Page 5

“Next time you laugh at me,” she says, glaring at me, hands clenched into fists. “It’s going straight up your ass.”
“Alright—” I bob my head because I believe that she’d try. Wipe my bloody fingers on the leg of my jeans. “You gonna help me or not?”
She looks like she wants to spit on me and I get that feeling again. That helpless asshole feeling I always get when I’m around her. The feeling that convinces me that she can see right through me. Into me.
And she doesn’t like what she sees.
Like I’m not worth her time.
“There’s fifty bucks and a free kitten in it for you.” I make the offer because, while it’s obvious she pretty much hates my face, she’s curious.
“A kitten?” She scoffs at me. “Why not offer me free candy and ride in your panel van while you’re at it.”
I’m not sure I like what she’s implying. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Shit.” Instead of answering my question, she frowns up at me. “Sit down,” she says gesturing toward the bench behind her.
“What?” I say, frowning at her. “Why?”
“Because you’re bleeding pretty good.”
I take another swipe at my chin. More blood.
A lot of it.
She leans into the space between us and latches onto my wrist to pull me toward her. “Just do it.” She shoves me onto the bench before heading down the dark hallway before cutting to the right and into the bathroom.
I hear her rummage around in a cabinet and run the sink. She’s back a minute later with a first-aid kit and she’s washed her hands. Setting it on the bench beside me, she flips it open. “You need to learn how to duck faster,” she says, rummaging through the kit before coming up with a pre-packaged alcohol pad.
“I’m six foot six—I’m pretty sure ducking is what put me directly in your path of destruction.” I watch as she rips it open and pulls the pad free. “Maybe you need to learn to curb your temper, tiny.”
“Yeah?” She smirks at me. “Maybe I’ll learn to fly while I’m at it.” She moves closer, straddling my leg to lean into me. Now that I’m sitting, we’re the same height.
She has her mother’s eyes.
Beautiful.
Hazel. Just a tad more green than brown, framed with long, thick lashes.
When she places her hand on my face, tilting it toward her, my mouth goes dry. My heart starts pounding in my chest, a heavy, uneven rhythm that makes me wonder if I’m having a heart attack.
And then she swipes that alcohol pad across my chin.
“Motherfu—” I jerk back and the fingers she has wrapped around my chin dig in.
“Quit being a baby,” she says, taking another swipe before blotting it dry with some gauze. “It’s the super glue that’s really gonna hurt.”
“Superglue?” I can feel my eyes widen.
She shrugs. “Unless you have time to go to the ER for stitches?”
Stitches? Shit. How bad did she lay me open?
Before I can ask, she brandishes a tube of superglue at me, flicks off the cap and squirts a generous amount into the gash on my chin before pressing it closed.
She wasn’t kidding.
That shit hurts.