"Say you're sorry," Aftyn whispers, leaning closer to her, his lips almost brushing that spot on her neck I can't look away from.
"I'm sorry!" she shouts, and he drags his tongue over her skin, flicking her earring with the tip of his tongue before he finally releases her. Willa lets go of the gas, and the car begins to slow down as Aftyn drops back into his seat.
"That's why you'll always lose, Wills."
"What are you talking about?" she asks, bringing the car back into normal speed range.
He turns his head to look at her, and I shift in my seat just so I can see his eyes. They're almost sleepy, still so relaxed as he says, "When it comes to the two of us, I'll always win because you're afraid to die... and I'm not."
Willa doesn't say anything in response and, judging by the white-knuckle grip she has on the steering wheel, I'm pretty sure she's still trying to come down from the panic. Personally, I'm disappointed that the show is over so quickly. but it's Aftyn's last comment that has me biting down on my lip to hide the smile the words summon.
"Here you go, Daphne," Aftyn says, holding the designer purse over his shoulder, and I take it from him. "Her phone is in there somewhere, but feel free to dig around for anything you might want. I'm sure she's got some cash in her wallet, a spare credit card or two."
I can tell by just how tense Willa's shoulders are that she hates me holding her purse, but she doesn't have the balls to speak up against Aftyn right now. It only takes a second to locate her phone, a brand-new iPhone with a shimmery blue case. When I tap the screen, it tries to read my face but obviously doesn't unlock. "I need your code."
"Hand it to me," Willa grits out between clenched teeth, reaching back over her shoulder, but Aftyn snags her wrist and shoves her hand back into her lap.
"No phones while driving, Wills."
Taking a deep breath, Willa rolls her neck from side to side before she finally answers quietly. "Eight, zero, four, one."
"Thanks," I tell her, unlocking the phone with the code before I scroll to her contacts and find 'Dexter' with a little heart emoji next to his name in her favorites. Tapping it, the phone starts ringing, but it barely gets through a full ring before the voicemail picks up. The kid sounds young, awkward, and I listen to the end of his pathetic message before I end the call. "It went straight to voicemail. Do you want me to... leave him a message?"
"No," Willa snaps, and I flip to the photos out of curiosity while she glares out the front windshield. There are a handful of risqué photos, but I'm more curious about the ones she's taken of Aftyn. I click on them at random, moving quickly, but eventually I find one where he's not looking at her. He's sitting at a table, looking to the side, and he's got that smirk on his face that makes me want to know more about him.
Willa is annoyingly two-dimensional, but Aftyn isn't. He's got layers. Complexity.
And I want to see more of it.
I just have to figure out what buttons to push with them next.
TWENTY-ONE
Perchance to Dream
AFTYN
I reach into the backseat and snatch Willa’s phone out of Daphne’s hand. She’s had enough time to snoop around, and in all honesty, I just wanted to piss of my best friend which is completely different than invading her privacy.
After I push the button to lock Wills’ phone again, I lean into the back and smack Daphne’s hand when I find her rifling through her purse. She looks up at me with an arched eyebrow, amusement on her face, and I ignore it all as I retrieve the bag and toss it on the floor between my feet.
I run a hand back through my hair, the taste of Willa’s salty skin still on my tongue as I close my eyes and fold an arm behind my head.
The bitchfest can continue after I’ve gotten some sleep.
I’ll be well rested and better prepared to fight her then.
* * *
“Where did you go after school you little shit?”
I take a step back against the door as Mom storms into the living room to screech at me. I’m not allowed to do anything in this house that she doesn’t approve of, and she’s never wanted me to have friends. She hates me, hates Willa, and constantly compares me to my “son-of-a-bitch” father. A man I don’t even know who holds some kind of sway over the both of us.
Her because she can’t seem to let him go and me because I apparently look so much like him.
“I walked Willa home,” I tell her defensively. I never lied to my mother before and her being this angry won’t change that. I’m not a liar; I hate liars and when the truth is readily available, there’s no reason for a fallacy to pass through my lips.
“You just think you’re hot shit because your balls finally dropped, don’t you?” she barks at me, raising a finger and pointing it in my face. “You’re going to be like that no-good father of yours—I can see it now.”