Page 9 of Relapse

Humiliating.

His gaze drags over me slowly again, taking in the glitter still stuck to my skin, my smudged eyeliner, the fact I’m subtly swaying like a baby deer fresh out the womb trying to act intimidating.

The look on his face shifts.

Not softer, worse.

Like he’s one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced aneurysm because of me specifically.

Yeah, there it is. The “this girl is going to be the death of me” look.

Good.

Suffer.

“I’m serious,” he says, stepping closer. “Get on the fucking bike.”

“No.”

I barely get the word out before his hand closes around my wrist, firm and warm.

And my body—traitorous little bitch that it is—immediately notices all of it.

Cool. Amazing. I love being this easy. Such a needy slut, Blair.

“Dagger—”

“Save it.”

“I can walk by myself, you overbearing asshole.”

“Yeah?” he shoots back, already turning me toward the bike anyway. “Then why do you look like you’re fighting for your fucking life standing still?”

Okay, thats rude. accurate, but rude.

“God I hate you,” I mutter.

“No, you don’t.”

What I hate even more, is how confidently the cocky asshole says it. Like he already fucking knows.

Which makes me want to bite him and make out with him at the same time, and honestly? Neither option feels emotionally healthy given my current state.

He stops beside the bike and pulls his helmet off before dropping it onto my head.

Everything immediately smells like him.

Smoke, leather and trouble.

Fantastic.

Now I’m horny, hungover, and coming down off enough drugs and alcohol to qualify as a public health concern.

“This is kidnapping,” I complain through the visor.

“No, this is me keeping your dumb ass alive.”\

“Tomato, tomahto.”