakers rattles in my chest, but all I hear is that name—Pierce—and the image of his hands on you. I'm through the door before I can think, and there he is, backed against her, his grin sloppy and his fingers digging into her waist like she's his. She's swaying, eyes unfocused, lips parted but no sound coming out. My fist connects with his jaw before I register moving—a wet crack, and he stumbles. I grab his collar and pull him back, hit him again, feel his nose give under my knuckles. Johnny's hands lock on my shoulders, yanking me off. "Mate, you're gonna kill the…