“That doesn’t sound too rough. A government-paid trip to a tropical island? Sign me up.”
“You’d probably make a good soldier,” she says without a trace of irony. “You’re definitely not afraid of anything.”
I assess the tiny girl in front of me. She’s small enough for me to pick up and toss over my shoulder, which I would have already done with any other girl. But not Sugar. We’ve already had two altercations. One more and we may both end up in trouble. But not being able to just go for it—to just have her? It’s driving me fucking crazy. My chest has been constricted since she walked in the room, my mind consumed with the thought of her. My dick’s on high alert every time I see her, the way her eyes laser-focus that ‘fuck you’ energy everywhere they look. But after last night, I keep my distance. She’s wrong about that.
I’m scared shitless of her.
“All that change in climate must have been rough on this girl,” I say, touching a rusted spot near the wheel well. “That’s a lot of humidity.”
“Yeah,” she says, staring at either my hand or the rust. I don’t know which. “He wasn’t around a lot to take care of it and then…” Her voice gets small for a second, but she recovers, looking right at me, voice and stature both defiantly firm. “And then it became mine.”
There’s definitely something missing from the story, but it’s obvious she’s not ready to tell it—at the very least, not ready to tell me. I hold her eyes anyway, wanting her to know that I hear her. See her. And holy fuck do I want to touch her.
But most of all, I realize, I just want to know her.
“Look,” she says, watching the ember of her cigarette as she flicks some ashes away, “about last night… I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Which part?” I ask, “Kissing me back or slapping the fuck out of me?”
Her eyes raise slowly to meet my gaze. She answers simply, “Yes.”
Now it’s my turn to grin. “Eh, I probably deserved it.”
“Probably?” she says, voice incredulous. “You absolutely deserved it! Where do you get off saying I’m a—” She snaps her mouth shut, jaw going sharp. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired of being fucked with and you just won’t stop, but violence isn’t ever an answer.”
“Well,” I argue, “sometimes violence is an answer.”
She points her cigarette at me. “And that’s why you and I will never get along.”
I squint, wiggling my hand. “I think it’s probably more that you keep acting like you want to stab me.”
She flashes me a sharp, insincere smile. “Who says it’s an act?”
“I thought violence wasn’t an answer?”
“What can I say,” she says, lifting a shoulder in a way that makes me want to trace the outline of her collarbone. “You have a way of asking the right questions.”
I tuck my hands in my pockets before they get me in more trouble. Unfortunately, I can’t shut my mouth. “So was that supposed to be, like, an apology?”
She scoffs at my being unimpressed. “As much as you apologized for hitting me.”
“Good, then we’re even. Two hits. Two sorry excuses for apologies.”
One of her cheeks lifts up in a sneer. “We’re not even. Not even remotely.”
And I just decide that I’m fed up with it all. I’ve done shittier things than hitting Sugar by accident, but never has a simple mistake managed to make me feel like this. I toss my cigarette away and say, “You know what? Fine. Take a shot.”
All that tension returns to her frame when I step up to her, arms out. “What?”
“Hit me,” I explain. “Go as hard as you can. I won’t fight back.” I saw the way she looked before, back in the pool. That spark in her eye when she hit me. The way her body stayed coiled afterward, like she wanted to keep hitting. I know that feeling like the back of my hand. Pulling back—pulling away—from that instinct is like the worst form of blue balls. It sticks with you, fuses to your spine like a parasite.
She inches back, forehead wrinkling. “I’m not going to hit you.”
“You already have. Twice. Neither of them were exactly accidental,” I point out, feeling my voice grow cold, but not caring, “but if we’re still not even, then let’s just get this over with, right? Go ahead and hit me.”
I have no idea how someone can simultaneously shrink back and rear up, but that’s exactly what she does. She’s such an exercise in contradictions that it makes my head spin. “You have a concussion,” she says.
“Fuck the concussion!” I snap, feeling even more annoyed when she flinches at my tone. “No one’s ever made me feel like a shitty human being before. If this will make us even—if this will make you stop hating me for something I never meant to do—then it’s worth it to me. So do it.”
Instead, she gives me a dubious look. “What, you actually feel guilty?”
I gape at her. “Of course, I feel guilty! I was trying to protect you, and I fucked you up instead. I’m not the monster you seem to think I am.”
“Then why do you keep doing this?” she demands, gesturing frantically between us. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
“They’re two different things,” I insist. “I’m chasing your tail because I’m into you, Sugar. Any other girl would be able to take that, but you—”
I can see the shutters slamming over her features, face going hard and blank. “Any other girl? Like I’m some kind of freak because I don’t want you touching me?” And, oh, she’s pissed. But there’s something else there, too. Something vulnerable. Something hurt. An insecurity.
My groan turns into a growl as I roughly push my hair back. “I just meant, because of what happened that night. I’ve never hit a girl before. Yes, that makes you a special case.”
At least some of that stony sharpness eases. “You think if you hadn’t hit me, I’d be into this.” She says this real casual-like, just a passing observation. “You’re wrong.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, looking down into her eyes. “But I’ll never really know. Not until you make this even. So, take a shot.” I plant my feet and brace for the impact. Sugar’s a small girl. Her punch probably won’t jostle me much, but who knows. I’ve underestimated lesser people before. “And don’t tuck your thumb. Girls always tuck their thumbs. Last thing I need is you blaming me for breaking it on my face.”
For a second, she actually looks like she’s going to do it. She really does make a fist, shoulders squared, chin raised defiantly, and fuck me. She’s hot as hell, even like that—even when she wants to hurt me.
Slowly, she deflates. “I’m not going to punch you, Sebastian.”
I deflate, too. “Why the hell not? I’ve got it coming. No one could blame you.”
She pushes off the bench and walks to the Mustang, running a hand over the edge of the hood. “The girls all came to our room last night.” She spares me a quick glance to elaborate, “Vandy, Afton, Caroline, Elana… the other one, Vandy’s brother’s girl—”