Page 102 of Hate Mates

Shock at the direction of my thoughts loosens my fingers.

I stutter, “Never t-took you for an emo?—”

“How lame,” Layla interjects. She rolls her eyes and smirks when I re-instate the hold I have on her neck. The feeling of her throat working beneath my palms sets waves crashing through my stomach. A strange warmth invades my chest, intensifying with the vibration created when she speaks. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer if the cause listed on my death certificate wasn’t boredom.”

Before I can properly comprehend Layla’s grumbling, she uses some sort of karate move to knock my arms away from her throat at the same time as she sweeps my feet out from under me. My back smacks into the concrete path. The air in my lungs bursts out my mouth. Pain rips through my skull. Blinking in slow motion, I stare up at the viperous bitch I’ve never managed to defeat a single time.

She’s completely calm.

Passive.

Detached.

“This is your only warning.” Layla kicks me in the gut to emphasise her point. Before I can curl in on myself, the pointed toe of her boot jabs my ribs. She presses the rippled sole to my chest and leans on me. Her aloof expression is at odds with the threat lacing her tone, “The next time you touch me without my permission, you’re dead.”

My eyelids descend, a barrier between me and Layla’s latest victory.

Pressure increases on my sternum. By the time she has what feels like most of her weight settled on me, I’m struggling to breathe. The ache in my chest is troubling. Resentment floods me. I flip-flop between the idea of submitting to her dominance and fighting her to the death. It’s been half a decade since she made me feel this way. Weak. Useless.Worthless. Expiring beneath her black boot would be an appropriate way to go—after all, it’s where I spent most of my teenage years.

“Touch me and die.” Layla’s voice is strong. Her tone unwavering. There’s a level of hostility radiating from her that is misplaced considering our positions. “Do you hear me, Luke? I’m not messing around.”

It kills me to nod my assent, but I do it.

She slowly removes her foot from my chest. “And I’m not emo, I’m goth.”

A sharp snort is my sole reaction to her declaration.

With my eyes still shut, I inhale through my nose until the hollow ache in my chest is manageable. Once I have my equilibrium, I slap my hands against the concrete and shove back to my feet. Layla’s placid facade breaks as I stand. She skurries backward two steps, then juts her chin. I ignore her to catalogue the aches in my body. The fingers I touch to the back of my head are stained with blood when I hold them in front of my face.

“Not sure why you’re here,” I remark while I’m shucking my Shamrocks cut from my shoulders. “But you’re welcome to fuck off.” After wiping the dirt and grime from the leather, I thread my arms through the holes and straighten the ends. With a sniff, I gesture toward the other end of the alley. “Don’t bother tryna return. I’m addin’ your name to our banned list.”

“Whatever you feel you need to do,” Layla retorts. “I’m here to apologise, not make your life harder.”

“Apologise?”

She has the good grace to look unsure of herself when she tells me, “Yes. I’m trying to be a better person... and that starts with owning my mistakes.”

My initial reaction is elation.

Quickly followed by anger.

I shouldn’t be happy that this bitch is on some crusade to salve her conscience. Layla De La Rue made my life a misery for years. Her cruelty was the icing on top of the shit sandwich that was my life. My home was a place of pain and humiliation. School was my safe space for a few hours a week. Without her nastiness, I had an escape. A refuge. Somewhere I could lick my wounds in relative peace.

She stole that from me.

Threading my fingers through my hair, I yank until the pain provides me with clarity. “I’m not in the business of forgiveness.”

Layla takes a tentative step toward me.

I back up like she’s an advancing snake.

Which, if you consider our past, she kind of is...

“I’m sorry, Luke.”

“Stick your sorry up your arse and?—”

My rude response is halted by Wyatt Mayberry dashing out of Club Mirage’s rear exit. I step to the right to avoid being smacked in the face by the swinging door. The movement brings me into Layla’s space, close enough to smell her perfume again.

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