Page 119 of Overcast

I tsk. “Yeah, being shacked up with the man who tortured me was exactly what I wanted to do when he found out I wasn’t to blame.”

“Guess not,” he mutters, sinking deeper into the couch. “I know you don’t see it, but he’s really not that bad of a guy.”

“Good for him.”

“I mean, he’s an asshole, don’t get me wrong but—”

“Can we please stop talking about him? I just want to sit here.”

“Sure.” He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles at the end of the commercial, and the show comes back on with a new case.

We get lost in a case about a man complaining at a fast food joint about not getting his dressing for his salad, then goes back a second time, snatches the food out of the employee’s hands, and slams the door in his face. His car ends up being vandalized and wants the damages to be paid for.

“I would’ve blown up his car,” Mills conveys during another break, rising from the couch then towards the kitchen. “Prick.”

“That’s a little extra.”

“Big deal, they made a human error.” The sound of the pantry door closes in the kitchen before he reenters the living room. “His fat ass doesn’t need the extra calories.”

“Mills, he paid for it.”

“Then, he could’ve gone back to get it.” He plops back down next to me and rips open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

“Maybe he was already home.”

“He doesn’t have any salad dressing at his house?” He pops a chip in his mouth, directing the bag at me to take some as well.

I roll my eyes. “That’s not the point.” Shoving my hand inside, I grab a few.

“Entitled assholes,” Mills broadcasts, reaching for another chip. “The dude is just a dickhead, and they just showed him that you can’t be like that.”

“They slashed his tires.”

“He’s lucky that’s all he got.”

“Then what would you’ve done because unless you have bombs lying around your house, I doubt you’d be able to blow it up.”

Mills smiles, and it’s the first time I’ve seen it.

He’s the boy next door. The possible football player in high school. The guy who got all the girls which took no effort on his part. His grayish-blue eyes are unique and hypnotizing, forging a need to look at them longer than necessary.

But he’s not a jerk.

Somehow I feel like he’s the guy that would beat the bully up and have no problem hanging out with rejects like me.

“It’s called fireworks and a gas tank,” Mills offers, popping two chips in his mouth that don’t hinder his sly smirk.

My lips curl on their own. “You’re impossible and inappropriate. You’d scare everyone around, what if there were babies or kids?”

“It’d be pretty.” He lifts his shoulders, twisting the bag for me to help myself again. “Imagine all the colors it’d make.”

“In the middle of a fast-food parking lot?”

He laughs while chewing. “Imagine being at the drive-thru window, and all of a sudden, there are a few loud cracks and then—boom—explosion of color.”

“It’d scare the crap out of me.”

“But, you’d never forget it.” He knocks into my arm lightly before jamming his hand in the blue bag for more.

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