“Where are you going?” I asked, striving for casual.
“To a party.”
That was it. No details. No invite. I didn’t exist in the world he belonged to anymore. The Tru I know, or used to know, didn’t do parties, which meant someone invited him.
His newboyfriend.
I, however, did do parties. Plenty of them. And in my vast and disreputable experience, there was only one main reason for bringing a date.
To get them drunk enough that they want to fuck.
He held two shirts up to the mirror—one plain, one tight and silky-looking, like something ripped from a Pinterest board labeledHot Boys Who Break You in Two.
He chose that one. Of course he did.
“No,” I said, sitting up.
Tru glanced at me. “What?”
“Not that one.”
“Why not?” he asked, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.
I swung my legs off the bed. “Because you look like you're trying too hard.”
He shrugged, slipping the shirt on. “Maybe I am.”
I stared at him as my skin grew hot. The shirt clung to his chest in a way that made my mouth go dry. He smelled of fucking vanilla and citrus and something else I couldn’t name, something that made me want to pin him to the wall and scream.
“Take it off,” I said.
He turned, arms loose at his sides. “Excuse me?”
“Take. It. Off.” My voice was quiet and clipped. Dangerous.
“No.”
I stood up slowly. “It’s not a request.”
“Oh, I figured that out when you started growling at me like a jealous ex.”
He was baiting me. That little smirk on his face said hewantedme to rise to it. Maybe that’s what pissed me off most—that I did.
I stepped closer. “Take it off.”
He planted his feet, his eyes narrowing. The corner of his mouth twitched like he wasn’t sure if he was scared or turned on. “Make me.”
My vision tunneled. I didn’t think. I just moved.
Two strides and I was in front of him, my hands already in the fabric at his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. He just stared at me, daring me. Throwing a lit match into a puddle of gasoline.
My fingers brushed the side of his neck, the warmth of his skin, the pulse fluttering beneath it. I tugged hard, meaning to lift it up over his head. But the collar caught, the stitching pulled, and then—Rrrrip.
I tore the shirt in half, the sound obscene in the stillness of the room. Tru blinked at me, stunned, his chest rising and falling like we’d just fought or fucked. Maybe both. My hands were still fisted in the torn shirt, holding both halves like some stupid trophy I didn’t want. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
I shoved it into his chest. “Find another shirt,” I said coldly. “That one makes you look like a whore.”
His eyes flashed with anger and hurt, but he didn’t speak. Tru turned stiffly, tossing the ripped shirt onto the bed as he grabbed another one from the drawer.
