Page 175 of Mad Girl

“What question?”

“You know what question,” you said darkly.

I made one of those I-have-no-idea faces. Totally fake, by the way. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you said. “The one about Michael. When I asked if you’d slept with him.”

“You said it didn’t matter.”

Your face, Casey. You should’ve seen it. All sharp angles and barely suppressed irritation, your dark gaze intense. “Answer the question.”

“But why would I answer the question,” I said, pulse jumping, “if the answer doesn’t matter to you?”

“Oh my God.” You tossed your head back, hand clenched into a fist. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever known. Do you honestly think your answer doesn’t matter to me?”

“Honestly? I don’t know what to think.”

You hesitated a moment, jaw ticking. “It matters to me, alright? Everything you do matters to me. Surely that was made clear to you when I nearly fucking cried in your lap,” you said, gesturing to the sofa where that very incident had taken place. “When I nearly bloody begged you to speak to me at the art gallery.”

“I just figured you must really value my friendship.”

You pulled a face. “Oh, come off it. You think I act like this with other girls?”

“Never really seen you interact with other girls.” And thank God for that. Might’ve put me in jail much sooner.

“Well, I don’t, alright? I’ve been trying to work out why you couldn’t answer the question. Because you have, and you’re afraid to admit it? Because you just wanted to mess with me? And I hate not knowing for sure. Michael told me no when I asked him, but he also let me believe he might’ve cheated on Sienna when he didn’t. So tell me right now. Have you slept with my brother?”

“In what way exactly?”

“Oh my God,” you said, a frustrated laugh bubbling out as you tugged at your hair. “You’re definitely fucking with me now. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“A little bit, yeah. You made me feel pretty small that night. You hurt my feelings.”

“And I’m deeply sorry about that, okay? I never meant to hurt you. If it makes you feel any better, I suffered—I mentally and emotionally suffered—when you barely spoke to me for ten weeks.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “You counted the weeks?”

“Of course I counted the weeks,” you said hoarsely, squeezing your eyes shut. “When you aren’t speaking to me, it’s torture.”

“Torture?” I might’ve been playing it pretty cool, but deep down, your admission had my heart doing little summersaults inside my chest.

“Yes,” you said miserably. “It’s like going without tea. Can I do it? Sure. But then there’s nothing to look forward to. Nothing to enjoy. Nothing to warm me up on a cold afternoon. It’s like doing without the best part of my day. Hearing your voice—talking to you—is the best part of my day. Now,” you said, much lower, definitely pleading, “will you please answer my question?”

“I’ve never slept with Michael—not like that. We’re just friends.”

“Yeah? Then I why do sense a vibe between you two?”

“A vibe? There’s no vibe.”

“There’s tension.”

“If by tension you mean him being an asshole and me calling him on it, or him calling me a bitch when I’m acting like one, then sure.”

“Nope,” you said. “That’s not what I mean at all. I get the feeling he might like to be more than your friend.”

“Michael? You think Michael has feelings for me?”

“Either that,” you said, gaze dark and ominous, “or he just really wants to sink his teeth into you.”