“How could I what?”
“Say something like that.”
He didn’t answer me for a long moment. Then he said, “He’s been hurt enough, Courteney.”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“Maybe you’re worth more than you know.”
I ignored that. What was that anyway, some kind of backhanded compliment?
And why was my brother the only one whose feelings ever seemed to matter anymore?
“He’s not the only one who hurts,” I said. “My brother doesn’t own the trademark on sadness.”
“Other people aren’t afraid to leave the house.”
Well, fuck.
What the hell was I supposed to say to that?
No one else ever put it quite like that. Sodirect.
“So, I’m supposed to be afraid to leave the house, too?”
“You don’t belong in that bar,” he repeated, ignoring my question, “with people like that.”
“You mean adults?”
“I mean, withmenlike that.”
“What, men like you?”
“Yeah,” he growled, looking at me again.Reallylooking at me. I actually drew back a bit when the force of his eyes hit mine. “Men like me.”
I tried to laugh, but it just came out a pissy, huffy noise. “I’m not afraid of you, Xander.”
He said nothing.
“I can handle you.” I tried to relax back in my seat and give him my toughest, coldest look. “Bring it on.”
He unlocked the doors.
I didn’t move.
“Get out of the car, Courteney.”
But I didn’t. I just sat there, looking at him.
“Ride’s. Over.”
I still didn’t move.
I had pretty much zero idea what he was thinking, but he didn’t say anything else.
Minutes passed.
And I could feel something building, like electricity on my skin. The residue of all those fireworks we’d been hurling at each other… setting off sparks. Catching fire.
