𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

42 || Nothing

Nicki Minaj - Last Time I Saw You

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

Fuck this.

I didn't do awkward. I didn't do silence and I sure as fuck didn't do guilt.

"So..." I blame the lack of space in the car for the tension in the air just as I blame the scent of expensive Italian leather for the unease I feel. In a desperate plea for a distraction, I examine my slightly overgrown nails. "Does this mean I get to enjoy bottomless memosas and beach naps in Bora Bora?"

I'm all honesty, the thought of yet another drink makes me physically ill. So ill my stomach turns and it's not because the man next me me doesn't respond.

Hungover from the vodka and exhausted from the lack of sleep, I persist. "I wonder what the foods like-"

The engine revs, the once still trees blur behind the glass while the car dips and curves along the road, sending my stomach into a roar. But it's the moment in the midst of the stillness, where he turns and those blue eyes, dead and so emotionless glance at me, that I just know I'm not going to taste the divine cuisine Bora Bora has to offer.

He turns to face the road, leaving me with nothing but the hard lines and sharp angles of his side profile. So unwelcoming and dismissive.

He's giving me the silent treatment.

Real fucking mature.

I don't care.

My attention moves to the duffle bag in my lap. I'd managed to slip into a pair of my jeans and a supportive bra he must have packed somewhere in the haze of it all, but I was stupid enough to leave my shirt on.

His shirt.

Well, if he thinks I'm stepping foot out in public wearing his shit then he's fucking delusional.

I lift his shirt over my head and toss it somewhere in back of the car.

He doesn't look over at me, his hand does however flex against the steering wheel while his jaw barely ticks. But he  doesn't glance my way.

Blinded by a sudden wave of annoyance, I don't even bother to properly look at whatever the fuck I pull out and slip on as a shirt. All I know is that it's tight, small and mine.

"Does this mean you've handled your lunatic sister?" He's quiet, the engine isn't. "You know, the bitch that tried to kill us?"

"You." I stop at the sound of his voice. Low and steady, barely heard over the hum of the overpriced car we're sitting in. "She was trying to kill you."

That makes me pause. Not because the bitch with a cheap box dyed hair scares me, she doesn't. But because the man's so effortlessly causal about it.

"I highly doubt she's been dealt with in the day and a half we've been preoccupied." And by preoccupied I mean, with me and inside me.

A small hint of annoyance laces his tone, yet it's still so detached. "She hasn't."

"Then why are we leaving?" I turn and toss the entire duffle back in the back seat, trying to act unbothered by his cold shoulder.