Page 57 of Playing with Fire

Jaxon you fucking piece of shit God you are! I screamed without concern because the music blasting outside prevented anyone from hearing me. "I just—fuck. Fuck you!"

With my drunken frustration nearly choking me he grabbed my chin with his thumb and pointer finger and tilted my face toward him.

If you plan to scream at me while calling me names, then you should look at me when you say it. His speech flowed smoothly but failed to reach my mind.

My anger towards him was too strong for me to pay attention to what he said. "Ugh! I fucking hate you!" I let out a groan while pulling my face back and stepping away.

There was a moment of silence. "What'd you just say?" His voice became deeper as he spoke with a tone that revealed his disbelief.

"I hate you," I repeated with intense emotion.

"No, you don't." He was quick to deny it.

"And who’s that?" I argue.

You have no fucking idea what hate really feels like. His eyes narrow while his expression becomes serious.

My whole body experiences an intense wave of heat. I might have been sweating briefly because of the room's limited space and the lack of oxygen. Don't pretend you can understand my feelings.

I told my arms across my chest while gripping my shirt so tightly that my fingers must stop blood circulation.

"Fine," he says. "Then repeat it. Look at me this time as you repeat yourself. He moves toward me with intention and decreases the small distance between us.

I quickly step back and feel my back lightly hit the wall. I blink when he tilts his head toward me and my chest tighten with my arms remaining tense at my sides.

What's happening?

"What?" The exhale from my lungs sounds like a desperate gasp when it escapes.

He whispers, "You heard what I said" and I drop my gaze to see we're face to face. "Tell me you hate me." His harsh way of speaking turns his words into a demand.

The words cause a shock to travel down my spine while my mouth refuses to open. It's going so dry I can't speak. I attempt to conceal how this impacts me but discover breath control demands more effort than expected.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I keep saying it over and over, but the words never leave my mouth. No words come out.

He urges me with "Come on Em," and I manage to turn back to meet his gaze. "Say it."

I realized in that moment I could not speak those words. Silence filled the space between us because I had no words to say.

And that was the truth. I don't think I've ever told him I hate him and if I did tell him, it wouldn't have stayed in my memory. I had never spoken those words to him previously, but I frequently thought them to myself.

Our noses were separated by inches and would have touched if we moved. My brain scrambled to find words or actions to take.

Push him.

Kick him.

Slap him.

Insult him.

Kiss him.

Wait–what?

I didn't think twice—or perhaps my drunken mind did—before I rose onto my toes to kiss him. I kissed him.

---