Page 8 of We Are All Villains Here

Without a word, she pops the lid of the water bottle again. The potent stench of moonshine hits her like a punch to the face. No doubt he smells it too.

He says nothing besides, “Did you find a dress?”

Billie swigs once, twice, then take a breathy pause. “Yeah. Got a white summer thing. Bit lacy, but real pretty.”

His silence is disproving—doubtful. After a beat, he says, “I picked something up for you as a backup.”

Billie is quiet. She re-lids the bottle and, holding onto it for comfort, like those babies with blankets they never want to let go of, only she’s a grown ass woman and her safety blanket is anything with alcohol content.

Sighing, she turns her head until her scarred cheek presses into the seat, and she just watches him for a moment. More than a decade now, and still, each time she looks at him,reallylooks at him, she’s breathless. Not in a good way. Not in a ‘takes my breath away’ kind of thing.

It’s a punch to the throat, a jab to the gut, a right-hook to the heart.

It doesn’t feel too good.

Could never tell the difference, Billie. Anxiety or butterflies? All feels the same to her.

But here he is, sun shining just for him, a special lone ray of yellow light cascading down from the fucking heavens for Preston. But no matter the sun, his hair is darker than ink, curls falling over his forehead; his lips a faint pink and fuller than her own; and his normally sunkissed complexion a tad darker in the summer, olive-skinned now—and always looking so damn soft to the touch.

I love you.

I fucking hate you.

Things she’s wanted to say to him for too long now. But never does. Never will.

Instead—

“You got smokes?” Billie kicks off her shoes, then hikes her feet up on the dash. Before he can even answer, she’s reaching around her legs and fiddling around in the glovebox.

“Behind the tapes,” he says.

She fingers them out. Menthol ones, just how she likes them. The fancy shit.

She lights up. He doesn’t. He doesn’t smoke. Just keeps some around for her from time to time.

There it is again. One of those little ways that Preston shows Billie his affection—shows her he actually gives a shit. They’re just not the type to outrightsayit to each other.

“I hate this song,” Billie mumbles, and reaches out to fumble around the glovebox.

Preston leans over and, diving his hand into the stacks of cassettes, plucks out the one with the black tape over it. Her cassette, one she made a year or two back, burned songs onto it during an all-nighter listening to the radio with the girls.

It’s dated, sure, but since it’s mostly Nirvana—still her favorite of all time—she’s yet to get sick of it.

“Which song?” he asks and pushes the tape into the cassette player. The radio switches itself off, and goodbye Meat Loaf’s ‘I’d Lie For You’.

“Lake of Fire,” she says and smacks the glovebox shut.

Takes a minute for him to rewind, then fast-forward until he finds the start of the song. But when he does, she’s halfway through her smoke and he rests his arm over the back of her seat.

He releases the brake pedal. Just as the Cadillac starts to roll from its spot beside the curb, Kate waves from the stand and, wearing a mocking false-sweet smile, calls out to her—

“Good luck!”

And Billie hates her for it.

Turning to scowl at Kate, she just flips her off—

Trevor throws his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder, and they both respond with mocking laughter.

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