Pretend You're Mine (Inked Hearts 3)

Unless—

There’s a knock on the door.

My heart thuds against my chest.

My veins buzz with nervous energy.

I close my eyes. Please be here, Leigh. Please come back. Please be mine.

I need a little more time to put the pieces together.

That’s all.

I pull the door open, but Leighton isn’t the person standing in the frame.

It’s Penny.

Chapter 45

Leighton

Palm trees and storefronts blur into the deep blue sky.

Dean stops at a red light. He taps his fingers against the dash in time with the song.

Hawaii’s local rock station is fond of grunge. Eddie Vedder mumbles agonizing poetry over a heavy guitar riff.

Does Ryan hate Pearl Jam as much as he hates Nirvana? Not that Ryan really hates Nirvana. He taps his toe along to Smells Like Teen Spirit whenever it comes on at Inked Hearts.

Which is whenever Dean has say over the music. He’s Mr. Guitar Rock. It’s a bit much for me—how can anyone who did this much heroin be this miserable?—but it’s better than Walker with the metal.

Only I’m not going to stroll into Inked Hearts Tuesday and torture Ryan (and Brendon, if I’m really lucky) with my favorite pop-punk albums.

He isn’t going to tease me about how I can find all these pathetic guys appealing. I know that song was popular when you were in middle school. Not like I missed it. But come on. The guy is begging his ex-girlfriend to fuck him like it’s an insult. It’s pathetic. Does he really think that lowly of his sexual abilities?

I’m not going to say anything about how he should understand how men are always obsessed with who their ex is fucking. Because isn’t he?

Because he is.

He’s the guy in the song who can’t get out of his own way.

And I’m Gwen Fucking Stefani, singing about how I always knew he’d end up my ex-boyfriend.

The song fades into a commercial for the local Honda dealer.

Dean turns to me. Shakes his head with disapproval.

“What?”

He shrugs like he isn’t judging me with his eyes.

Finally, the light turns green.

Dean taps the gas. Drives slightly faster than a snail.

“Maybe you should drive slower. So you can be sure I miss my flight,” I say.

“You know I could be getting laid right now.” He blows air up from his lips, blowing his messy hair from his eyes.