Page 3 of Fight or Flight
“Fuck off,” I practically growl at him.
He lifts both hands like he’s surrendering and tosses me a surprised look. “Whoa there. No need to go all feral on me when all I said was hi.”
One thing I’ve learned about Jace over the years is that whatever he shows the world doesn’t always match what he’s actually thinking or feeling, and the shock and confusion radiating off him only ramp up my anger until it flips right into rage.
“Do not get in my face right now,” I say, or rather, snap at him.
He drops the act, and his expression melts into the casually cool one I’m used to seeing on him. “Yup, someone’s definitely in a mood,” he repeats.
“So what if I am?” I say before I can stop myself. “What are you going to do about it?”
He raises one eyebrow and smirks in a way that makes me want to put my fist through his stupid face. “Do about it? What makes you think I want to do anything about you being in a foul mood?”
“Maybe because you’re still standing here and fucking with me when you know I’m in a foul mood.”
“All I did was say hello, and you’re the one who wants to rip my face off for it. This doesn’t seem like a situation where I’m the problem, just saying.”
I take a step closer to him. “Fuck off.”
He slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shoots me an innocent smile. “Or you could fuck off. This is an open hallway. If you don’t want to be around me, then you can always skedaddle.”
White-hot rage fills my veins like liquid fire, and the next thing I know, I’m closing the distance between us in two quick strides.
I’m barely aware of what I’m doing as I plant my hands on his broad chest and push hard against the solid wall of muscle.
Jace doesn’t even flinch or pull his hands out of his pockets as he stumbles back a few paces.
“Feel better?” he asks in a calm voice that’s even more enraging than if he were yelling and screaming at me.
“Not even close.” I take another step toward him before I can stop myself and give him another hard shove.
Jace doesn’t resist or try to stop me, and the little flare of triumph I feel as he stumbles back again does nothing to help calm my rage.
“Someone’s feeling aggressive tonight,” he muses, a little smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“And someone’s feeling suicidal.”
“You think?” he asks, his tone as amused as the stupid grin on his dumb face.
“What else would you call fucking with me while I’m obviously pissed off?”
“Who’s fucking with you?” Jace asks calmly. “You’re the one who told me to fuck off and put hands on me, twice, just for being in the hall and saying hello. All because you’re feeling some big feelings. So who’s really fucking with whom? Hmmmm?”
My vision goes hazy around the edges, and my heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it as much as feel it thudding in my chest.
Jace pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them up like he’s showing me they’re empty. “Go ahead.”
“Huh?” I sort of grunt at him.
“Go ahead and do whatever you’re thinking.”
“Who says I’m thinking anything?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “The fact that you’re turning purple while glaring at me is a pretty good indicator that there’s something going on in that big old noggin of yours. And those”—he points at my fists, which are balled tightly at my side—“are also a pretty good indicator that you’re having violent thoughts.”
I blink at him a few times. I’m seconds away from losing my ever-loving shit on him, and he’s making jokes like I’m not actively stopping myself from beating the fuck out of him?
“Are you?” he continues conversationally. “Having violent thoughts about me?”
