Chapter 2: Hit for Hit

I strode into the room in a few big steps, not hesitating for even a second. Instead of saving my fiancée, I went straight for the guy standing there, who was hesitating to say anything, and punched him square in the face. My fist clenched so tight my knuckles ached. He looked at me—eyes wide, mouth open. I didn’t even think. My fist connected with a satisfying crunch; the man staggered back, clutching his nose, blood dripping onto the ugly carpet.

The whole room froze in shock, the chaos grinding to a halt. Everyone stared like I'd just dropped in from another planet.

"Who... who the hell are you?" The wife stopped mid-slap, her palm in the air, and stared at me, eyes wide and confused.

"Hey, don’t let me stop the show." I waved her off, voice rough with anger and something else I couldn't name.

I wanted to keep swinging, but two other men—maybe friends, maybe hotel security—held me back, their hands clamping onto my arms, their faces tense.

I spread my hands to show I wasn’t looking for more trouble, then pointed at the woman kneeling on the floor, sobbing: "Her. She’s my fiancée." I forced my voice to stay steady, even as my throat threatened to close up.

The looks on everyone’s faces were priceless. Sure, they’d seen people busting cheaters before, but never both sides showing up to crash the same scene. It was like some trashy episode of a reality show, and we were the unwilling stars.

I lit another cigarette, the lighter trembling just a little in my hand.

"You slap my wife, I punch your husband. Both sides cheated, so it’s fair, right?" My attempt at justice sounded hollow, even to me, but I needed the words.

"Dude, calm down, let’s talk this through. No more hitting, okay?" One of the wife’s friends, a burly guy with a Vikings hoodie, stepped between us, trying to defuse things before someone called the cops.

"Hey, what’s your mom’s maiden name?" I shot back, not bothering to hide my rudeness, my nerves frayed to the breaking point.

He clearly didn’t expect that and raised his eyebrows: "You wanna fight or something?" He squared up, but I could see he was bluffing.

I was so pissed off, I didn’t care who I fought. Before he could finish, my fist landed on him again—anger exploding out of me, fast and ugly.

Three minutes later, everyone in the room was exhausted from brawling. There were shouts, curses, and the sound of furniture scraping against the floor. We all looked like we’d just gone three rounds with Mike Tyson. I could taste blood and regret on my lips.

My face was swollen, my eyebrow was bleeding, but I didn’t even feel the pain. I just sat in the corner, legs splayed out, smoking, watching the smoke curl up to the sagging ceiling tiles.

The wife came over, squatted next to me, and stared at the cigarette in my hand, lost in thought. Her face was flushed, her knuckles scraped.

"If you have something to say, just spit it out." I didn’t have the energy for games. My voice was flat, almost numb.

She laughed—and honestly, she looked pretty good when she did. The tension in her jaw softened, and for a second she seemed almost human again.

"So, how do you want to handle this?"

"Whatever. I’m good with anything. Up to you." I tried to act like I didn’t give a damn, but my heart was pounding. There was a ringing in my ears that wouldn’t quit.

"Let’s sleep together once. That way I’ve gotten back at my husband, and you’ve gotten back at your wife. We’re even." She said it so matter-of-factly, like she was suggesting a game of darts at the bar.

The cigarette slipped from my fingers and hit the floor, scattering ash across the cheap carpet.

Even if you gave me eight hundred bottles of whiskey, I’d never have guessed this woman would say something like that. I stared at her, my mind scrambling for words, but coming up empty. My hands shook, and for a second, I almost laughed in disbelief before I found my voice.

"Wait, are you out of your mind?" I stared at her like she was nuts, genuinely stunned. Had we all gone insane tonight?

"What do you mean?" She didn’t get mad, just looked dazed, maybe still reeling from her husband’s cheating. Her voice sounded hollow, as if she was somewhere far away.

"Your husband cheated because my fiancée’s hotter than you and better in bed. I already have my fiancée—why would I want to do it with you?" The words tumbled out, sharp and mean, and I hated myself for saying them.

Maybe that stung, because her eyebrows knitted together, eyes narrowing like she was holding back tears or rage.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I looked her up and down. Honestly, she wasn’t ugly—her features even reminded me of my girlfriend, just a few years older. There was a sadness in her eyes I recognized all too well.

I was just lashing out because I was angry and needed to vent, blaming her for not keeping her husband in line, even though I couldn’t keep my own girlfriend in check either. Hypocrisy tasted bitter in my mouth.

"Why would I trade a ribeye for a drive-thru burger?" I muttered, not even sure who I was trying to hurt more—her or myself.

"Get out! All of you, get the hell out!" Her voice cracked with fury, and for a second, I thought she might actually hit me. She was furious—and honestly, pretty scary. Everyone else scrambled to grab their things, avoiding her gaze.