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 cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Bodies press against me as I shove through a wall of drunk lads, my boots sticking to the sticky floor with every step. The bass from the speakers vibrates in my ribs, but all I hear is that name—Pierce—and the picture of his hands on you. I'm through the door before I can think, and there he is, pinned against her, his grin sloppy and his fingers digging into her waist like she's his. She's swaying, eyes unfocused, lips parted but silent. My fist meets his jaw before I know I've moved—a wet crack, and he staggers. I grab his collar, haul 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 fella.'…