Blessing In Disguise

Original | Chapter Fourteen

(Sierra's POV)

"I thought Demi hated your guts," I recall, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"I could say the same to you." 

"With me, it's just Demi being Demi. You, my friend, are loathed by her." 

"I know," he says, clenching the steering wheel.

"What did you do exactly?"

"Why am I having this discussion with a child?" 

I roll my eyes.

"Because I know more than you think. You cheated on her, right?" 

He grips the steering wheel even tighter.

I smirk. This should be fun.

"Let me guess. You probably had some chick over. I'm assuming this chick was blonde because what guy doesn't like a blonde? She was probably sickly thin, which triggered Demi's insecurities. To top it off, you were in the middle of fucking her or something. Am I right?"

He stays silent.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I taunt. 

He sighs, frustrated.

"Red," he mumbles.

"Huh?" 

"She wasn't blonde; her hair was red." 

"At least you're honest," I pause before continuing. "Did you enjoy hurting Demi? I mean, couldn't you have just dumped her?"

"You think I wanted to hurt her?" he questions, sounding both pained and appalled.

"Well, let's review, shall we? You fucked somebody that wasn't your girlfriend, you fucked somebody that wasn't your girlfriend, and you fucked somebody that wasn't your girlfriend," I state, ticking each one off on a finger. "Did you ever tell the girl that you had a girlfriend? Or did you ever just say no to her?"

He glares at me as we stop at a red light, and I grin innocently at him. He shakes his head, stepping on the gas pedal as the light turns green.

"And don't even try that whole 'I have needs' shit," I say with a disgusted shake of my head. "That's just a load of bull that a coward uses."

"Where do you come up with this stuff?"

"One of my foster moms loved talk shows: Dr. Phil, Bill Cunningham, Steve Wilkos, et cetera. I might've picked up a few things."

"Might've?" he echoes with a snort.

"Hey! You're the one who needs to be taking notes."

He doesn't respond, and we soon arrive at a tall, black gate.

"Fancy," I murmur.

I hear a faint beeping noise as he types away at an electronic keypad wired to the gate. With a slight squeaky groan, the gates open up.

"Nice place," I observe as he drives us up the driveway.

He parks in the garage, pressing a button inside the car to close the garage door behind us. He steps out of the car, making no visible effort to open my door for me.

"Rude much?" I scoff, stepping out of the vehicle after opening my own door. "I hope you opened doors for Demi."

"You're not Demi," he smirks.

"Oh, trust me, I know. If I was Demi, I would've already kicked your ass and served it on a silver platter in a dish known as humiliation with a side of ego deflation and, for dessert, a helping of regret," I growl.