I can hit. I can hurt. This isn’t impotent anger. Sebastian isn’t my step-father. I can strike out here, where everyone is soft and nice and so goddamn comfortable.
Can’t I?
From the looks everyone’s giving me, perhaps not.
Sebastian says, “Stop,” and digs his fingers into his eyes. And then, louder, “Stop! It’s fine. Just surprised me a bit. My fault.”
Tyson asks, “Bass, what the fuck did you do to her?”
I don’t stay to hear the answer. I run toward the changing room and I don’t look back, not wanting to know what these people think about me. He deserved it. I know he deserved it. He had to have deserved it. The only thing more terrifying than the in-between of waiting for pain and being hurt is the knowledge that I’m just as capable of delivering it.
11
Sebastian
“Damn it,” I mutter, fighting with a bolt inside the Mustang’s engine. I’ve spent most of my non-school time this week at the salvage yard and searching online for parts. So much of this fucking engine is a rusted, corroded mess, which is not to even mention the remains of a rat nest—although, thankfully no rats. Taking this thing apart has been a fucking nightmare and a half, and sometimes I wonder why I’m bothering.
It’s not like she’ll appreciate it, especially if she knew it was coming from me. The satisfaction I’d get from restoring it would last the amount of time it’d take for her to drive it out of the shop. The project itself has been a distraction, but also a gigantic pain in my ass. I’m spending most of my free time here, either sweating or freezing my balls off, absolutely no in-between, and on days like today, nothing ever goes right, it’s just failure after failure.
“Fuck!” I grit my teeth and pull at the wrench, straining my muscles. Finally, with the help of some lube and sheer strength, the bolt gives, spinning off. I grab the tiny piece of warped metal and fling it across the room at the trash can. “Stubborn motherfucker.”
My phone buzzes then and I grab it with one greasy hand while the other pats for my pack of cigarettes.
It’s a text from Georgia.
G: Leaving PP with Sugar. She’s coming to the garage.
Just fucking great.
S: Thanks
I grab a rag and wipe my hands, easing away from the car. After that scene last night, I have no doubt she’ll throw a fit if she finds out I’m the one working on the car. Jesus, that girl is a mess. I’ve never chased a tail this hard before and got back nothing but soreness and disappointment.
I thought about her all night. It was hard not to, what with the slap still ringing in my ears. It’s part of the reason I got to the garage so fucking early on a Saturday morning, annoyed at myself for digging her so hard. That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Sebastian Wilcox is hot for a girl who wants to cut his balls off? A girl who recoils at the mere thought of me touching her? A girl who has made it unilaterally clear she’s not into him? Sounds perfectly on brand. I mean, why go for one of the girls at school ready and willing? Nah, that’d just be too easy. A hard-on for a girl who hates me sounds perfectly sane.
Ten minutes later, the crunch of gravel announces Georgia’s arrival.
Bracing myself for impact, I lean back against one of the toolboxes and light my cigarette. Which version of Sugar will come through that door today? Pissed off? Moody? Sad? Timid? Hot for me? Cold for me?
I hear her footsteps echo off the concrete walls and a moment later, her tiny figure is in the doorway.
She stares at me blank-faced for a beat, and then lets out this deep, “Oh.” The disappointment is evident in her tone.
I flick the ashes from my cigarette. “Good morning to you, too, Sunshine.”
Her face puckers disdainfully. “Is Merle here? I realized I left something in the car when I dropped it off.”
“He won’t be here for a few hours.”
Her eyes ping around everywhere; the ground, the bay, the cracked ‘Exit’ sign, her own scuffed boots. After a moment, she decides, “I can come back later.”
I rake my hair back, sighing. “That’s ridiculous. Your car is in the bay. Go ahead and check it out if you want.” She gives me another one of those blank looks and I gesture to the ‘Stang. “Go on. I’m not going to touch you.”
She looks skeptical and vaguely annoyed, but she passes me anyway, keeping a wide berth. Her sweet scent still carries over to me. That damn smell was the first thing that hit me when I got in Jasmine after driving her home from the car show. It’s been in my head ever since.
Sugar opens the passenger door and leans inside, giving me a real nice view of the curves of her ass. I get this crystal-clear vision of me steeping up behind her and putting my hands there, skating them to her hips, pulling her back into my hard dick.
I wince and turn away, rubbing my forehead. My concussion probably couldn’t afford that shit. I don’t look back until I hear the door close. “Find everything okay?”