“You all but ran over my goddamn foot to get here. I mean, would it have killed you to get behind me?”
“Believe me, that’s the last place anyone wants to be.”
I grit my back teeth together so hard, I swear I hear a tooth crack. “You’re such an asshole,” I hiss under my breath, so only he can hear. I can feel the unwanted stares of everyone around us, but I just don’t care. I’m tired of this guy. I’m tired of him glowering at me like I shit in his Cheerios, when I’ve literally done nothing at all.
“You think so?” he asks the question so quietly, I thought I imagined it, but I didn’t. I about blow a gasket when he stares down at me pointedly and waves the woman who’s waiting behind me in front of him. I choke on a breath, my lungs restricting air, with the torrent of absolute rage flowing through my veins.
This isn’t happening.
No. This asshole did not just run over my foot, cut me in line, and allow someone else to cut him, just to be a spiteful shit.
“What the hell are you doing?” I bark like an insane woman.
“Now I’m being an asshole,” he offers, infantilely.
“You’re a child, you know that?”
“Done talking yet?”
“Asshole.”
“Shrew.”
“Prick.”
“Ignoramus.”
“Dickwad.”
“You seem to be obsessed with my dick.”
My gaze narrows, heat rising to my cheeks, as I glance around. “Excuse me?” I hiss.
“Dickhead. Dickwad.”
“Those are all insults that perfectly describe you. Don’t blame me for the way you come off to others.”
“They all seem to have a very specific focus.”
To my horror, the woman, he let cut him, tries to stifle her laughter but fails miserably. Embarrassment churns my stomach, and I have to work to control my breathing. I’m not a violent person, but I suddenly have the urge to attack this man. Nails bared and everything.
When I don’t say anything in return, he allows me to fume in silence, turning back around and going through the motions of checking out. I glare daggers at his back the entire time. Hell, if I had a voodoo doll, I’d be stabbing the shit out of it with a red pin right about now.
The checkout woman eyes me warily, when it’s my turn, and I do my best to ignore her and everyone else whose gaze I can feel glued to me, just watching and waiting for my next outburst. I’ve had enough of today.
Mumbling curse words under my breath the entire way back to my car, I’m so lost in my own mind, I don’t realize there’s a car backing out right in front of me. By the time I do snap out of it, it’s too late. The car screeches to a halt, still bumping my cart. I let out a gasp, and my eyes widen when I take in the small dent that now rests on the all black muscle car.
No way.
There’s no way.
The driver’s side door is thrown open, and a tall and impossibly intimidating Roman gets out, tossing his hands up in the air.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Me?” I yell back incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me? You hit me with your car, you dickhead!”
“Don’t you look to see where you’re going? Obviously, if a car is backing out, that means stop fucking walking!”
“Ever heard of a rearview mirror, Roman? Try using it!”
With a growl, he throws himself back into his car, pulls out of the parking space, and drives away. I stand there, rooted to the spot, fuming.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
“Fuck You (very very much)”—Lily Allen
The next morning when I leave for work, I pull out of the driveway, just as my neighbor opens his garage and rolls out his motorcycle. Max is nowhere to be found. I watch in the rearview mirror, while I head down the street, as he swings his leg over his bike. A strange burst of warmth and reckless embers explode in my chest when I look in the rearview mirror and see his head crane my way, as he watches me drive away. There’s an odd sense of satisfaction that I get, knowing I obviously get under his skin the same way he gets under mine.
I imagine his bike swerving, and his pride and joy being crushed to smithereens. I smirk.
Would serve the asshole right.
When I walk into work, my steps falter at the broad backed man. I’m even more surprised when he turns around. Dressed in