Supernatural Lovebite

Chapter 10

First . . . SORRY!!!

Second . . . SORRY!!!

Third . . . SORRY!!!

Fourth . . . Eternal sorries, but I really don't think you want to read sorries . . . you probably want to read a book, huh. Well, this is kind of short?? But I thought it was necessary to post! To all my Protector fans--I will write right after my Writer block flies out of the galaxy and get sucked into a black hole for eternity! But for now, please live with this! This is sort of a filler, but it's funny so yeah! :)

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**recap**

“I’ll get you back.”

            Her lilting, yet sinister laughter filled the car, freezing the blood in my arteries and made the butterflies in my stomach bat away in my stomach like acid.

            Holy. Freaking. Shit.

**recap**

Chapter 10:

I groaned, trying to hide my face behind my books. I could hear the girls around me snicker as I walked around the school, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in my shouting outfit.

            “Dude, what happened?!” Luke guffawed.

            I threw a dagger-like glare in his direction. His face was bright red from laughing, and he was clutching his stomach, doubling over. When I spotted the camera with the red recording dot, I slapped it away. I smirked when it clattered noisily on the tile floor.

            “What the hell, man?! That was my freakin’ iPhone, dammit!”

            Feeling immature, I stuck my tongue out at him. “Get over it.”

            Stiffly, I yanked my locker open, glaring at anything within a 50-foot radius of my personal space. When Luke regained his senses, he asked:

            “Seriously, bro, what happened?”

            I glanced down at my attire and shuddered.

            “Well,” I started reluctantly, “when we were on our date . . .”

            I went into a long descriptive narrative of the date fiasco, with Luke laughing at every opportune moment.

            “And this is her revenge? Damn, that chick is good.”

            A possessive surge rushed through my body when Luke called her “chick.” Surprised, I shoved it aside, trying to rid of the mushy feeling.

            “How’d she do it?” he asked curiously.

            I shrugged. “I dunno, but when I got home all my clothes were torn and shit. All of them — even my jerseys! Torn, burned, destroyed, bro. I kept cool, though, and was thinking, ‘Good thing I have those suits.’ You know, the ones my mom makes me wear? Well those were at the freakin’ dry cleaners! And my damn shoes were missing! Even the Shaq’s!!!”

            Biting his chuckles in, he asked rhetorically, “So . . . you decided to wear that?”

            I glanced down. My dad’s small loafer shoes were squeezing the life out of my toes while long black pantyhose were stretching around my legs. I was wearing my cousin’s slacks, which were three inches too short. Worst part, though, was the big pink shirt that said, “I LOVE COOKING.” It was my mom’s and it was hugging me to no end.