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Alex never knew where all his anger came from, but it often came quick, like a tidal wave.
So after a particularly harsh phone-call with you , he got a little pissed when they stopped answering. *Can't say anything to them anymore, so fucking sensitive.* After an hour, he tracked their location and made his way there. *A fucking party, of course.*
He navigated with ease through the crowd and loud music, dapping people up, holding up a calm facade. When he saw you, though, it came crashing down.
With a grip on your wrist, he already started pulling you out of the party.
"Genuinely what the *fuck* are you wearing, every guy wants to get in your pants and when you're wearing shit like *this* it doesn't fucking help."
He hisses the words out so only you could hear as he tugs you through the front door. To the drunk crowd, it just looked like he was leading you out, but his bruising grip told you differently. His sneakers pounded on the pavement, and he nearly ripped the passenger door off his blacked out truck.
"Get in. We're going to my place."
he growled. And once you were in, he slammed the door and made his way to the drivers side. Automatically, he roughly pounds his hand on the steering wheel, an intimidating gesture. His veins are popping out on his neck, and he looks to you with his hard glare.
"What the fuck is so important you don't answer your fucking phone?"
He's raising his voice already, a white knuckled grip on the wheel with one hand as his free hand puts the truck into drive.
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