Page 34 of We Are All Liars Here

Carmine’s blood is—and literally was—on her hands.

But Preston isn’t done. His body is calm, no clenched fists or twisted perfect mouth. “You do everything in your power to blame anyone around you who actually gives a damn whether you live or die.” Black seas he wears for eyes are smoldering, reflecting red from the ember of her cigarette, like fiery pits from hell. He rounds on her. “How many of those people do you have, Billie?”

“I don’t need you—”

“The fact that you even delude yourself into believing that just shows how much you need me. When I leave, and you stay here—what will you do? What will you become, Billie?”

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, a brewing rage swirling in sharp blue eyes. Her grip tightens on the bottle.

He goes on, “The town drunk? The town bike? Or just another overdosed nobody?”

With a snarl on her face, she flicks the smoke at him. It bounces off his black slacks and hits the porch slabs. There, it dies out.

He doesn’t take a step back or so much as falter as she shoves up from the bench. He towers over her but, unwavering, she meets his stare with a glower of her own.

Her whisper is a siren that shatters between them, “I wish it was you.”

His jaw tenses. He clenches it hard enough for dimples to appear over his jawline, like dark cuts of shadow.

“Not Carmine.” To punch her point, she jabs her fist that’s wrapped around the bottle neck against his hard chest. “You.”

Long lashes hang over dark swarming eyes. Then it breaks, that resolve he holds onto so fucking tightly, snaps like a twig in a storm.

Preston’s face shutters just a beat before he’s shoving her up against the doorframe. Hard wood slams into her back from the impact and she hisses a wince.

Before she can blink, he’s towering over her all over again, his hand slamming down on the wall beside her head. “You’re the most selfish fucking asshole I’ve ever met. In your eyes, everyone else is the problem. Poor fucking you,” he spits. “And you drink—not because you can’t stand what you did that night, but—because you can’t stand that face that looks back at you in the mirror. You hate yourself, so everyone else should hate you, right? And I do, Billie. Idespiseyou. But no more than you hate yourself.”

Quiet tears wet her eyes into fresh seafoam. But her jaw is tense against his attack. She won’t sob in front of him. No matter how sharp his cutting words are.

What shewilldo—

Her hand blurs through the air.

Crack!

Preston’s cheek turns fast to the side.

His jaw is tense, lashes low over his eyes.

The residue of the slap is a growing red handprint on olive skin.

She lifts her chin. “The only thing you hate about me is how much more you want me than I want you,” she seethes lies up at him, because he’s her fucking everything, the only thing she has, but still—“You think you can get anything and anyone you want. Bet it just drives you crazy how hard you try to keep me, the town drunk, a trailer trash whore, butI don’t want you.”

Slowly, he turns his cheek, his face coming back to align with hers. The darkest eyes she’s ever seen, just black brushstrokes.

But he doesn’t get a chance to respond before they’re interrupted.

The door is ripped wide open.

A burst of noise erupts into their quiet seething bubble. The boys spill outside, too much laughter, too muchfun.

Preston is gone from her in a blink. He’s taken steps back, leaving her to lean alone against the doorframe, as he plucks up the joint from the railing and keeps his distance.

It happens so fast for her. One moment he’s there, keeping her warm with the fire of their hatred, and the next she’s oddly cold and empty… and alone.

And the boys stagger out onto the porch one by one.

Billie doesn’t throw them a spare glance as they barrel past her. She hears the faint jangling of keys (car keys, she guesses) between the thumping of footsteps.

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