Whitewashed

Moderate Antipathy

Chapter 10: Moderate Antipathy

Before I can give anything close to a proper response, Haz turns sharply and stalks away, pushing Belladonna with him.

I have half of a mind to follow, but I know going after him will simply be more of a detriment to the resurrection of our friendship. Besides, Haz is an adult and he can make his own choices. If he wants to risk his life in a stupid motorcycle race, who am I to stop him?

The thought causes a sick feeling to spread in my stomach.

It’s not my place at all, but I feel offended.

I feel like he shouldn’t be doing this. Period.

He can get hurt. He might DIE.

And for what reason?

The fact that I have a boyfriend and didn’t tell him? The fact that I rejected him?

This is cruel. This is deplorable. He can’t possibly think that-

“Hey there, baby. Looking for someone?” a smooth voice asks and I turn my head slightly to see a blond guy in a leather jacket staring at me with what I can only describe as malicious intent.

I am also quick to note his cocky smile, sure stance, and arched eyebrow.

“Not particularly, no,” I shake my head, glancing around and hoping to find someone familiar, preferably Prints as the idea of seeing Haz isn’t too pleasing at the moment either. But I need backup.

“Well maybe I can change your mind. Name’s Romeo,” he extends his hand, revealing a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that instantly catches my attention. At the core is a diamond shape, surrounded by filled in triangles on all four sides. At the corners of the center figure, a lighter ink color makes four more triangles.

Really it looks like the cubism version of a flower.

Upon noticing it, I instantly know that I’ve seen it before, but I can’t place where.

I glance between his hand and his face and back, not wanting to touch him. Something about the guy, maybe the fact that everything he did simply screamed egocentric, makes me uncomfortable.

Romeo, huh? Is that his name? Nickname? Or something he calls himself to stroke his ego?

“Come on, Ozzie, I’m not going to bite,” he takes off the sunglasses he had oddly been wearing at night to reveal stark grey irises, other hand still extended.

The uncanny feeling in my chest intensifies at the mention of my name. How does he know it?

Hesitantly, I reach out and shake his hand to dispel the awkwardness.

Maybe if I just give him what he wants he’ll go away.

“That’s better,” Romeo nods, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and flipping his slightly curled hair out of his eyes. “So… Ozzie, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Is that so?” my pitch drops an octave with disgust and distrust.

Where had Prints gone?

I abruptly regret leaving him in the truck so quickly.

My gaze fans out across the field, searching for the kleptomaniac amidst the silhouettes of people blocking the headlights of the vehicles parked in the surrounding forest. The brightness of this place is only made possible by the collective effort of about fifty cars, though the chosen, angular lighting scheme gives everything not near the lights of the cabin a horrendously surreal appearance.