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“Like I said, I’m not afraid of the law or the rules,” I say, averting my eyes from him.
“Obviously.”
I look back at him.
The way he says it confirms it all. The way he stares at me, with a knowing glint in his eyes, confirms it all too.
He knows. He knows what I did.
However I don’t know why it comes as a surprise. There are a lot of ways he could’ve found out. His mother might have told him, or my sister.
Besides, this isn’t the first time that I’ve been punished in front of him.
My bad behavior and my bad grades were the norm in the Carlisle family. There have been numerous occasions when Leah would lecture me about my lack of ambition, lack of good grades and extra-curricular activities, my lack of following the curfew, at the dinner table in front of the whole family.
Everyone knows that I’m not perfect.
That I’m the opposite of my sister and Arrow and Leah.
And even my mom, who was a college professor, when she was alive.
So it shouldn’t really embarrass me. Besides, this isn’t about me anyway.
This is about my sister, Sarah.
“Where’s my sister?” I ask, swallowing down all my selfish emotions. “Where’s Sarah?”
The mention of her name changes everything.
It changes the air, the light, the noises of the bar.
Sarah.
Like her name has so much power. Over him. Over me. Over the things around us.
“I’m guessing she’s back in LA,” he says in a soft voice.
But that’s the only thing soft about him.
The rest of him is hard.
His shoulders, the sleek, sculpted things, are rigid. His eyes are harsh.
So are his cheekbones.
And it’s so strange that I have my next question completely mapped out and planned.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but then he chooses that moment to adjust the rim of his baseball cap and I notice something about his knuckles.
They’re swollen and cut up, the skin flayed and rolled into tiny curls, and the words on the cusp of escaping completely change. “What happened to your hand?”
My question sort of surprises him, I think. But only for a second. After that, his expression shutters.
That bruised fist of his becomes tight as he brings it down to his side.
“I punched a door,” he says in a low voice.
“What?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Why?”
“Because I was drunk and pissed off.”
“Because you were drunk and pissed off?”
“Yeah. Apparently, I’ve got anger issues.”
He’s lying.
He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t get pissed off. And he absolutely does not have anger issues.
“No, you don’t,” I tell him. “You don’t get drunk. You’re not even drinking right now and you’re in an establishment called a bar.”
“If I get a drink, will you leave me alone?”
“And you absolutely do not have anger issues either,” I say, ignoring him.
At my vehement answer, a surprising thing happens.
His lips twitch and I swear to God, my witchy heart jumps in my chest for making them.
“Well, then you should’ve been there,” he says in an amused voice.
His amusement is making my heart pound faster. “Been where?”
“When my coach signed me up for anger management therapy.”
“Your coach signed you up for anger management therapy?”
I know. I know I’m repeating most of his stuff. But honestly, I can’t keep up.
Because it’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in my entire life.
Arrow and anger management.
Arrow, punching a door. Arrow, kissing a strange girl at the bar.
What the fuck is happening?
“Yeah.” He nods, his amusement still in place. “Your glowing endorsement could’ve saved me.”
“Why did he sign you up for anger management therapy?” I ask, as if this question is the holy grail of all questions.
“Because I punched a door,” he deadpans. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
Before I can say anything to that, he leans toward me.
He not only leans but he sniffs me too.
I draw back a little. “What are you doing?”
Keeping himself hung over me, he rumbles, “Smelling you.”
“Why?”
“To see if you’re too drunk to have this conversation.”
I open and close my mouth for a few seconds. “I’m not drunk. I don’t drink.”
Well, not a lot.
I mean, I have had a few drinks here and there, mostly with people back in my old high school.
“Is that right?”
I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“Surprising. Given the fact that you don’t care about rules.” Then, “What about getting high?”
“W-What about it?”
“Do you like it?” He looks me up and down. “I’m sure a girl like you must enjoy something like that once in a while.”
I swallow at the look in his eyes, at the fact that he’s still looming over me. “No, okay? I don’t do drugs either.”
“So if you don’t do drugs, as you said, and you don’t drink, why the hell did you come here?”
To distract myself from dangerous thoughts. Of you…
“I came here to dance,” I snap.
He sweeps his eyes all over me, taking in my messy, curly hair, my painted lips, my sweater and my cargo pants, before standing up straight. “Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you.”
