Hit the Spot

She had to be. Getting on my case over nothing? This was bullshit.

Tori inhaled sharply through her nose. She straightened up. “No, I’m not on my period,” she hissed.

“You about to get it?”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t answer.

“Take that as a yes,” I murmured.

“Okay.” She shook her head, looking exacerbated. “You know what? Maybe I could have seen your point, but now you’re just being really rude.”

“Get over it. You’re bein’ emotional over shit that means absolutely nothin’.”

“It means something to me, you dick.”

“Easy, Legs,” I warned. “You wanna stand there and run your mouth at me, you better have a damn good reason for it, and right now, you don’t.”

“Oh, is that right?” Her brows shot up. “I don’t have a damn good reason right now?”

“Nope.”

“I was excited to read that interview. I couldn’t wait to read it. And yes, I was hoping and maybe expecting you to mention something about us in there because I thought for sure you would, and you didn’t. And it hurt my feelings. Okay? I was hurt, Jamie. And you don’t seem to care at all. You’re just being an asshole about it.”

“You’re hurt over somethin’ stupid,” I affirmed. “And I’m not bein’ an asshole. I’m just givin’ it to you straight.”

She blinked, mouth falling open. “Wow. Thanks.” She shook her head. “Thanks a lot. I’m glad how I feel matters to you.” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. Legs glared at me, lips curling in disgust but also trembling, like she was on the verge of either clawing my eyes out if I got any closer or bursting into tears.

Christ. She drove me fucking crazy.

“Blowin’ up over nothin’. Puttin’ somethin’ this stupid between us. That’s fucked up,” I shared, needing to make sure Tori knew she was wrong. “I don’t got nothin’ to apologize for. I told you how it is.”

“Yeah, you did. And you know what?”

“What?”

“Fuck you,” she hissed.

“Fuck me?” My brows shot up. “Fuck me? What the fuck? Fuck you!” I roared.

“You should care about how I feel, and you don’t!” she yelled. “You should care that I’m upset about this. So fuck you. For that stupid interview, and for not knowing this is a damn good reason. I’m going home.” Tori turned on her heel and made for the door, leaving her shirts behind.

My jaw was clenched so tight it fucking ached. She was going home. I knew what that meant—her home. Not mine.

This was complete bullshit.

“Legs, swear to Christ, woman, if you don’t get your ass back over here and get over this shit, I’m lettin’ you leave. And babe …” I met her eyes when she craned her neck around to glare at me. “You walk out that door and I ain’t followin’ you.”

Tori paused, hand flat on the glass, looking back at me with rage burning in her eyes. She wasn’t wearing that hurt anymore. She was pissed. And I knew what that meant, too.

Hurt might’ve kept her here. But that anger was driving her out.

I watched Tori push through that door and walk. And I didn’t follow. Said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.

Chest heaving, teeth clenched, and muscles locking up, I dropped my arms and turned toward the counter, bracing my hands there. I looked from the stack of shirts piled next to the register to the open copy of Rail.

Then I stared. Until I couldn’t fucking take it anymore.

“Fuck!” I roared, sweeping my arms across the counter and clearing it. Shirts. Her dad’s hat. Even the fucking register. Everything went flying. I didn’t give a shit.

She walked. And I let her.

Chapter Twenty-five

TORI

Groaning, I closed the kitchen cabinet and dropped my head on the door with a thump. I shut my eyes.

No. I wouldn’t do it. I refused to eat another Pop-Tart for lunch. I had one for breakfast. Two, actually. That was all the pathetic I could handle for one day. I still had my limits.

Padding into the living room, I collapsed onto the couch and fell sideways, tucking my knees against my chest.

For showing purposes, my house was still fully furnished. Thank God. I had taken most of my personal items to Jamie’s—clothes, bathroom items, some favorite things I didn’t want to leave behind, such as my Christmas quilt. And when I left, I brought all of those things back with me.

It was as if I had never moved out.

Nine days. It had been nine days of no contact with Jamie. No calls. No texts. No middle-of-the-night lock picking.

I was a miserable mess.

I wanted to stay angry. And for the first three or four days, I did. I was pissed. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to talk to him. I couldn’t believe how heartless he had been. How cold and unapologetic. Not caring how I felt about that interview. Not giving a damn how hurt I was. That didn’t matter to Jamie. He wasn’t sorry. In his eyes, I was overreacting and getting emotional over something stupid.

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get what being claimed by him meant to me.

Everything. God, it meant everything.

I’m not crazy. I understood his point—Jamie didn’t like getting personal in those interviews. He was there to talk about surfing. That was it.

I got that.

But I really thought he would at least mention something about us, anything about us, when prompted, and when I saw that he hadn’t, I wasn’t just surprised, I was hurt. Deep in my heart, I felt that. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">