Page 3 of Relapse

That pisses me off.

The closer I get, the clearer everything becomes.

Suddenly shit isn’t hazy or dreamlike anymore. At least not in that floaty, drug-laced blur I’ve been diving headfirst back into while waiting for this very fucking moment to happen.

Now everything is sharp.

Annoyingly fucking sharp.

The ink on his arms. The way his fingers flex around the cigarette. The cocky tilt of his head like he knew all along this is where we’d end up.

And his eyes—

God.

His eyes drag over me slow. Too fucking slow. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense, like he’s already memorized the shape of me and is just checking to make sure nothing’s changed. Like he’s tasting something he already knows he likes.

Which—cool. Great. Fantastic. Love that journey for me.

Except—

No.

No, no, no.

Mad, Blair.

You’re supposed to be furious. Angry. Fucking outraged. Not standing here letting him look at you like that. Not noticing the way your pulse just kicked into overdrive like it’s training for a marathon you absolutely did not sign up for. Not… this. Jesus. Get it together.

I mentally grab myself by the shoulders and give myself a little shake.

You were literally just mad. Stay on that. Be mad. Be a bitch. Be difficult.

Instead, I take another step forward like an idiot.

I stop a few feet in front of him, folding my arms over my chest like that’s going to do anything other than give me something to do with my hands. Like it’s going to magically block out the fact that my heart is beating way too fast and my body has already decided to betray me.

Cool.

Super cool.

My thighs press together automatically, subtle—hopefully—but noticeable enough to me that I want to scream.

Really? Right now? This is what we’re doing?

I shift my weight onto one hip, forcing a smirk onto my face like I’ve got even a shred of control left in this situation.

“You always stare at girls like you’re about to ruin their lives,” I say, voice dry, sharp, exactly where it should be, “or am I just getting the VIP experience?”

There.

That’s better.

Focus on that.

Not the way he’s looking at you and definitely not how with a single fucking look he’s making your brain short circuit.

“I missed you too, little relapse.”