“Freak,” she says, shoving me away.
Definitely a hate club.
I step toward Carmen again. She backs up until the wall stops her. I hate how she looks standing there.
The red dress barely covers her ass. Her chest is exposed at the front. A black choker encircles her neck with a small cross resting at her throat. Her lips are painted red, and her hair falls in loose, messy curls over her shoulders.
I move closer. Her eyes lift to mine. I look down at her.
I’m at least two heads taller. She looks so small in her white sneakers, pinned between me and the wall.
“Get lost,” she says.
I move closer instead, plant my hands on the wall beside her, caging her in.
“No,” I say.
“Why are you so fucking obsessed with me?” Her eyes track the lines of my mask, searching for a face behind.
I lift a shoulder. I give her nothing.
In a blink, I grab her wrist and yank her into me.
“Fuck you,” she snaps, shoving at my chest.
I swing her up instead, toss her over my shoulder, and smack her ass twice.
“Carmen, you slut, why didn’t you say he’s your boyfriend?” Ella laughs, drink raised in the air. “Go, Carmen.”
I roll my eyes. She annoys the fuck out of me.
But the word boyfriend makes something in me twitch. Carmen already has the same surname as I do. I know it’s just a word, but it still makes me want what I can’t have.
“Put me down,” she yells, her fists pounding against my back.
I ignore her and push through the door, heading for the parking lot.
As we step outside into the cold air, she leans forward and bites into my shoulder. Pain flashes sharp enough to make my teeth grind.
I drop her to her feet.
She runs.
I catch her immediately against her wrist and haul her back into me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? And I know it’s you, you fucking stalker,” she mutters under her breath.
Then she signs at me,I will kill you.
I laugh.
Since when does she know ASL?
She shakes her hand, trying to break free, but I drag her with me toward the bikes. As soon as she notices we are getting closer, she stops.
“What if,” she clears her throat. I lift a brow.
“Is that your bike?” she asks.
