16
Peter
“So,” Phil says, his good-natured expression evaporating as soon as Sara is out of sight. “Jealous bastard, aren’t you?”
I stare at him, unblinking. “You have no idea.”
If he ever hugs Sara again, it’ll be the last thing he does. This place already has me on edge—with all the drunks crowded together out there, it’s the perfect place for some assassin to strike—and the mere thought of this beer-bellied asshole’s paws on Sara has my fingers itching to break his chubby neck.
He stares back at me, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, man, you should see the look on your face. I never knew that whole killer stare was a real thing.”
I force myself to blink, lessening said “killer stare” as he continues, happily oblivious to how true his observation was. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to poach
