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My eyes burn with the threat of tears, but I refuse to let them fall. I will not give Kodiak the satisfaction of seeing me cry ever again. I hate him so much for so many things, but this unnecessary humiliation is currently at the forefront, the things he said to me two years ago a very, very close second.
“Didn’t realize you’re into the whole tag-team thing.” His voice is flat, apathetic.
I focus on remaining still. On breathing.
“Is that what you and all the drama geeks get up to backstage? You find a nice quiet spot behind the curtains and get yourself good and fucked?”
I want to say something scathing, like I’m surprised that’s nothisthing, since his dad was into threesomes back when he was Kodiak’s age. Although, the version of Kodiak’s dad I know is a really good guy, and doesn’t seem like the type who would bang two girls in a hot tub. However, there’s a really, really old video floating around on the internet that proves it’s true.
There are also about a thousand pictures ofmydad with his tongue in different women’s mouths. Apparently he didn’t sleep with all the puck bunnies, he just made out with them in public. Including my mom. Having a famous parent can be a real pain in the ass, and far more informative than is normal.
My throat is tight, and anything I say is going to come out a pathetic whisper, if at all. So instead, I clench my fists to keep from fidgeting and try not to focus on Kodiak’s hurtful words, or the memories being close to him incite.
“You got words for everyone else, but none for me?” he taunts.
I stare straight ahead, unwilling to look at his horrible, beautiful face. I weigh my response before I speak, trying to inject some steel into my spine, so it doesn’t come out a weak whisper. “Why would I give you my words when all you do is twist them into something ugly?”
“Still living in the past?” Real emotion hides under his ire, a waver in his voice that I recognize: anxiety.
I let the things I want to say sit on my tongue like bitter pills and finally ask, “Why are you doing this?”
“To remind you nothing has changed, Lavender,” he grinds out.
The boy I used to love never would’ve embarrassed me or talked down to me like this. And his current actions prove that what happened two years ago wasn’t a mistake. He meant to hurt me then, and he means to hurt me now.
He pulls into the driveway, and I yank on the door handle, but it doesn’t open, because the child locks are still engaged. “I hate you.” I spit the words like nails.
He leans over the center console until he’s so close, his face is clear and beautiful and so, so hideous in its perfection. His pale green eyes burn with emotions I don’t understand, and the flecks of gold shine like refracted sunshine. “I don’t believe that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten into this car with me.”
I can feel his humid, minty breath on my lips.
He drapes his arm across the back of my seat, and his fingertips brush my neck. I jerk back and slap his hand away.
Kodiak frowns and grabs my wrist, prying my fist open.
I hate the way my body responds to the contact, a shiver working its way down my spine, soothing but igniting at the same time.
“What the fuck?” He twists my hand so I can see what he does. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?” There’s something in his voice that doesn’t quite match, an emotion I can’t put my finger on—maybe because he’s touching me and I hate it as much as I crave it.
Four crescent-shaped marks line my palm, and I’m mortified all over again when thin lines of blood well from the fresh cuts. I yank my hand away. “Let me out.” It’s barely a whisper.
“Lavender.” Dismay lurks in my name.
I find my voice, finally, and its strength is fueled by my anger. “Let me out.Now.”
“I should’ve known better,” he gripes and hits the unlock button.
I throw the door open and clamber out, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
Kodiak cuts the engine and gets out of the car, calling my name again.
I give him the bird without looking back. He doesn’t deserve any more of my words.
Chapter Three
Too Far
Kodiak
