Title: Switchblade Heart
Warnings: Language, smut, Grimmjow.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Authorial Notice:
I don't know what I'm doing anymore. It's been so long since I've written anythinnnnng, but this story wouldn't leave me alone.
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There's a loaded gun pointed at his head, and Ichigo is trying hard not to be irritated about it.
The brief idea that he should be more concerned comes and goes, but after everything, honestly, the novelty is wearing off. But more than that, he's starting to get a handle on how Grimmjow ticks.
Grimmjow isn't going to kill him. He doesn't consider Ichigo enough of a threat for that. Even after Ichigo's escaped more times than anyone is still counting, beat the ever-living hell out of Grimmjow's men—how many times now?— and just been a general nuisance in the man's life, Grimmjow still thinks of him as a toy. Something to play with until he's bored again.
Sometimes, Ichigo hates the bastard. Sometimes, he thinks he could kill him, no problem.
But then, there's times like now, when Ichigo isn't sure he was ever even alive before meeting this man.
That piercing blue gaze scrapes down him and he nearly shivers, knows Grimmjow's thinking of throwing him on one of the poorly cleaned tables and making him beg in ways that have nothing to do with embedding a bullet into his brain.
He could play into that, he's sure, but instead Ichigo sighs like he's uninterested or like he just doesn't care that there's a thick and persuasive Beretta M9 pressed into his forehead hard enough to leave a mark.
"Hurry up already, asshole. My knees are getting sore."
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Five weeks ago.
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To him, it happened in slow motion.
As unexpected as the lead taking a bullet in an action flick. It caught his chest. Dead center. Then sticky, red liquid was seeping through his shirt in an expanding, imperfect stain.
His eyes flicked up to the faces of the friends surrounding him in a circle.
Shock engraved every detail into his brain.
Renji's jaw hung open at a comic angle.
Ishida's eyes widened, glasses sliding down his nose.
Keigo giggled.
Inoue's hand covered her mouth.
Chad blinked.
Rukia rolled her eyes.
"Fool. Why were you standing in the way of my arm?"
He gaped at her. It took a long second to form words around his indignant outrage. "What the hell, Rukia?"
Ichigo mopped at the drink seeping into his favorite henley with his hands, gathering icy slush and dumping it onto the table. It smelled like some tropical fruit mix he couldn't place and holy shit, it was cold.
With a huff, he angled her a fixed glare. "I'm sitting in the same place I've been sitting all night. Look at where you're slinging your arms next time. What the fuck were you even doing?"
She shrugged and he blew out a breath.
There was no reason to yell. The little disaster was too tipsy to realize she'd just flung most of her drink over him.
And he'd liked this shirt.
He clicked his tongue, scowling as he stood. His friends made up a huge, well-loved, chunk of his life, but sometimes he needed a break.
"I'm going to clean up."
Ignoring the protests that followed behind him, he did his best not to glower over his shoulder as he picked a path through the edge of the dance floor.
Do I look like I'm having a good time? Give it a rest already.
He had no idea why he couldn't just relax. He'd tried to smile, tried to laugh. But all he could think was that maybe if he ran now, he could save himself the embarrassment of being asked to leave when their little gathering got out of hand.
What a headache.
Four hours earlier, when Renji was doing his best to sell Ichigo on this all-encompassing tribulation of a birthday party, Ichigo's first response had been hell-fucking-no. Not after the last time. Not after any time they'd all gone out together. But with the hour of needling, followed by all of his closest friends showing up anyway, it was either agree or let his sensibly sized apartment be turned into a celebratory war zone.
He was still convinced it'd been the best choice. Experience taught him trying to convince his landlord a huge burn stain in the middle of the carpet shouldn't come out of his deposit, was a losing battle.
The crowd closed around him and he slowed some, taking in the club they'd dragged him to with mixed feelings.
Loud music sounded like it thumped straight out of the walls— everything vibrating with thick, low tones that shook his internal organs. The place was dim and oppressive, stuffed full of swaying bodies. Lights flashed from the ceiling several stories above, illuminating a sea of heads in a white then blue glow, and if he looked up from the edge of the floor, he could see the VIP areas and bored looking faces staring down over the rails.
He liked his friends. Would die for his friends. But all the loudness, bizarre habits, and property damage wore heavy on his nerves after longtime exposure. Getting a few minutes alone wasn't much to ask.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall to wait at the end of the bathroom's too-damn-long line. At least, until the black velvet rope that blocked off the punched-steel staircase leading up to the floor above caught his notice. His eyes cut over to the impatient queue waiting for the lavatory. They have this many people waiting, and there's probably ten private bathrooms upstairs... Fuck that.
Social conventions could be damned. So could the architect that scribbled the building together in the first place for all he cared, and the irresponsible party that ran it.
He pushed away from the wall and ducked under the rope. Annoyed voices rose up after him, but he ignored them for the second time that night. He really didn't care if he got tossed out at this point anyway. He might even be grateful.
.
.
Grimmjow watched the kid's scowl darken as he moved further from his table.
The look had a dark edge to it he preferred over the fake smiling nonsense the kid had been spreading on since the group sat down. Or at least until the little, dark-haired time bomb on the guy's left had covered him in daiquiri and rum.
He tilted his head and considered the youth, eyes sliding from orange hair to the tight set of his jaw, then down the line of his throat to where corded shoulders disappeared inside the clinging, black shirt.
The resemblance was unnerving. They even dressed the same. Moved the same.
But the smile was wrong.
This wasn't who he was looking for.
His fist curled tighter around his glass where it hung two stories above the shifting dance floor. People below crawled over each other, drawn to the dark club like oversexed cockroaches. So much heat and restless energy, usually it was something he liked. It was something he had liked. Tonight, it grated on his nerves and made him want to claw out of his skin just to get out of the place.
Grimmjow should've known it wouldn't be him.
The kid he was looking for wasn't stupid enough to show up any place Grimmjow owned. Dye job or not. Every thug and legitimate employee on his payroll were falling over each other— and had been for weeks— trying to be the one to hand over who he was paying for.
He waved Edrad off, barely watching from the corner of his eye as he argued it out with the tall, thin girl that'd brought the boy to their attention. She brandished a manicure that looked more like knives in Edrad's face, but a second later, his man had caught her hand and brought it to the outline of the gun strapped under his jacket. She'd left quickly and quietly after that.
The disheveled, orange head disappeared a moment later, camouflaged by a sea of equally bright outfits and dyed tresses.
"Ah, Grimmjow-kun, what a scary look."
His nose wrinkled in distaste at the intruding voice. "Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."
The blonde man hummed. "So I see. Word has it, you're missing your young—"
The crystalline splitting of glass only just reached him over the blood rushing through his ears. Then he had Urahara by the face, pushing him over the railing.
The older man's wiry body bowed back over the guard, held by Grimmjow's hand, and he made gratifying sounds that did nothing to ease Grimmjow's temper. Hanging him over the crowd, Grimmjow ignored the reflexive wriggling and grappling for a hold on his arm. All he had to do was let go. It wouldn't take more than that to make the irritating, nosy bastard a memory.
Blood buzzed under his skin like electricity.
Grimmjow could already see the body falling through empty air. The crowd below screaming and parting.
Except, offing their neutral party during negotiations wasn't anything short of begging for one of Aizen's infamous, if not melodramatic executions. The thought alone both fed and stalled his rage. Urahara should know to keep his mouth shut. But the fact that he should know and hadn't… He wasn't a stupid man. He had something to say.
Inch by inch, Grimmjow loosened his grip until the lucky bastard slid back over the side. He could feel every knot of spine that rasped across the guardrail. Even curious, he hoped it hurt like a bitch later. A good reminder of how close Urahara had come to never opening that annoying hole in his face again.
Hand still around his jaw, he leaned in. "I've never given a shit enough about anything to miss it, and I sure as fuck didn't start for that piece of gutter trash."
The blonde took a choked breath when Grimmjow released him and backed away, rasping out words that sounded something like, "My mistake," but just came out a gasping wheeze.
Grimmjow could find him again later. There were too many eyes here.
The muted patter of something striking the ground by his foot pulled at his attention. The glass was still in his hand. Only now, a fractured web of cracks crisscrossed the surface, a shard biting into the pad of his thumb.
"Jaegerjaquez-sama. The meeting is reopened."
His eyes panned over Urahara's retreating shoulder to Shawlong. He barely saw him. Still riding the lethal edge of his temper, the world was in varying shades of red.
"Your hand is bleeding."
Grimmjow thunked the glass on a nearby table, looking for a napkin he didn't see. "No shit. The fuck's the point of this anyway? We all wanna blow each other's guts out and everyone knows it."
Shawlong tensed.
"Grimmjow," the composed voice started from behind him, "It's poor conduct to discuss business outside of closed doors. And it seems you're injured. Again."
Shit.
His teeth clenched to keep the curse locked in his mouth, and he turned just enough to see Aizen standing behind him. All polished, mahogany tresses over pleasant features. One strand hung longer than the others, falling over his forehead. Grimmjow wanted to rip it off.
Injured...? It was a cut. A cut could happen with paper. Or a sharp plastic. He wanted to show Aizen the difference between a cut and a real wound so bad his fingers ached.
His lip fought a curl. "S'fine. Cheap glass."
Aizen shook his head.
"I take good care of my people, Grimmjow. And you are my people, aren't you? I have a personal physician, I'm only too happy to call him."
Grimmjow seeing a fucking doctor for a cut finger— He'd be a joke. Less than that. The weak didn't live long in their world. People that weren't feared didn't last long.
Asshole. Fucking son of a bitch and his veiled threats. He hoped someone put that bullet in his head. Grimmjow didn't even care if it was him. That was how much he hated the manipulative fuck. He was shaking just to keep his hand from moving against his will to find a weapon, only just managing to bite out something about washing it.
Then he was moving through a burning haze.
He left down the stairs, exited to the level below just to put extra space between him and the man that dangled his life on a string as if it were a kid's game.
Employer or not, he hated Aizen. Hated him like he'd never hated anything. Not the pang of hunger in the dead of winter or the feel of a barrel resting at the back of his neck. Not even losing matched, because every single day he spent under the man's thumb felt like losing.
His pulse pounded inside his head, the muscles in his hands and forearms curled tight under skin.
The second level wasn't near as crowded as the first, but people parted around him all the same. Some because they recognized him, some because he must've looked as close to killing as he felt. There was a couple crushing powder at a table far from the rails. A handful of girls dancing and grinding together. In the back corner, one of Gin's men had his arms resting on the top of a sofa while a head bobbed into sight then out again.
All of it was on the sidelines. Old news. Boring. Hard to believe there'd been a time when he'd thought having it all at his fingertips made him powerful.
There was no such thing as powerful when you worked for Aizen, because the bastard held it all.
He cut toward the men's room sign. His private bathrooms were on the top floor, but getting away from Aizen before he snapped was equivalent to survival.
His cell vibrated and he snatched it out of his pocket, glancing down, wondering if it was a response to one of the million and a half threatening messages he'd left his runaway bitch as he threw open the bathroom door.
Only, it bounced off something.
Or someone.
He snarled. "Fuckin' watch it."
The message was from Shawlong. They were going back in. He stuffed the phone back inside his pocket.
"You fucking watch it, asshole."
His foot stuck to the floor halfway to the sink. The lash of adrenaline flashed through his system as potent and electrifying as any drug. This was exactly what he needed, some senseless punk, some badass wannabe to wreck beyond repair so he could lose some pent frustration.
His head tipped back as he smirked at nothing, and then turned to give the owner of that voice an appraising look.
It was the kid. The scowling brat from earlier.
Angry brown eyes sparked like shards of amber from under hair a few shades brighter than copper. The strange coloring stood out more in the fluorescent lighting, stark enough to be disorienting for a half second.
This close, the similarity knocked the air out of him.
The fuck?
It wasn't like him to be thrown off so many times in close succession.
Taking a step forward, he reclaimed his grin, emphasizing the height difference. The size difference. "Maybe you didn't hear me, I said to watch the fuck out."
"And I said no."
The orange scowl deepened, but the kid didn't step away or scramble to take the words back and something about that had Grimmjow's stomach tightening in ways that didn't have shit to do with busting a smart-mouthed brat's head open on a bathroom sink.
His eyes skimmed down the lines of the close-fitting top that did nothing to hide the body under it. The tight black shirt was gone, only a loose tank hung from his shoulders, leaving a stretch of exposed golden skin around his neck and shoulders. Faded jeans hugged low on lean hips.
His hands itched to slide them lower.
The kid wasn't bad looking.
Too bad he didn't have time for a side project the way Aizen was breathing down his dick. And even if he had, it'd send the wrong message to keep a replacement fuck that could've been a carbon copy of his last.
Then again, he also couldn't let the brat walk out after a direct challenge like that.
Grimmjow grinned. "You're lucky, kid. I don't have time to waste killing you just now."
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Ichigo fought a losing battle not to roll his eyes.
"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"
A strong hand fisted into the thin cloth at his collar.
The bastard was fast, any quicker and Ichigo wouldn't have seen him move. As it was, he hardly managed to keep his head from cracking on the tile. His shoulders hit the hard surface and Ichigo hissed a sharp breath, not sure if it was from the suddenness or the icy wall on his back.
He glared up into a grinning face and reigned in his irritation.
One more aggressive move like that, and he was going to break something on this guy. Preferably the arm keeping him pinned and then that stupid grin. He said nothing as the man appraised his body without so much as being subtle about it.
He stepped closer, low voice tickling Ichigo's ear. "I said I don't have time to kill you. Not that I don't have time to keep ya from walking out in one piece, so don't push me."
He scoffed. "You hit me."
"It's a rough world, kid."
The bastard pulled his head back and gave another blinding grin, flashing perfect, white teeth.
Ichigo could only stare. There wasn't even any reason behind that logic.
Was this guy coming on to him or picking a fight? He honestly couldn't tell. "Are you high?"
The answering laugh made his back tense further and his toes curl in his shoes. The looks he was getting might've been flattering if this guy didn't also need to be committed.
For just a second, he let his eyes own eyes slide down the man's form.
A strong jaw, hard shoulders over a lithe frame, enough muscle to hold him without apparent effort, chaotic, blue hair in a shade Ichigo couldn't put a name to straightaway—
Cerulean eyes gleamed and Ichigo flushed, twisting his face away.
"Like that?"
"No," he growled. "I'm not into dangerous assholes."
A laugh. "I haven't shown ya dangerous, brat."
"And I don't like being called brat."
"Then what's your name, kid?"
"Fuck you."
"I like that. It suits you." He considered Ichigo a long moment. "What're ya doin' tonight?"
Ichigo blinked, edging back before he remembered the wall. How had the conversation turned that fast?
Did that line ever even work?
"Not what you're hoping."
And no, he wasn't entertaining the idea. It wasn't even an option. Ichigo wasn't the type for a one-night stand or an any-night stand for that matter.
"Yeah? And why not?" The blue haired male leaned closer and breathed. "You smell good."
That tone of voice made his bones weak, but Ichigo refused to show it. If that was meant as a joke, it was a bad one.
"You stare at me all night, hit me with a door, threaten to kill me, and then think I'd still be interested in going out with you?"
This guy was trouble. Really bad trouble. The kind that might end with a night in jail or a life sentence. And worse, Ichigo was fighting hard not to find it appealing. And the bastard didn't even try to deny that he'd been watching him.
"Not going out. Fucking." He drew it out like Ichigo was too stupid to get it at regular speed. "You're bored out of your mind with those friends of yours anyway."
Ichigo frowned. Where had that come from?
He hesitated. "I'm not. And the answer is no."
"Why?"
"Because I don't like the way you look at me."
The smirk he got was lopsided. "And how do I look at you?"
"Like you're thinking of every possible point of exit to remove my liver."
The guy laughed, a deep bark that made Ichigo blink and frown harder. That comment was intended to be an insult, and the guy didn't seem like an idiot.
"Grimmjow. That's the name, kid, and if I intended to make money off you, there are easier ways."
Ichigo's fist clenched.
This guy was… He didn't have words. Everything he said made Ichigo want to hit him. And still, the asshole was devastatingly attractive. Time to go.
"Pass."
Catching the hand still tangled in his shirt, he twisted.
There was no howl of pain, only a hitched curse as the male was forced to move the way Ichigo wanted. He slipped under the opposite arm and released the hold, stopping just short of the exit and telling himself he wasn't running— only to be shoved face first into the closed door.
He snarled at the weight pressing against his back and the hand that gripped his hair.
What a fucking persistent bastard…
Ichigo didn't get it. He'd had insistent pursuers, but never someone that couldn't take no for an answer— didn't even seem to know what the word meant. There wasn't any way he was getting out of this without some maneuvering. Hopefully this idiot was too stoned to notice.
He was saying something, but Ichigo cut him off.
"Grimmjow, right? You really want to fuck me?" he breathed.
There was a pause, the hard chest at his back reverberating with a thoughtful sound. A hand skimmed down Ichigo's waist and he sucked in a breath when a thousand tiny thunderbolts fluttered through his stomach.
"I like the way ya play kid, but don't fucking tease."
He bit his lip and cursed himself as the hand went lower, and gasped out, "Not here."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does. I'm not fucking in a bathroom."
The male at his back blew an amused breath and whipped him around. He braced a hand on the door behind Ichigo's head and pinned him with that penetrating, blue gaze. "I'm not a nice kinda guy, but I'll put up with this shit if you make it worth it. But cross me and I'll fucking kill you, got it?"
When Ichigo nodded, nonplused, he lifted a finger and twitched it to bring Ichigo a step closer. Grimmjow didn't need to say what he wanted for Ichigo to understand.
Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, he let it drag out before rising up on his toes to press his mouth into Grimmjow's.
Grimmjow stiffened.
Ichigo couldn't have missed it and thought to pull back, but Grimmjow snorted, tilting his head and opening to allow Ichigo entrance.
He sucked in a breath at the contact of his tongue brushing along Grimmjow's. For some reason, he hadn't expected any part of this man to be as soft as that tongue was. The hair lifted on the back of his neck and arms as a fine tremor started in his limbs. Just who the hell was this guy? Grimmjow tasted like alcohol, something twangy and sharp. It made Ichigo's mouth tingle.
Pressing in closer, he tried for that tongue again, fingers threading into the longer stands of hair at the back of Grimmjow's neck without Ichigo being certain how they got there. He had no idea how something so simple had gone straight to his blood and his head and his dick. His body was humming with fresh energy. His other hand pushed up Grimmjow's chest, just starting to curl into fabric when he felt it— the air puffing across his cheek, the low chuckle.
With a light frown, he pulled back, muddled and a little kiss drugged, licking his lips and wondering if kisses were supposed to be like that, because Ichigo had sure as fuck never felt anything like it… Only, he must've taken it too far, because Grimmjow was… laughing at him. Laughing.
He was laughing. What the fuck?
Grimmjow grinned, lifting a thumb to swipe it across Ichigo's bottom lip before bringing it back to his mouth to taste.
"Yeah, that was great. Now, kiss my dick, dumbass."
Ichigo blinked, blinked again and then turned red when he realized what Grimmjow had actually been asking for in the first place.
Humiliated, he jerked his knee up into Grimmjow's gut. It was a bitch move, but so was cornering someone in the bathroom and pressuring them for sex. And now that the contact was broken, he could honestly say that he was a little terrified of whatever that had been between them and had no desire to repeat it.
Shoving the larger body off, he yanked open the door, nearly barreling into a silver haired man as he flew through it. Sidestepping, he darted straight for the back stair that let him up. And he wasn't running. He was just… leaving the bathroom quickly and before that psycho could pull him back in and either beat him or fuck him.
Probably beat him, but with the blood still pumping low in his stomach, Ichigo's mind wasn't exactly working on logic.
A shiver slipped down his spine as he took the steps and moved back into the crowd. He tore toward his table. Grimmjow wouldn't follow him all the way back, would he?
Ice water slid into his stomach and he turned to look over his shoulder.
He didn't see him—No, wait. There. On the second floor, following after the silver haired guy Ichigo had nearly plowed down, heading to the upper levels. The levels that implied money or influence. Maybe that was why Grimmjow had such a hard time hearing the word no.
Ichigo shook his head.
"Yo, Ichigo, you get lost?" Renji blinked up at him, gaze focusing for a second. "Somethin' wrong? You look… I dunno. Freaked."
Glancing back again, he slid into his chair and looked around the table. A dozen faces in various degrees of inebriation looked back. Some of them hadn't even been there when he'd left. He brushed it off with a shake of his head, and then made a disgruntled noise when Keigo put another round of drinks on his tab.
"When the hell did I get a tab? I haven't even drank anything."
"I know, bud. You better get started. This is your party, right?"
Ichigo glared. "Well, it was supposed to be."
Was he magnetic in some way that attracted creepy weirdoes and closet drunks?
Someone batted at him. If batted meant slamming a tiny knuckled fist into his shoulder with the force of a miniature atom bomb.
He looked down at Rukia and raised a brow. "Geez, I'm going to need that arm after tonight. Could you try not to pulverize it?"
She fixed her violet tinged eyes at him and lifted a package until it rested under his nose. "I got you something."
He frowned and took the small, brightly wrapped gift. Slime couldn't have felt lower as he tore open a corner, wishing he hadn't bitten her head off. "You didn't have to do that, Rukia. It's not like I got you anything for…" He blinked and held it up. "How to Reconcile the Loss of a Loved One." He squinted. "You got me a self-help book? Are you dysfunctional? What kind of present is—?"
Renji draped himself across his back to whisper into his ear as quiet as a foghorn. "Just take the damn present, man. You don't want to piss her off again."
Renji laughed, elbowing over the pyramid of shot glasses beside him.
Ichigo sighed. "Renji, give me your keys."
It figured he would end up the designated driver at his own party.
Maybe he should've taken Grimmjow up on that offer after all.
.
.
Two hours later, he was shoving his friends into cabs.
He bundling Keigo and Ikkaku in first. Then Tatsuki and her girlfriend. Then someone he didn't even know. He slammed the door on the guy's face when he asked to borrow money.
Rukia stopped him with a hand clutching his jacket when he tried to help her. Her eyes were the odd tone of serious she took sometimes that scared the hell out of him. "Read the book, Ichigo. It wasn't a joke. It helped me after my sister—"
He nodded and disengaged her arm to start the process of packing her inside the car. "I'm fine, Rukia. You know that."
Renji leaned forward from the other side. "Don't argue, man. Just take the advice. We just want what's best for you."
"Thanks, dad." He scowled. "Is there a reason you people take such an unnatural interest in my life? Try focusing on yourselves for once." Turning, he pinned Ishida and Inoue with a look. "You two have something to say?"
Inoue gave a strained smile and Ichigo felt like shit. Ishida pushed his glasses up with a disgusted breath, eyes closed. His arm tightened around her shoulders.
"You're a pig, Kurosaki."
I know I am. I know.
Rukia got hold of his arm again and he sighed. Awesome. His friends all thought he was a basket case. Maybe he was. The only plus of the situation was that they all knew from personal experience.
But the chances of her remembering any of this in the morning were low, so why not?
"Alright, I'll do it. Just get in the car."
A few seconds later, he had her stuffed inside, and the cab launched away and the next pulled up. He opened the door, handing Inoue down gently and unceremoniously shoving Ishida's ass inside with his foot.
Ishida gave a muffled "umph," glaring murder back before giving up on finding the right ends of the buckles. He knotted the two opposite belts together before snuggling down beside Inoue with an obvious air of superiority.
"Yeah, you sure showed me, dumbass. I'm gonna remind you about that every day for a month," he scoffed under his breath as the vehicle pulled away. "Idiot."
Glancing back at Chad, he managed a half smile.
"You want a cab too?"
"I don't mind the walk." Chad paused then remembered that he'd been speaking. "My apartment isn't far."
Ichigo snorted. Chad rarely drank. It was easier to forgive. He also hardly ever gave Ichigo a hard time, drunk or not. And that made almost anything he did ten times more likeable.
"Whatever you think. Don't get hit by a car."
He got a grunt back. "Happy Birthday, Ichigo. Careful on your way home."
Frowning, he turned back toward the nearly empty parking lot to find Renji's bike, walking the opposite direction.
Who said he was going home? It was his birthday, wasn't it?
Slumping, he passed a row of parking spaces.
Was he really that boring and predictable? Hard to believe he'd once had a reputation for being a troublemaker. When had he decided to get so… stable? He might've written it off as part of growing up, except most of his friends were a year or two older than him and they still acted like teenagers.
The bike was sitting under a streetlamp around the side. Pulling the helmet from the handle, he stuffed the book into the compartment on the back.
His eyes darted away from the happy family on the cover.
He hated this. He hated this person he was.
It reminded him of the bored faces from the VIP floor.
That's how he felt. Like he was standing on the sidelines of his own life, watching everyone else enjoy it more than him. It was a struggle that never seemed to stop. If he didn't keep moving forward, he slid back. And there were too many ghosts in his past for him to be all right living his life in reverse.
So here he was, out and celebrating. Determined to do better, or at least fake it enough that no one could tell the difference.
And he wasn't even managing that.
So why was he bothering?
.
.
Grimmjow slammed the back door behind him, his skin burning with repressed anger. He fished out a cigarette and flipped open his lighter, igniting the end before taking a long drag and tilting his head back to let it out.
Wasn't what he wanted, but it still felt damn good.
Rounding the back fence, he snarled at whoever the fuck was stupid enough to touch his paint job before the sinewy cut of body and unmistakable hair spikey registered.
The kid was leaning against one side, arms crossed and head tilted back to watch the moon.
A grin worked over his mouth as he crossed the lot and stepped close enough for his stalker to notice him.
The kid turned, pushing off his car. He looked nervous and that suited Grimmjow fine. Smart brat. He should be uneasy. He was dealing with a predator. And after the trouble he'd been, a quick fuck in the back of a car wouldn't cut it.
Grimmjow didn't take his eyes off him as he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the car. Then he slid into the driver's seat and started it.
The passenger side opened and closed. The kid's breath huffed into a cloud in front of him and he rubbed his palms over his legs.
Grimmjow shook his head. He shouldn't take this kid home, but he shouldn't do a lot of things. In the end, Grimmjow just did whatever the fuck he wanted. Everyone knew that.
Flicking his cigarette out the window, he smirked, shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.
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Thank you for reading :) Please review.
