Page 19 of Hate Game

“I don’t care what your friend thinks happened.”

Whatdoeshe care about other than football and his new motorcycle? “You should. The person could be out to hurt you and your parents. Staying here could put you in danger. You should stay elsewhere.”

“My place is as secure as Fort Knox.”

“There are no cameras and no security system.”

“There is. Here, here, and here.” He points to his head, eyes, and ears.

This boy and his fondness for pointing at body parts. “And I’m to believe those parts will help me feel safe?”

“If you’re feeling unsafe, leave.”

I won’t. Malice’s parents are counting on me, and I won’t disappoint them. I’ll show everyone who has ever called me a loser that I am not one.

“I can take care of myself. You’re a different story.”

“Is that right?” He gets up in my personal space, this tall and hulking guy who continues to live in my dreams and nightmares. Whether in my dreams or my nightmares, someday, he’ll abandon me just like everyone else in my life.

“Completely.” I set my hands on his chest and shove. He doesn’t budge. Of course, he doesn’t. Malice ishuge.

Before I can step back, he catches sight of the bling on my left hand. Rough fingers circle my wrist. My hand is brought close to his face. “You didn’t have this on at the party. What the hell is it?”

“A promise ring.”

“Red?”

I lift my chin. “No.”

“Then who?”

“Does it matter?” I tug my hand out of his and rub out the lingering pain from his grip.

His eyes widen. He locks his jaw. Malice takes a step back. “Go shower, Rue, before I do something I’ll regret.”

“Like what?”

“Like yanking that damn ring off your finger.”

Why is he so angry? Does he hate me that much? Was I not worthy of being his first? “Why do you care?”

“Because you belong to my prick of a cousin.”

“He says the same of you.”

“You don’t belong to me.”

“That’s not what I meant. He says you’re a jerk too.”

“Toe-mae-toe, toe-ma-toe. Anyway, I don’t want you, Rue. You’re nothing but trouble.”

My chest caves in on itself from his hurtful words, but I refuse to cry. Crying gives someone power over me. Gives them the chance to wallow in their satisfaction at making me hurt. I step forward and jab my finger into his chest.

“I hate you too.”

“Good.”

“Good.” I jab harder.

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