Page 20 of Breaking Hollywood

It takes me a second to get what she means, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head. “You ratted me out because I called you Speedy? That is in no way comparable!”

“Who cares? I told you I’d get you back. And, honestly, the whole perving on my breasts only upped the ante and made it totally comparable, jerkface.”

“You bitch,” I scowl.

“That all you’ve got?” She laughs. “I thought you could do better than that.”

“Should I come back when you two are done?” Tate asks.

I say, “Yes,” at the same time as she says, “No.”

Screw my foot. I’ll get that sorted after I’ve sorted out the devil here.

“You just wait, Speedy. I’m gonna come at you with some serious payback when you least expect it.”

“Ooh. I’m shaking in my heels,” she mocks.

“I can’t believe a Smart car broke your foot.” Tate’s smile is getting wider by the second.

“Shut up. And we don’t know it’s broken for sure yet,” I counter.

Tate comes over, crouches down, and lifts my foot, examining it. I hiss at the pain from the movement.

“I’m pretty sure it’s broken, brother.” He looks up, a big-ass smirk on his face. “And it was broken by a baby car.”

“Fuck off. Those cars are not as light as they look. And she was sitting in it as well.” I jerk my head in Speedy’s direction. “That car is, what? A couple thousand pounds at least. Add on another one fifty from hefty over there, and you’re looking at some serious weight. Enough to break even the hardest man’s foot.”

“Hey!” she squeals. “Hefty? That’s just mean! I’m not hefty! And what the hell happened to ‘You weigh, what? One twenty?’” She mimics my voice.

I glare at her. “She gained thirty pounds when she ratted me out.”

“Asshole.”

“Shrew.”

“Ooh, you got a new word. You’re getting better at this, Hoppy.”

“Bite me, Speedy.”

“Jesus, how long have you two known each other?” Tate asks, getting to his feet.

“Too long.”

“An hour,” she says, ignoring me. “Although we have met before, but your superstar brother doesn’t remember that.”

“Bitter much? Does it hurt your feelings that I don’t remember you?” I taunt. “Did you bitch at me that night, too? Maybe that’s why I can’t remember you. I blocked out all the nagging. And, actually”—my eyes go to the clock on the wall—“it’s been an hour and a half. The longest hour and a half of my life.”

“Aw, you’re counting our time together, Hoppy. So sweet.”

And, like the grown-up that I am, I flip her off.

“As much fun as this has been—and, trust me, it’s been entertaining—I need to get you down for an X-ray,” Tate says. “Cover up, so you don’t get recognized. But security is down there just in case you need it.”

I sigh.

That’s the part of my life I don’t like—having to hide in public—but it comes with the territory.

I forgo my sunglasses and just put my ball cap back on.