Page 122 of Rebellious

Diesel: Your turn.

Rebel: Not until you answer the question.

Diesel: That’s not how this works. It’s my fucking game. So I set the rules.

Rebel: Joke’s on you, fuck face. We each have to answer our own questions. That’s MY fucking rule.

He debated on challenging her. Except it wasn’t worth a major argument.

Diesel: You’re so fucking spoiled. Beach vacation for me.

Rebel: Was that so hard? Fun in the sun, huh?

Diesel: It was torturous. Yes, you know it. Now ask your question.

Rebel: I can ask anything?

Diesel: As long as you frame it in the correct format, yes.

Rebel: Would you rather cuddle in bed or take a walk and hold hands?

Diesel shoved away the images that question conjured.

Diesel: Neither. I’m not into sappiness.

Rebel: That’s romance. Not sappiness.

Diesel: Instead of arguing over something else and wasting more time, we can move on. Tell me your preference.

Rebel: Cuddling. I think. I’ve never done that.

She was purposely fucking with him, trying to goad him into any inappropriate conversation. It was exactly how Diesel once used the game. No one had ever turned it around on him.

Fucking brat.

Diesel: Would you rather cook for the rest of your life or order takeout forever?

Rebel: Neither.

Diesel: You’re fucking cheating.

Rebel: I don’t like your fucking questions. They’re boring.

Diesel: Well I sure the fuck can’t ask if you’d rather spit or swallow.

Normally, that’s where the game ended up, on sexual questions that led to hookups and great fucking.

Rebel: What does that mean?

The question almost popped Diesel’s eyes out of their fucking sockets.

Rebel: Spit or swallow?

Diesel: Never mind. Don’t worry about it.

Rebel: That means it’s about sex.

Diesel: Forget I brought it up.