“Tell you what, I’ll help you on one condition,” I say, sauntering closer. He tracks me like a cornered snake, ready to strike. Silently, I goad him.Come at me, baby, I can take it.
“Ask me out again and your nuts are getting a date with this,” he warns, aiming the drill at my crotch.
I chuckle and raise my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll install your fancy doorbell if you keep me company while I do it.”
The gears are turning in that beautiful brain of his. He must be desperate. He stares at the dead tool in his hand and mutters, “You’ll be here anyway.” Eyeing me suspiciously, he says, “I don’t trust you not to fuck with it.”
I flatten my palm over my heart. “On my useless existence, I promise not to fuck up your doorbell.”
His deadpan glare is priceless.
“You’re not touching shit, but… you can walk me through it.”
My heart fucking skips.
“Whatever you want.”
He perks up. “What if I want you to leave me alone?”
“Nice try.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. “God, you’re annoying.”
He gathers the mess in a plastic bag, mumbling to himself. As he crosses the threshold into his apartment, I’m overwhelmed by emptiness. I can’t let him go yet. I haven’t had enough of a fix—
But the door has already slammed in my face.
12
Win
Six Years Ago
Black jeans. Black hoodie. Black boots.
A standard “Win” outfit. The collection in my closet is a mix of black pieces so I never stress over what goes together.
The pile of discarded clothes at my feet tells a different story.
We’re going to a movie. I don’t need to dress up. But I also don't want to imply the occasion isn't worth the effort. Maybe I should wear the new sweater Mom snuck in last night. I hastily strip off my hoodie and tug the knit over my head. After fiddling for ten more minutes, I debate changing back into the hoodie.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m making this into something bigger than it is. It’s Remy’s birthday, not a date— even if I swear something has changed between us. Logically, I know I'm only seeing what I want to. But after reading his text the minute he passed his driver’s test, I'm not so sure.
Remy: Guess who’s picking you up tonight, Pooh? This guy! :)
Whetherintentionally flirty or not, his message made up for what happened at school after he left early to go to the DMV. MybuddyGrant noticed the second Remy wasn’t glued to my side and ambushed me before I could escape into the library. The back of my neck still aches from where his meaty hand clamped around it. At least my hair hides the developing bruises.
I shudder at the memory of his brutal hold as he dragged me into the restroom. Thank fuck a guy was pissing at the urinal. Grant had released me with a hissed, “You lucked out, little bitch.”
A knot lodges in the back of my throat. His pathetic bullying hadn't warranted much fear at first (I've gotten used to nasty words and rough hands) but my gut tells me it's only the beginning.
My phone pings impatiently. I ruffle my hair, then shove my wallet in my back pocket as I grab the envelope with Remy’s name on it.
Your driver has arrived!
Don’t keep the birthday boy waiting ;)
A flirty textanda winky face?
