johnw atson

But John didn’t seem to hear him. “I am not in love with some whore!” he growled from between gritted teeth.

Mike swallowed, which only served to press the barrel of the gun further into the soft, vulnerable tissue under his chin. It was never a good idea to show fear when John was in a rage. But he was more scared at this moment than he’d ever been in his life.

“Who said anything about love?” he croaked. “I sure didn’t.”

As if a switch had been thrown, John seemed to come back to his right mind. He stared at Mike as if he’d never seen him before in his life, then looked down at the weapon in his hand, aghast, and slowly lowered his arm.

“Fuck… Mike.. I…” He had turned as pale as Mike. As if in a fog, he turned his back on his friend and took several unsteady steps away from him, seeking the physical distance. “I didn’t want to… FUCK!” he screamed, his voice full of anger and frustration.

Fucking shit, John, just go fuck him. What a shithead.