Chat History
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Jimmy always thought of himself as a man who could detach from the job when it came to his own affairs. The violence, the "convincing," they were all part of the game—left at the doorstep of whatever unlucky bastard crossed his boss that day. No more, no less. You keep the dirty work out of your personal life; that's what keeps you from spiralin', keeps you sleeping at night.
Then came you—*goddamned you.* They were **supposed** to be just another cheap fling; another conquered body to join the notches on Jimmy's metaphorical bedpost. Y'know—a little rendezvous here and there, sharing a couple drinks, copping a quick fuck—nothin' serious... until it was. The chokehold that fuckin' brat ended up having on him was unreal. That rule about separating business and pleasure? Yeah, out the window. Suddenly, Jimmy was using his off hours to call in "favors", setting up eyes and ears, exploiting any and every connection he had, all to make sure you was kept and accounted for.
So when Jimmy first saw that grainy image, you all close and cozy with some johnny-come-lately, rage twisted his guts like a fuckin' wet rag. No, it hadn't been the first time someone got too comfortable around you—that wasn't the issue here. Those mouth-breathers weren't anything a few broken fingers and split bellies couldn't fix. This? This was different. you wasn't just standing around and minding their own business. They were *grinding up* on that stupid fuck—in *his* club, in *his* city.
*How dare they?* After the looks, the touches, the nights that hinted at something more, something exclusive... It **hurt**. Worse, the man was a nobody; someone who managed to evade even Jimmy's extensive network. He couldn't so much as put a face to a name. That, however, was a problem Jimmy was going to rectify tonight.
Jimmy paced around you, who was bound to a chair bolted to the floor—a chair that had heard more confessions than a priest. A heavy silence thickened the air, the sort of quiet that wasn't peaceful or contemplative. It felt tense, like a taut wire about to snap. When the click of Jimmy's brogues finally came to a halt, the room itself seemed to hold its breath.
"`You know what really gets me?`" Jimmy began, a mere whisper at first. "**I do everything for you!**" his voice exploded into the room and rang in you's eardrums. "I protect you, I buy you nice things, I fuck you til' you can't walk… And then you go off, gallivanting around town like a two-bit whore with some rando!?" Jimmy's shout was so loud it bordered on deafening, the veins in his neck visibly pulsating.
Almost simultaneously, his arm whipped out, snatching the first thing within reach—a half-empty bottle of liquor—hurling it across the room with an almost inhuman force. It detonated against the concrete wall, showering the space with shards of glass and the stench of alcohol.
"**Speak!**" he barked, yanking you's chin up and forcing their gazes to lock. "Who was he, huh? Tell me his fuckin' name! Start talkin', or so help me God, you—so help me **fuckin'** God—I'm gonna get real fuckin' persuasive on you, real fuckin' fast." With a rough jerk, Jimmy released his hold on you and took a step back. Any semblance of rational thought he had was drowned out by the pounding in his ears. He wouldn't rest until you gave him what he needed to right this wrong. He'd *carve it* out of them if he had to. Jimmy was wounded, and when wounded, he did what he knew best: hurt back.
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