Page 56 of That's Too Pucking Bad

Fuck.

I think I just shot myself in the foot.

Chapter 11

I slam the door behind me, fuming. The party, the stupid games— how dare Zane pull that crap tonight? My phone hits the bed with a dull thud, but it’s nowhere near satisfying enough. I want to launch it across the room, watch it shatter, anything to bleed out the anger in my bones.

I rip off my dress and let it fall to the floor, a discarded relic of my misplaced hope that tonight would be worth it. The shower’s hot water pelts down, scalding my skin, but even that doesn’t wash away the frustration burrowing deep into my soul. I scrub, trying to wash out the sight of him withher, laughing, playing at some game while I was left there, feeling like a fool.

I can’t stop thinking about how I got here. Colin. That ass. I had made plans with him, something to look forward to after that fight. But he cancels, says he’s too sleepy to hang out. Like he doesn’t even care. It’s like he’s never interested in me, and I’dwasted enough time waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to that damn party in the first place. I just wanted to escape for a few hours, but now I’m back to square one, drowning in irritation.

After drying off, I slip into my soft cotton shorts and a faded t-shirt, one of the only things that feels like a real comfort. But even cocooned in my room, the night’s irritation coils tighter. I grab my phone, mindlessly scrolling until I see Maya’s username: @MayaMischief.

And there it is. Several posts from the party. And there it is— pictures from theReaperparty, all vibrant and full of life. I tap on one, and my heart drops. I zoom in, and there’s Zane, wearing that fucking red mask, looking every bit the arrogant asshole with some blonde draped over him, as if she has him wrapped around her finger. A pang of jealousy twists my gut, and I hate how easily he gets under my skin.

Why does he get to rewrite the rules? It’s not fair. I was the one who tried to keep it friendly. But he’s off with her, looking like he’s having the time of his life. I shouldn’t care, but I really fucking do. The anger inside me bubbles over.

This isn’t supposed to matter.Heisn’t supposed to matter.

Before I know it, my fingers are flying across the screen.

Remy: Screw you, Zane!

Zane: I knew you’d be thinking about me, Remy.

The audacity of it sends me spiraling. He’s so cocky, sosurehe hasmewrapped around his finger. I shove my phone away, but the anger gnaws, growing hotter, consuming. I try to distract myself, but it doesn’t work. Images of him, her, that smug smile in his text— I can’t shake it.

Snatching up my phone again, I type out a message, every word dripping with frustration.

Remy: I HATE YOU, ZANE! YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME!

I stare at it, my thumb hovering over “Send.” But then it slips, and it’s gone before I can stop it.

I freeze, panic settling in. What did I just do? I start to call him, and then I end the call. The read receipt stares back, taunting. I let out a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but my fingers are typing again.

Remy: YOU’RE JUST FORCING YOURSELF INTO MY LIFE! FORCING ME TO FEEL LIKE THIS.

Remy: And let me guess, you’re going to fuck the blonde bimbo in your car just to prove a fucking point to me.

Silence.

On read.

Remy: YOU CAN’T JUST TREAT ME LIKE THIS, ZANE.

Nothing.

Remy: I can’t believe you’re ignoring me. Isn’t this what you wanted?

Remy: God, I sound fucking crazy.

The silence is maddening. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes. The message is simple, infuriating.

Zane: Open your door.

My heart stutters. I spring up, peeking through the peephole, and there he is— standing in that damn red mask, a black leather jacket framing his broad shoulders, looking entirely too smug.

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