Page 34 of Female Fantasy
“Oh my God,” I say, backing away as if every point of contact between us is singeing my skin. “Get off, get off, get off!”
“Me?!” He rubs his hands on his jeans like they’re stained with ink. “You’re the one who passed out practically the second we started—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I warn, unable to bear hearing the wordcuddlingfall from those swollen, sleepy lips.
How could I have allowed this to happen? I guess the late nights updating my current work in progress (combined withall the research I’ve been doing on Ryan Mare, plus the hours of conversations I’ve been playing out in my head and then transferring to my Notes app) are finally catching up with me. What with our early-morning departure time and the fact that I had only one coffee, I must have crashed.
Hard.
Ironically, that was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks, if not months.
But Nico certainly does not need to know that.
“Holy Furnace,” I whine. “What is wrong with me? I definitely have a concussion or something. How dare you take advantage of a poor defenseless girl with a concussion?”
Nico shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge water from his ear.
“One of these days, Joon, we’re going to have to get to the bottom of why you hate me so much.”
I snort. “As if you don’t know.”
His face deflates, a sorry sack of skin. Hurt lines mark the corners of his eyes.
“No, Joonie. I don’t.”
My brows knit together in confusion. How is that remotely possible? Sure, he’d been drinking when it happened. And yeah, he apologized at the time—sort of. And it’s not like any of it was ever real. But that night is etched so deeply into my psyche that I replay it every time someone laughs at me, every time I read a hateful comment or receive a dirty look. Nico’s red eyes and slurred words that night played a significant part in my villain origin story. It never occurred to me that forNico, I’m just a side character. That the moment I lost trust in him, in our friendship, was barely even a plot point for him.
I look up at him now, understanding dawning on my face.
He has no idea why I treat him this way, does he?
I understand why I hate him.
But if he doesn’t resent me for the same reason, then why does he hate me?
Doeshe even hate me? Or is the way he treats me just a reflex?
I rub my temples, trying to soothe my oncoming migraine.
Then a faint rumbling noise sounds from behind the truck.
“Wait, do you hear that?” Nico asks.
I nod, drawing shallow circles at my hairline with my fingertips.
“This is the first time I’ve heard another car in four hours,” Nico mutters. “It must be the tow truck. Thank sweet Jesus.”
“I thought you only worshipped science.”
But really, I’m secretly relieved to be given an out.
“Life, death, and taxes,” he agrees. “But we were kind of headed toward the death part.”
He rolls down the window just in time to lock eyes with the driver of a red sports car passing along the back road we’re on. A man sits behind the wheel, wearing a maroon velour tracksuit, complete with gold hardware and a nondescript logo stitched to the breast. Pieces of some sort of melting wax are falling from his hair. His face is friendly, his exaggerated smile a red crescent against his pale skin.
Stranger danger?
My stomach churns.
