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“Don’t be a fucking baby,” he snaps before striding away.
I fully understand now how some people just end up dead. Dad has said more than once “they just snapped” as if it explains everything.
I rush after him, catching him in the living room before he can reach the front door. Grabbing his arm, I spin him around and shove him against the wall, one hand twisted in his shirt, the other gripping his neck.
There’s pure defiance in his eyes, but he doesn’t try to pull away.
I swallow down the ball of acrimony burning my throat.
“I am not a fuck toy, Landon Andrews,” I growl, unable to shove away the idea that he just did what he did because he’s a spiteful bastard and his only mission in life is to hurt me. “I refuse to let you play me like this.”
As if he has no sense of self-preservation, his eyes drop to my lips once again.
With a growl, I pull him back from the wall before slamming him against it, uncaring of the force the back of his head makes against the sheetrock.
“Stay the fuck away from me.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my warning.
“What’s the problem?”
I’m slow to take a step back. Who gives a shit if Harley is standing there witnessing this whole thing? Maybe I should seal the whole situation with another kiss in front of a known witness this time instead of getting caught by someone in the hallway. He’d keep his fucking distance then.
Landon hasn’t once looked over my shoulder at Harley. His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Fuck this,” he spits as he shrugs off my hands. “And fuck you.”
The echo of the door slamming behind Landon rings out through the room, and I feel like I’ve run a damn marathon. My body aches, my heart is pounding. I can feel the threat of sweat beading at the base of my neck.
Without looking at Harley, I walk out the front door.
This was it, years of built-up shit finally coming to a head. The aftermath will be difficult to manage, but it had to happen. I take a look around, certain I’ll never step foot on this property again. I have no reason to any longer. My self-inflicted pain, that ache I feel every time my eyes search for him, just came to an end.
I feel like a phony when I breathe in a sigh of relief at seeing both Landon’s motorcycle and the SUV he uses when he’s home are still in the parking lot. He didn’t take off, but that’s little consolation I feel when I climb into my own car, my hands shaking and tears burning my eyes.
I smack my hand on the steering wheel until it aches, that pain something I can focus on easier than the closing of this chapter of my life.
I can’t wait for fucking summer to be over.
Chapter 11
Landon
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” I mutter in the back of the cab as I delete the million emails in my college account. “Who gives a shit about dietary changes and the state of the rose bushes?”
“You okay back there?” the cabbie asks.
“Fine,” I grumble, breathing a sigh of relief once all the stupid emails are gone.
“So, do you mind getting out of my cab? I got other shit to do.”
I look up, realizing we’re parked in front of the athletic dorms.
“Shit. Sorry, man.” I tip extra because it’s not that guy’s fault I can’t focus on a single fucking thing these days. I’m honestly just grateful he didn’t make me beg too much to bring me all the way out here from the airport. He was the fourth guy I asked, the others turning me down outright and waving the next fare forward.
He doesn’t bother helping me get my luggage out of the trunk, but that doesn’t really bother me either. There’s no room in my head for anything but—
“Dude!”
I fake a smile, turning toward Silas as he approaches. We engage in that bro hug, backslapping bullshit.
“Help me with this shit,” I say, pointing down to the duffle bags.
Being the good-natured guy he is, he reaches for one.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I step forward.
“To find the RA so I can get my room number.”
When I say I deleted every single email, I mean every single email, but the resident advisers are always so helpful.
“The athletic dorms are closed,” Silas says. “Didn’t you get the email?”
“Closed?” I look up at the building, somehow just noticing the scaffolding surrounding the outside. “The remodel? It was supposed to be done by the beginning of the semester.”
Silas shrugs. “Something about supply chain issues.”
“Of fucking course,” I hiss. “How do we find out where we’re going?”
Silas points to a red-faced woman standing at a table on the sidewalk. I feel sorry for the woman who is clearly more accustomed to an air-conditioned office than being exposed to the summer Texas sun.
