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He rolls his eyes, so I do too. He wrinkles his nose, so I wrinkle mine.
“Stop.”
“Stop.”
He stares at me and I stare back. His gaze flits down, then back up, and he says, “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“I’m Cupid. Duh!” I say, spreading my arms to show off my cute little toga I made with a sheet. Behind me, a pair of white flimsy wings jut out from my back. They’re held by clear tape hooked under my pits. I found that along with the gold laurel crown currently sitting atop my hair in the bottom of an old trunk up in Tillie and Walter’s attic. (I didn’t ask.)
And to top it all off, all up and down my arms and on my cheeks, I stuck little pink and red heart stickers. Just so no one would mistake me for any little ol’ angel.
His dark brows arch. “I gathered that. Why?”
I stare blankly at him. “Why not? It’s a costume party, Vale.”
He studies me with a look I can’t place, and I can normally place a lot of looks. But there’s something about Vale that’s always been hidden from me. Even back when we were kids, randomly thrown together in the same shitty foster home.
His hands drop away all of a sudden, as if he just remembered he was holding me. I sigh, watching as he spins to face the door.
My gaze drops, taking in how well he fills out his jeans. Just the right amount of tightness to give that firmly sculpted ass some much-needed oomph compared to our school uniforms.
Garbled mumbling from behind me has him whirling around, and my brows spike at the new view before I can help myself.
Not that I would…
“Fucking Christ. Stop.”
I pout and glance up to find him glaring at me with his arms folded across his chest. With only a short-sleeved black t-shirt on, I can make out every taut line of his muscles. Every teal-hued vein branching out down his forearms.
Wetting my lips, I flit my gaze up through my lashes. “Stop what?”
His nose flares, and his lip curls. “You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
He lunges forward, grabbing me by the throat. Just like he did yesterday in the bathroom, only this time he doesn’t try to steal my air from me.
“Stop looking at me like that.” When he speaks, I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Tequila, I think. No wonder he’s so feisty tonight.
“Like what?”
“Like you wanna eat me,” he all but growls.
My mouth twitches. “Do you wanna eat me instead?”
He looks me up and down, not even bothering to mask his disgust. It shouldn’t bother me, not when it’s a look I’ve seen aimed my way so many times before this. I’m no stranger to the sneers and wrinkled, upturned noses. Like I’m no better than the dirt on some rich bitch’s Louboutins.
On my feet, or on my knees, it’s always the same. I’m scum. Nothing more than a hole to use, abuse, and throw away like yesterday's trash.
And until now, I was okay with that. So long as it was my idea, and it got me what I wanted, I was peachy keen with it.
And I can’t even quite say it does bother me that Vale, of all people, is looking at me like he is now.
On one hand, I want to be a good boy and do everything in my power to wipe that revulsion from his eyes. To drop down on my knees, and let my throat do the talking. I’ve always been so much better at show than tell. When I talk, the words just tend to get all mixed up, fogging the truth of my intentions.
On the other hand…
“Or would you rather hurt me?” I whisper into a sly grin. “Make me pay for what I did to your sweet little boo over there.” I cock my head. “He’s cute. Is he cute under the button-ups and khakis too?”
