“Why the fuck not?” Brandon mused. “Everyone already thinks I'm a douche, so why not just go with the flow and become a douchey drunk?” he chuckled a little bit. He really didn't care what anyone thought of him—actually, the one person whose opinion he did care about had just run off a second time.
Brandon rolled his eyes. “They had solitary on the other side of quarantine. They threatened me with it once or twice, but never did it, amazingly. Pretty sure it's because I was one of their biggest looters. But either way,” he shrugged and took the last from his first drink and refilled it. “Either way, I know for a fact that he never fucked with Leah again. And it more or less proves to me that I should never lead a compound like this. People'd revolt in no time.”
The sigh that Brandon huffed could only be described as derisive. “Of course it's not her fault. She could fucking blow up a building on purpose and everyone would find a fucking reason for it not to be her fault!” Little Miss Perfect never did anything wrong. It was annoying, and it was unfair to people like him, or like Maddie, who always got blamed right away, whether they did it or not. “Fine, fine, I'll drop it. It's just fucking...” he grumbled.
Fuck. Between the call-out and the request to let it go, Brandon found himself feeling more than a little guilty. He didn't know why he always did this—Silas never actually commented on the women that Brandon dated either, after all—but he couldn't help it.
“Alright, alright. I'm dropping it,” he shook his head and took a long pull from his drink. “I just don't want to see you get hurt, man. Literally or otherwise. You know?”