Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Hold on. So let me put it this way." Drew holds up a hand, his lips half curving to an I-don't-believe-this smile, which looks kinda hot. "All of the bullshit I'm hearing is just because he forgot about you once?"

"Twice." I correct him and he starts to laugh. I stare and blink repeatedly, racking my brain to find anything funny. Nothing is found, really.

"Yeah, like that makes a difference."

I slap his arm. "It does! What if you had one eye instead of two? Would that make a difference?"

Drew stops laughing and puts on a dramatic mock thoughtful expression.

"Fair point. Maybe I should stab myself in the eye and figure it out."

I shudder at the thought of stabbing someone's eye, or any part of the body.

"Shut up."

He smirks at me. "Wimp."

"A week ago you said I wasn't." I scoff, poking him with a pen. Without even flinching, he bites the end of my pencil, the left corner of his mouth turned down a little more, suggesting his kind of smirk. Believe it or not but it looks good on him.

"Just mentally, and only partly." He pauses, throwing me half a glance. "Physically, you're just a whiny tiny weakling."

I snort, moving my pencil away from his teeth. "Sounds like Peter."

"Pardon?"

I shrug. "He thinks I'm kinda this little missy that dies because of a scratch."

"Isn't that true?"

"No." I snap and poke him in the arm again with my pen, not that it earns much reaction. Gosh his biceps are good. "My thigh bone once snapped in two you know." Some good months when I can walk and Daphne was made to be my private servant. There were cons of being unable to walk. And there were pros.

It's a stupid thought, hoping to impress the asshole. I should have known it isn't possible.

Putting the end of the pencil back between his teeth, Drew eyes me with visible derision.

"Oh, yes, so dangerous. How could you, oh my." Even his sarcasm is lame.

I just roll my eyes. Drew raises his leg to kick mine off the table. I kick his shin and he yelps, hugging the spot tightly with one hand, the other giving me the finger.

We are sitting in my living room with a stack of books and paper, all study about Romeo and Juliet, analyzing the characters and drawing conclusions about the society at the time. Not that I care. Drew, however, seems deeply interested. That's precisely the reason why I asked him to help me with the outrageously, bitchily large amount of homework Mrs. Black gave us. All about the famous whacky tragic couple who apparently addicted to the idea of death.

Never have I ever thought this weird scenario would happen. Andrew Archer sitting on the lounge next to me, two stacks of his books between us, chewing the end of my pencil, occasionally spitting the paint out of his mouth while eating up every single word about Romeo's family printed on a crappy-quality old piece of paper. I called him half an hour ago and told him to bring every book in his apartment because I don't have any. He agreed, saying that he needed to get his work done, too and showed up at my door after fifteen minutes, the back of his truck filled with books. And somehow our polite greetings have turned into me telling him that Peter had pinned me to the restroom door kissing my hair and whispering apologies, which earned multiples sarcastic comments from the British shit. Typical Tuesday night, no big deal.