Page 98 of Dance of Defiance
We stand there in dark, glowering at each other as the city hums around us.
Roman’s eyes turn icy. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
“Gladly, motherfucker,” I growl before I turn and storm up the alley.
Fucking gladly, indeed.
17
ROMAN
I stare glumlyat my phone, scowling.
Fuck.
Even though I’ve double checked that I've got all my notifications set to “on”, and even though I haven’thadany notifications in the last two minutes, I still thumb open my texts and tap on his name.
Me:I shouldn’t have come at you like that last night. I was angry.
Me:I’m sorry.
Me:Yes, there was reason to think your brother had something to do with the explosion. But I was wrong to immediately accuse you of anything.
Me:Val, I’m sorry.
Me:Heyyy, me agin. Im fuckn sorry.
Me:sorrrry. Plz anser
I cringe as I re-read the texts from four nights ago, which became progressively sloppier the drunker I got.
I exhale, dropping the phone onto the bed in my room at my father’s house and then collapsing back across it.
Shit. If I was him, I wouldn’t be texting me back either. Or answering the late-night, drunken calls. Or responding to the fuckingcringe-worthyblurry photo I sent him later the same night of the text barrage—me, shirtless, in the hot tub out back, making…somekind of face at the camera.
Jesus Christ. Was that me trying to be sexy or something?
Again:cringe. And the total lack of response reinforces that.
I embarrassed myself coming at him like that and accusing him of…whatever. And then I went and embarrassed myself ten times worse with all that followed.
Great fucking job, buddy.
Usually, I’d shake this off. I’ve embarrassed myself in front of girls dozens of times. Puking in front of a girl you’re hoping to take home isn’t exactly a proud moment. Neither is being unable to, uh,rise to the occasiononce you get her there, because you're too fucked up.
When that's happened, I’ve shrugged it off, had another drink, and moved on.
But that’s not working with Val. I can’t just “shrug this off”. I can’t “move on”. I don’t even want to drink it away, since I was pretty loaded when I attacked him the other night, and drinking reminds me of that.
I mean, I’m still drinking. But I don’t really want to.
Bottom line: I can’t shake this one off. I can’t shakehimoff.
I groan, rolling over on the bed and picking my phone up again.
Still no response. But I tap on his name and start typing again anyway.
Like an idiot.
