Page 72 of Wrath

Even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I see his jawtick as his hands tighten on the wheel.Knowing I’ve made my mark offers me no satisfaction. If anything, I feel even more pissed off; it’s anger that comes from knowing he won’t be honest.

"You think I won't push because you’re driving and I’m sick or something?” I ask. “I'm not sick. This is my brain on life. So let me say it for you, Ezra. I think you're a big, cocksucking gay fag just like I am. I bet if I put a dick in your ass, you'd fucking love it. Everyone knows cocksuckers like a big dick in their asshole."

He whips off the road so fast I’m positive we’re going to roll right off the shoulder, flip into the pine forest below. But the Jeep jolts to a clean stop. Then he's out. He's stalking around the hood, a shadow in gold light. He's on my side, four or five feet away from my door, facing the thick woods. His shoulders heave as he lights up a cigarette. Another second, and a puff of smoke drifts up toward the bright moon.

He’s breathing hard. Because I upset him. I watch as his hand sifts back through his hair. Then I shut my eyes becausefuck that shit. Anger tightens my chest—that it’s all a fucking game to him.

I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Find him lighting up another smoke. Okay, so he’s big-league mad. I’m not feeling bad for that. I called him out and shook him up—like he shakes me up every fucking moment that I'm in his presence.

I guess I miss him throw the smoke down, because the next second he's passing like a shade back through the headlights, sliding back into the driver’s seat. His face is perfectly impassive as he puts the car in drive and pulls onto the road. Actually, it isn’t. His features are set like stone now. Hard—as if he’s pissed off.

He has no right. Like I ever did a fucking thing to him except be nice and get head-fucked.

I remember clocking him, and that’s a vision I like right now.When it’s clear he wants to drive in silence, I say, "You smell like an ashtray.”

He slits his eyes in my direction, narrowing them at me for a long, heart-pounding moment. "You must really feel like hell, Mills."It’s quiet and earnest, taking me off guard, so I can’t help but lash out again.

I laugh like he’s lost his damn mind. "I feel perfect."

"You're a guy who plays the cello and does Boy Scouts. I guess I can get you mad, though," he says, sounding thoughtful.

"Oh yes, only you. Sospecial. You knowallmy dirty secrets."

"I know everything I need to. I was having fun making you squirm, and you enjoyed it. Don't pretend you didn't want it."

Is he talking about our nighttime adventures in his bed? Why is he using past tense?

"Don't pretend you cared whether I did,” I fire back.

He laughs, the sound soft and derisive. "I went slow every time. Except that night on the roof. I took it slow so you could push me away, but you didn't want to do that, did you? You pushed my head down. You made sure to stuff my mouth full of your dick because you wanted that shit. It was worth the shamed feeling you had when I would send you out of my room."

"No it wasn't." I stare out at the road as my throat aches like tears are coming.

"That’s fine, because I won't do it again."

"Too afraid to be with someone like me, dick face?” I’m pretty damn sure Mr. You Can’t See Me Cry is freaked out by me now—after what happened last night. Maybe he thinks it was his fault. “Your mouth's not good enough to break me.” It’s a murmur.

"I think we both know it's good enough for anything you want it to be." I glance up at the moment he swallows. His eyes widen as they move over me. When he speaks again, his voice sounds choked. "Do youthink it was me?"

I know what he’s asking, but I don’t want to talk about my fucking epilepsy—I don’t want to let him off the hook—so I dodge the question. "Sure fucking hope it was you. Every night I went in your room, it sure as shit looked like you."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then say it." I'm just fucking with him. Fucking with him like he fucks with me.

"Do you think what I did...caused the..."

"Seizure?" I snap.

"Yeah." He says it quiet. His profile is bathed in silver moonlight. I can see his teeth bite on his lower lip.

"Would it matter if it had? Would you feel bad or something?" I can't do what he does. I can'treallyfuck with him. So I say, "You didn't. No. Your lips are pretty fucking sweet but not that sweet, angel."

Ezra’s hand, propped against the wheel at two o’clock, re-grips it. His left one comes up to his face, smooths his hair back.

"All of that was a...lapse,” he says quietly. “No one can find out that it happened."

"Fuckin’ shame. Was gonna put it on the jumbo screen at halftime at the first football game next week."

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