There is a smothering moment of silence, before he laughs again. This time i'm almost sure he's laughing at me, but i'm hardly in any position to complain. I start to speak, but my tongue runs against my teeth too fast, and I can taste blood. It's not entirely terrible- if I said this was the first time I'd been my own downfall, I'd be lying. I'd gotten used to the taste of my own blood; it's an acrid, overpowering taste that's somewhere between rawhide and motor oil.
"How do you know what rawhide tastes like?"
Shit. Had I been thinking out loud, or is Andrew a fucking psychic?
"You don't know my life," I mutter, indignant, "since when are you a mind reader?"
"I'm not. Since when are you the least subtle person ever?"
"Since I was born with claws and fangs, probably,"
Andrew makes a face at that point, like he knows I've won, but gives a light laugh. I'm aware of how greedy and narcissistic it sounds, but I'd probably strangle someone to hear that laugh more often. He rolls his eyes, "You're a real card, you know that?" and pulls out of the parking lot.
"I was thinking-did you ever plan on going home?"
"Depends on where you plan on going, I guess," I sigh, "I like you, you know."
"I kind of figured"
YOU ARE READING
Bad Blood
BeletrieSam has grown up his whole life...differently. He's used to being the outsider, but when things go bad, being cursed might not be the worst thing going on.
