Page 89 of P.S. I'm Still Yours
I grind my teeth at his response. “Excuse me? You have got some nerve getting involved in my life when you—”
“When I what? Kissed the shit out of you the day before I left town?”
My jaw drops.
I hate that he’s acting like he didn’t do anything wrong. It makes me want to clock him in the head with the can I’m holding. I glance down at the unopened seltzer in my hand and realize…
Maybe it’s not that I’m too drunk.
Maybe it’s that I’m not drunk enough.
Under Kane’s scrutiny, I open the can and guide it to my lips. I start slow at first, but before I know it, I’m downing the alcohol inside. I can tell Kane doesn’t approve by the way he frowns, but I don’t give two shits what he thinks.
I’m almost done with the drink when he groans. “That’s enough.”
“You’re not answering the question,” I stop my chugging to say. His eyes are still packed with disapproval, but he’s staring at my chest now. I look down and realize a few drops of booze escaped my lips and are coursing down my breasts.
He brings his gaze back to mine. “Gray would’ve wanted me to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re not seriously pulling the Gray card right now. You ignored him for years, Kane. Years. He had to get shot in the fucking head for you to remember he existed!”
Kane’s poker face slips off for a second, and beneath it?
There’s pain.
Maybe even guilt.
He slaps his emotionless façade back on. “That’s beside the point.”
This is useless. We’re just going around in circles.
“Want to know what I think?” I move closer. “I think you did it because you know I used to have a crush on you, and your fragile little ego couldn’t handle the fact that I don’t anymore.”
He fake gasps. “Wait, you had a crush on me?”
Dick.
“You’re such a narcissist, you know that?” I drive my index finger into his chest, poking him.
He raises an eyebrow. “A narcissist, huh? Is that what you’ve been telling yourself to sleep at night?”
My confidence shrinks.
“It is, isn’t it? You cling to that bullshit story because it’s easier to tell yourself that I left because I don’t care about anyone than to accept I just didn’t care about you.”
Okay, that hurt.
“Fuck you,” I spit, turning to walk away and almost tripping. I manage to steady myself just in time, but right when I’m about to open the door, Kane snatches my wrist and pulls.
He spins me around, his tone authoritative and demanding as he says, “We’re going home.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with you.” I try to take my wrist back, but he doesn’t allow it.
He swipes the seltzer from my hand. “I’m taking that, too.”
“Hey!” I protest, but he’s already crushing the near-empty can in his grip and tossing it on the lawn.
“You’re drunk,” he states.