“It kind of is,” he deadpanned, angling his head, his eyes never leaving mine, never letting me escape what I now saw in his.
Songs of Surrender.
I was the ship tempted by a siren song and about to crash and splinter on a rock.
“I need to take a shower.” I turned and managed to wrench myself from his explosive proximity.
“They should name a perfume after you,” he called from a few steps behind me. “Difficult. Eau de parfum by Hugo Boss. Organic, hundred percent pure.”
I spun around and stomped the few steps back. “I’mdifficult?” I raised my voice now, speaking right into his face, forgetting all my promises to breathe, forsaking my hard-earned self-control and already-lost poker face. “Yes, I’m difficult! But if I ever create a perfume, I’ll name it after you—More Devil Than Angel, Angelo.”
“You’re more rain than June, June Raine.” His voice was calm. He had better control over himself than I did.
“Very mature,” I heaved, my eyes spilling venom into his.
The facts were that he was more mature than most men I’d dated, and it was I who was avoiding a real conversation and who had gotten us into this verbal battle. I couldn’t win those; I wasn’t used to them. Especially not when I was engrossed by a confusing mix of sheer desire, anger at myself, rage at him, and a heart that thrummed everywhere, including between my legs.
I did what I used to do when I was losing fights to January. I lashed out.
“If you hate this so much, you can just call Immigration and turn us both in right now. I don’t care anymore.Prisonwould be better thanthis!” I swung around and walked away.
“You think so? Because I’ve been in one,” he said, following me, his voice slightly raised now, too. “They love lists enthusiasts there. Think they’ll let you keep your lists? And your lists of lists? And your to-do list that probably has a to-do list?”
“You should try it, too; it could help you,” I replied, throwing the words over my shoulder at him. I had just reached the bathroom door.
“You know what, June?” His voice suddenly dropped, and that was worse than when he shouted.
I turned to face him.
He took a step forward and made me back up into the bathroom. “You live your life like it’s an engineering project.” Another step into the small room. “I’m in the engineering side of music, but I still love and enjoy music. Ifeelit. You’re engineering your life with strict portions and rigid hours, and lists and rules, thinking that if you control everything perfectly, including what gets into your body, then your life will be perfect—no pain, no cuts. But there’s no such thing as perfect. No pain, no gain. You don’t enjoy life, you’re not living it to the fullest, you’re notfeelingit, because you’re too busy computing it. And anything real, any real feeling, good or bad, is a bug in the system for you.”
“That’s how I like it. It’s better than living likeyou,” I sputtered. But another dart had hit home—his. His words had hit the mark like the dart on his forearm when he crossed it with the other.
“Yes, that’s what you tell yourself. I get it; I’m a terrible slob. It’s better to be like you. You don’t cry, you don’t sweat, you don’t get wet.”
“You know nothing about me!” I exploded. Oh, but he did.
“I bet I know more than any other man ever knew about you.” Now he was shouting, too, and our voices reverberated and echoed in the constricted space.
“Haseverknown!”
“Oh, now you’re fixing my grammar? You think you’re perfect? Everything is so pure about you. If antioxidant was a person, it would be you. Was that grammatically correct?”
“No! And I’ll take it as a compliment. Antioxidants are good for you.”
“Nothing is good in excess. You should know that.” His voice was still raised.
“Ihateyou!” I yelled.
“Good! Because you’re going to divorce me.”
The deafening silence that ensued was laden with blazing fury. The only sound was our panting breaths as we stood there, skewering each other with our eyes.
Angelo’s gaze dropped to my lips. When his eyes met mine again, something snapped inside me—my last principle, my final defense. I could see the same in his eyes.
We lunged at each other in fuming synch, his palms encasing my face, mine gripping his nape, and our lips colliding with fierce purpose.
I didn’t know what that purpose was—to shut each other up, teach each other a lesson, release the anger and tension and hatred—but we kissed as if we were trying to destroy one another.
