Page 82 of Limbo

The sound created each time I rip up a picture gives me chills. Almost as satisfying as throwing them in the trash can when I finish. Although nowhere near as amazing as it will feel to light them on fire and watch them fucking burn.Great. He’s turned me into some kind of freaking pyromaniac.

“Pete, I’m out.”

No answer.

I check behind me where he’s sitting on the concrete, sorting through the pile of photos.

“Pete.”

“You got them all, Cal. I’m not finding any.”

A coughing fit starts around the side of the house. Once it stops, Tony appears. The red of his eyes competes with his hair. Out of class for twenty minutes and already blazed. He moseys over, a smile plastered on his face for the duration of his high.

I grab the photos from Pete and flip through them, scanning for any hint of the arrogant asshole’s face. There aren’t as many to go through as there once were since this isn’t the first time I’ve searched and destroyed. But this time is different. I need it to be.

As I reach the end of the stack, his truck roars around the corner and skids to a stop in front of the house.

“Goddamn it, Callista,” Brock shouts, slamming the truck door.

Pete hits his feet, and even a slow-moving Tony rushes over to stand in front of me for protection.

Unneeded.

I drop the pictures on the ground and blow past them. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“Why?” he hisses, meeting me halfway between the street and house. “Because I was right about you flirting with that jackass?”

“Jesus, Brock. He’s my lab partner. It requires me to talk to him.”

“And touch his fucking arm?”

An exasperated groan answers him because I refuse to explain for the hundredth time that I spilled water and wiped it off. If he’d walked past the door ten seconds earlier or later, he wouldn’t have charged in and punched the poor guy.

“You were acting like a fucking slut, Callista.”

All my strength goes into shoving him, but he only moves a step back to keep his balance.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Then stop acting like one.”

Again, my hands hit his chest with little effect.

“I want my shit,” he says, storming toward the house.

I cut him off, but he shoulders past me.

“Cal, don’t…” Pete’s voice fades as I follow Brock inside.

The door slams behind me, and I run through the kitchen and down the hallway to my room where he’s picking through the stuff on my dresser.

“Where’s the necklace?”

“Get out!” I shout, dragging him back by his arm.

He whips around and stalks toward me. I backpedal at the same speed to the middle of the room. When I stop, he keeps coming until he’s flush against me. Wild eyes stare down at me, his chest heaving erratically against mine. My breaths aren’t the most rhythmic either as I challenge the glare, equally furious. Then his mouth crashes into mine, all the anger and hostility still present. He pulls me with him, backing up into the dresser. As he turns us around, his arm swings out, knocking everything off the top. I grab at his shirt, completely forgetting how to remove clothing. He lifts me up onto the surface, and once we’re face-to-face, we both stop.

“Don’t fucking talk to him anymore,” he demands, panting.

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