Page 38 of Coco and the Misfits

To do fuck knows what, though one can easily guess.

I’m going to be fucking sick.

“How did you let them inside?” I demand. “How did nobody stop them?”

“I’ll find them,” he says, his gaze glinting. “I swear it.”

“Those assholes will pay,” I growl. “I’ll skin them alive.”

“Yes,” he says. “Agreed.”

But he was right. Now I know what happened, how do I approach her without scaring her off?

13

COCO

Anxiety.

Not a new feeling for me. After all, I’ve spent my life trying to convince others that I’m not what the letter on my ID says I am, and those bad dreams are proof I can never really relax.

But this level of panic is new. As I cross the street, almost running, I’m convinced someone is following me. Forget asking at the tattoo parlor for a job, forget the groceries. I need to get home and lock the doors and windows.

Maybe I’ll barricade myself behind my sofa and eat ice cream from the container. If I have any ice cream left.

This early summer day feels cold.

I’m crossing another street, heading toward my apartment, when a tall figure almost crashes into me.

I can’t help it. I scream. I feel the scream tearing through me like a storm and I can’t seem to stop.

“Hey, girl. Hey!” He grabs my arms, holding me on my feet but also keeping me far from his own body. “It’s me, Ryder. Remember me? From the bar?” He frowns. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

“Ryder,” I whisper, my voice raw. “The tattoo artist.”

He gives a strange laugh. “Yeah. That’s me. Who did you think I was?”

I gulp and step back until he releases me. “Sorry.”

“Hey. What happened to the fizzy, laughing girl I met at the bar?” He arches a dark brow. “Bad day today?”

“She was almost…” Biting my lip, I take another step back. “She had the shit scared out of her.”

His brows draw together slowly. “What? What the hell do you mean?”

Another step back. “Nothing. I need to… go home?—”

A screech, echoing inside my head—and Ryder lunges toward me, grabs and swings me around…

“Fuck, be careful! What the hell.” He’s staring at me with wide eyes, his face pale, while a car races by, honking at us. “Trying to get yourself killed or give me a heart attack? Didn’t you see the car? You almost stepped in front of it! What the fuck.”

I’m struggling to breathe. Did that just happen? What’s happening to my quiet life?

“Come with me,” he says, grabbing my hand. “The shop is right across. You can sit for a minute and I’ll get you a glass of water. You’re white as a ghost.”

I don’t question it. I follow him. Too many shocks in two days. My brain is shutting down, and yet I somehow think I can trust him. He’s rough and not a gentleman like Atticus, or a ray of sunshine like Zach, but his big hand around mine feels right.

He doesn’t make me feel safe, but he makes me feel… stronger. As if whatever is going on with me is normal. Human. Expected. Not a big deal.

---