Page 39 of Burn for You

I can feel my chest heating at his words, my cheeks too. Partly because I’m imagining the image he’s just painted in my head, and partly because I’m so fucking angry that I can’t even think straight.

“Would you rather me scream yours?” I don’t know why I just said that.

His eyes dip to my chest again, and I don’t think I coulddecipher the look in his eyes if I was sober, let alone with a few too many shots of tequila pumping through my veins.

“If you want a booty call, get a motel room.”

“Fuck you,” I spit.

“You’d be so lucky.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so full of themselves.”

He scoffs. “You could be full of me too, if you like.”

I can see the sparkle in his eye that tells me just how much he’s enjoying pushing my buttons. “You’re a pig.”

“And you’re desperate. Letting random guys fuck you every week? It’s pathetic.” He looks me up and down, his eyes judging every inch of me before he shakes his head and pulls away from me, letting my hands free. “No other guys here, end of story.”

I sigh as I rub my wrists where he held them tight, before I jump as the door to his bedroom slams shut.

I lean my head back against the wall, finally letting out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and I suddenly feel like I need to cover up. Essentially being called a slut is always the best way to end the night. Not that I’ve never heard it before—plenty of guys have had a lot to say when they find out I don’t want a relationship.

Don’t get me wrong. There are lots of guys who want exactly what I want and nothing more, but then there are the ones who want more. When they find out I don’t, they use every derogatory word in the dictionary to tell me how they feel.

I know Rafael is an ass, but I didn’t think he’d ever be the kind of guy to say that to me. To call mepathetic.

I walk over to the kitchen, pick up my shirt, and slip it over my head before making my way over to the living room. I pick up my fuzzy socks off the back of the couch and walk to my room. I hear the click of a door opening just after my own.

“May.”

But I don’t stop. I open my door and shut it, pressing my back to the door as I take a shaky breath.

Do not cry.

Donotcry.

I blow out my breath, counting to five, before I push off the wall and slide my pants down my legs and climb into bed. I’m going against my own rules, not bothering to take any of my makeup off before I shuffle under the covers, feeling defeated.

I can’t sleep.

Every time my eyelids close, Rafael’s words ring through my mind and I’m awake again. I don’t know why, it’s not like his opinion has ever mattered to me, but this time it does. I don’t take any time to dwell on that as I rip the sheets off of me and storm into the closet.

I jump to reach the bags I put on the top shelf and hastily pull them down. I yank my clothes off the rail, not bothering to take them off the coat hangers as I stuff them in my bags. I don’t have time for that; I need out. Now.

I was just starting to feel okay about staying here. Not good, it’s notgoodliving here. But it’s beenokay. And now everything is all blown up again.

It’s pathetic.

God, he may as well have just punched me in the gut. I don’t need Rafael’s judgment on top of everything else. I don’t need these words taking up the tiny sliver of my brain that was pleasantly unoccupied. The rest is filled with memories of heat crawling up my back, or wondering how much longer the repairs are going to take, or feeling like I need to stay in the confines of my bedroom as much as possible as not to bother my super fucking lovely roommate. And now this too.

I get as much of my stuff as I can into the two bags I’ll be able to carry and plop my still slightly wobbly body down on top of them, squishing everything down soI can zip them up.

I huff a sigh. This is all a bit too much like hard work, but I’m out of here.

I throw the bags over my shoulders and swing my door open, not bothering to be quiet about it. I slip my sandals on that sit by the ginormous front door—seriously, I’ll never get over why the door needs to be that fucking massive—and storm right out of it. Or more like stomp out the door right into a storm.

I didn’t realize it had started raining, and not just raining, butpouring.

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