Chapter Eight

In my heart of hearts, I thought a few nights without Brendon Spyro in the Raccoon Wars meant a week filled with moments of fervent, unadulterated raccoon-killing bliss. No Spyro hovering over my shoulder, whispering against my ear, or fucking with my head like I’m his personal plaything. No threats interlaced with irritating terms of endearment and sexual insinuations. No need to save Spyro’s ass every five seconds from the enemy, and no worries about saving my own ass from Spyro. I thought my week would be dandy—maybe even peachy keen.

But no.

Spyro ended up being the indirect source of why the following week of my life went to shit. What went down within those few days?

Number One: I set my mattress on fire.

Explanation: After getting home from my fairly slow mission on Monday night, I stayed up late, lounging on my bed, constantly flipping Spyro’s Zippo open, on and closed. I was getting so good at it—I even started doing nifty, dumb-as-fuck tricks, like tossing the lit lighter in the air and closing it as quickly as possible after catching it. One throw had the Zippo landing on the edge of my mattress instead of in my grasp. With quick reflexes, I beat the fire into oblivion with my hands. After that, I flung the Zippo into my desk drawer and fell asleep licking my sore palms.

Why Spyro is To Blame: My spanking new obsession with the prized lighter that had set Spyro’s groin ablaze proved to be dangerous. If Spyro hadn’t been my neighbor, I wouldn’t have been dabbling in the depths of pyromania. His Zippo wouldn’t have been in my possession. Most importantly, the image of his crotch igniting wouldn’t have been replaying in my head and reminding me of all the naughty things I could accomplish with a simple flame.

Lesson Learned: Fire and mattresses? Don’t mix well. Annabelle Jones and Zippo lighters? Yeah, they don’t mix well, either.

Number Two: Marty acted as annoying as a big shit that won’t flush down the toilet.

Explanation: Why I decide to answer my cell phone when I know Marty will be on the line, gibber-jabbering her bowels out about school, boys and clothes beats me. Our conversations throughout the week can be recapped with the following questions, comments and responses:

“So do you think I should call him or what?”

“Who are we talking about, again?”

“Brendon. I know he wants to go to Homecoming with me, Annabelle. It’s like…destiny—I feel it in my gut.”

“It’s probably just gas.”

“Do you even know what I’m talking about? That’s it. I’m calling him.”

“Don’t call him.”

“What? Why? What did you hear? He’s not going with someone else, is he? Is he?”

“…Who knows!”

“Oh my god—you know something. Tell me, tell me! Who is it? It’s not that bitch that walked him home when his cat died, is it? Is it? I’m going to die.”

“Marty. Marty? Chill out. I just have it on good record that Brendon Spyro avoids formal dances at all costs. Or so said his mother at the dinner party.”

“Oh. Who am I going to go with now? Would you mind if I go with Daniel? Oh please, oh pretty please?”

“Who?”

“Daniel Delaney—the guy who asked you and you said no to because you’re a loser who doesn’t go to dances anymore?”

“Uh, sure thing. Dance your monkey off.”

Why Spyro is To Blame: He seemed to have entranced Marty enough to make her believe it was kismet to dance the night away, get married, go make babies and live happily ever after. Which, you know, in a pig’s eye. But Marty was hopeful enough to keep nagging me about whether or not she should call Spyro, whether I knew he was interested in her or not, and so forth.

Lesson Learned: Kill Marty. As soon as humanly possible, with arsenic.

And finally, Number Three: Mom pretended she was a five-year-old and I was her little dress-up doll she could beautify by forcing me to try on every dress we could find in the mall, ripping my hair out to style in a bun at the nape of my neck, and making me use a skin lotion that gave me hives.

Explanation: She basically flipped the shit when I told her I was going to Homecoming with Spyro.

Why Spyro is To Blame: Because this was his idea. Because he was a class-act liar who could appear to be harmless in my parents’ presence. Because he seemed charming, suave and good-looking enough for my mother to become preoccupied with the idea of us being together—kind of like how she was gushing over the thought now, with Spyro leaning against the threshold of our front door, looking as sharp as a needle in his dark, tailored suit, and giving Mom a lop-sided grin that was causing her to speak in broken sentences.

“Brendon—you. You look. So,” she said, tipping her face up to my father, who was silently glaring at Spyro. Seeing that Dad wasn’t going to help her find the words she so obviously wished to express, she turned back to Spyro and just smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, grinning again.

My father harrumphed and basically looked like he wanted to detach Spyro’s body from his face.

Go, Dad, go!

“Annabelle!” he shouted finally. “Brendon’s here.”

Although I would’ve liked to have rushed down the stairs and stormed out of the house, my heels and my black, backless silk dress (which had no slit and was a bit tight around the thighs) prevented me from doing so. And even though I got a kick out of watching Spyro’s mouth clamp into a wide, thin line as I descended the staircase, I strode past him and out the door without meeting his eyes.

“Let’s go, dude.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” my dad called from behind me.

“Dad, please…” Please don’t take a picture of us. Please don’t think I’ll have fun at the dance. Please don’t believe I want to have sex with this head case when all I want to do is procure a buttload of poison so I can enjoy a few dozen raccoon kills.

He seemed to sense my awkwardness and just nodded and told me to have a good time. “Be back by twelve-thirty.”

“Two is fine,” Mom said, and slammed the door before my dad could protest.

For a few moments, Spyro stood on my front lawn, hanging his head and kicking at a few rocks with his shiny shoes. “I thought I told you to wear something dark and forgettable, Abe.”

“What do you think I’m wearing?”

“A dress that’s dark but definitely not forgettable.”

My hands glided over my hips, against the smooth material of my dress. “This is the only dark dress I could find in the mall. It was either this or purple feathers coming out of my ass.”

“Sex.”

“What?” To tell you the truth, it wasn’t a topic I was necessarily opposed to talking about.

“You look like the sex,” he said, moving towards me.

“You look like shit—you know what? Pretend like I’ve kicked you. This dress is too stiff around the legs to actually do it, unfortunately,” I said, crossing the street to his car.

“Change.”

“What?”

“If you don’t change out of that, you’re not going.”

“No!” I stomped my foot against the pavement, feeling so vulnerable in the dress, so normal. “Do you know how long it took me to get all this shit on?”

“Listen to me, Hot Cheeks,” he said, backing me against his car, “as much as I’d love to stare at your mouth-watering body all night, we’re going to be rendezvousing with a horde of criminals—people who’ve gone to jail for theft, possession of drugs, sexual assault. Catch my drift? Don’t you know how dangerous these people are?”

“Probably just about as dangerous as you.”

He regarded my response for a moment. “Fair enough, Kit-Cat,” he said after a few seconds, “but don’t blame me if one of them tries anything funny with y—”

“Hello there, Annabelle!” someone called from Spyro’s front doorstep. Spyro rolled his eyes and took a wide step away from me as his father approached the car. “You look ravishing.”

“Mr. Spyro,” I said in greeting, clandestinely retreating to the passenger’s side of the Benz after I caught sight of Spyro’s maybe-pedophilic father licking his lips and leering at my chest.

“Son,” he said to Spyro, slapping him on the back, “you’ve got fine taste in women.”

Lesson Learned: As soon as humanly possible, kill Spyro’s father, too. Preferably before he attempts to molest you.

“You’ve taught me well, Dad,” Spyro said with a smile and a snip of sarcasm. “We’ll be back around two, so don’t wait up.”

Mr. Spyro grabbed the back of his son’s neck. “Make sure,” he whispered, albeit loud enough for me to hear and in perhaps the best fatherly voice he could muster, “you use protection.”

Fucking hell—did all members of the Spyro family lack common decency?

“You got it, Pops.” Spyro nodded spastically as he entered the driver’s seat. “I got some magnums in my wallet. Enough to do it all night long.”

“But we probably won’t need that many,” I said, beginning to understand that the way to deal with this kind of embarrassing conversation was to just join along in the obscenity. “I’ll eat my hat if your son doesn’t end up prematurely ejaculating the first time around.”

“Abe, get in the damn car. That was so inappropriate. Do you say that to your own father?”

I laughed. But Mr. Spyro’s toothy grin and wink caused an inordinate amount of bile to rise in the back of my throat.

“Doesn’t that outfit make you feel like an international woman of mystery? Being dressed up like that, but for all the wrong reasons?” He linked his arm with mine as we walked towards the school’s entrance. “Yeah, baby, yeah!” Spyro shouted in his best Austin Powers accent.

A few people walking ahead of us turned around at the commotion. Some girls giggled. One guy started running around, hooting, “Yeah! Let’s get fucked up tonight! Let’s get wasted, baby, wasted! And fuck each other up!”

“That guy,” Spyro said, pointing, “is a little too enthusiastic for my tastes.”

“Don’t draw so much attention. The less we’re seen together, the better.”

“Fun-sucker.”

“That’s because we’re not supposed to be having fun, Spyro. An hour here, tops, and then we go do our business.”

“Well, then,” he said, looking at his wrist, “let’s synchronize our watches. It’s...ten-to-seven. We’ll get out of here by eight; get to the meeting point by ten-ish.”

“Fine by me,” I said as we entered the school gym. The room was dimly lit, with balloons and shiny streamers covering every inch of badly painted wall. The DJ was playing some crappy techno song, and a lot of people were either bobbing their heads to the beat or just grinding their already-sweaty bodies against each other, much to the chagrin of the countless chaperons lining the walls.

“Let’s do this, Kit-Cat,” he said, arms akimbo and peering into the crowd of dancers like they were about to get owned.

“Do what?”

He sighed. “I know you have a tendency to blend in with the wallpaper to keep under everyone’s radar, Muffin, but tonight’s a different story. We need to attract enough attention so that people know we’re here—create some alibis. And we can do that either by dancing our asses off, becoming extremely intoxicated or fornicating against the wall. Take your pick. I don’t really care for the first two choices. Choice three sounds enticing, though, with you in that dress of yours. So if you pick that, I’m all for it.”

I think the combination of wearing the dress, seeing Spyro grinning down at me and hearing an explicit suggestion concerning sex with him against a wall made my cheeks grow hot. I gritted my teeth at the reaction and mustered enough anger to ask him how his groin was doing after the burning incident.

“The region between my legs is completely aching for you to alleviate all the tension that’s building up inside it,” he murmured, taking my hand and dragging me into the furiously gyrating crowd.

“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?” I asked, laughing nervously. I felt my nerves crackle at the feeling of Spyro’s hands on my bare back and hip. “If you touch me the wrong way, Spyro—mark my words: your dick will fall off the next time I burn you.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, breathing into my ear and adjusting his rhythm so that we could move at a slower pace than the music. “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re a closeted pyromaniac. For all I know, you’ve probably been pleasuring yourself this week without me, burning things with my Zippo.”

“Your Zippo?” I smiled up at him. “I threw it away.”

Watching his reaction to my lie was pure bliss. The butterfly bandage covering the burn Spyro had given me just weeks ago—which I’d placed on the underside of my arm before Mom could see it—brushed against his suit as I continued to rotate my hips to the music’s beat.

He dug his fingers into my back, urging me forward and against him, punishing me. “That was a three-hundred dollar lighter, Abe. Gold-plated, a collector’s item—my favorite.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I confessed breathlessly, as he continued his relaxed onslaught against the fabric of my dress, “I lit my mattress on fire, doing tricks with it.”

Spyro’s eyes sparkled as he laughed into my face. “That’s priceless! How’d you put it out?”

I lifted my hands to show him the small burn marks.

He laughed at me again. “Karma’s a bitch, Kit-Cat. Bite hard and it’ll bite back.” He grabbed my index finger and playfully bit it. For a second, I could feel the tip of his tongue swirl against the pad of my digit. He violently raveled his hand through my hair, and forced my face to turn up towards him. “This’ll hurt,” he hissed.

Just as his face began its descent towards me—towards that area of skin where my neck connected to my shoulder—I dislodged myself from his body.

“Where are you off to now, Cookie? I was just beginning to sense the extent of our relationship.”

“Bathroom,” I mumbled, staggering away from him and my dancing classmates as if I’d been knocked upside the head. I was suddenly so dizzy, so sick. What was I doing here? Why had I agreed to this?

“Oh my god, Annabelle! What are you doing here?”

No. Not this. No fucking way was this happening.

Standing there in all her frilly, lilac dress-wearing glory was best friend, Marty Menounos, showing off her tan complexion and robust figure. Her brown hair flowed in waves, down her back and over her shoulders. Excepting the expression of shock and mild anger on her face, she looked pretty.

Beside her, all my eyes could focus on was Daniel's face. His five o’clock shadow made him look gruff and sexy. But his eyes—dull, emotionless—made it seem as if he was completely devastated to see me.

“Hey,” he said, his hand fidgeting with his newly-cut blond hair. “How are y-you? Sorry. I’m…uh, kind of shocked.”

“Well? I thought you weren’t coming! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”

I was going to throw up.

Someone’s hand slowly snaked around my shoulders. “Hello there, Green Eyes. How’ve you been? Oh, and Blondie! I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My name is Brendon Danger Spyro, International Man of Mystery.”

I was definitely going to throw up.

Marty’s mouth started to quiver. Daniel’s hand rested against his chest, over his heart. He stared at me, and I couldn’t stop staring back at him, reveling at the hurt that floated in his eyes.

“Wow,” he murmured. “You’re…” He shook his head.

“A backstabbing bitch,” Marty piped in.

That blew me out of the water, having her of all people call me a bitch. I grinned a little.

“Stop smiling, Annabelle. In case you weren’t listening, I just called you a backstabbing bitch.”

“Oh—that’s just her being her usual cynical self,” Spyro pointed out.

I eyed Marty calmly, faintly proud she’d said that to me—berating me for being such a bad friend who rarely listened to her complaints. “We’ll talk about this later,” I told her, “so I won’t ruin your night further.”

After that comment, all four of us stood there. For reasons concerning pride and demonstrating strength, I knew I wouldn’t be able to retreat first. Once Daniel gave up on staring me down, though, he walked away, not even bothering to satisfy Spyro’s need of attention by glaring at him. Marty followed in tow, giving me the dirtiest look she could. Spyro and I were left standing there, his arm still over my shoulder.

“Well, that was completely rude of them. What wanton disrespect!”

“Please. Not now.” A myriad of conflicting emotions flooded my senses. I didn’t know whether to feel miserable at the loss of my best friend and potential boyfriend, or relieved they’d no longer be of much concern to me.

“You poor thing,” he said, leading me to the exit. “After you’ve calmed down, we’re going to sit and have a nice, rational chat about the kind of drama you’ve just been put through. And then I’ll get Chicago on the line and we’ll book a date to go on Oprah.”

I gave him a half-grin, just so he’d lay off a bit. Like giving a biscuit to a pit bull.

At the door, he turned me around to show me, for the last time, all the flamboyant decorations, the chaperons wanting to kill themselves, and the teenagers moaning and groaning into each other’s mouths. This was the Homecoming Dance I so desperately hadn’t wanted to attend. It turned out crappier than I thought it’d be.

“It’s time to go, Kit-Cat. Say goodbye to all your friends.”

“What friends?” I asked bitterly, beginning to walk with him out the school and to his car. “I’ve never had a goddamn friend in my life, Spyro. And I sure as hell don’t have any now. They were all just cover-ups, anyway, to make me look like a regular Jane.”

“Chin up, Abe,” he said, climbing into the Benz. “You still have your friendly neighborhood Spyroman.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”

“I need you to be in the driver’s seat.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions; just do it,” he said.

Totally worn out by tonight’s dose of teenage drama, I didn’t even bother arguing. We both got out of the car—Spyro studying the parameter in search of the thugs we were supposed to be dealing with, me thinking about how many raccoons I’d be able to kill with the amount of money Spyro had stashed in his breast pocket.

“Ever been at the wheel of a Mercedes Benz before?”

“No,” I said, adjusting my position in the front seat as I smoothed my hands over the leather steering wheel. “But I kind of like it.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” he said, and with smooth movements, enclosed my left wrist with a shiny metal cuff. “Because this is where you’ll be spending the duration of your evening.” He attached the other cuff to the steering wheel for good measure as I struggled against the chain and his tight grasp.

“Oh,” I moaned, that one syllable sounding extremely infused with emotion. “You’re going to be so sorry you did this to me. I promise you, if you don’t get me out of these cuffs right—the fuck!—now,” I yelled, “I will murder you. I will stab you when you sleep and let your mother clean up the bloody mess. You do not want to fool with me tonight.”

He smirked. “I know that, Shortcake. That’s why I’ve got you all locked up like this. You’re too distracted to wine and dine with the big psychopaths like me. But maybe next time.”

“Spyro—”

“God, I love how that looks on you. Wish I could put the right cuff on, too, but that’d make it difficult to steer and switch gears and all that jazz.”

I grumbled expletives.

“Oh, don’t pout. I hate when you pout. It’s not like you’re going to be completely useless tonight anyway. You have a job, too: when you see me walking back, gun the car. You never know what these people are going to pull, so as soon as I’m in the car, you drive off as fast as you can.” He smiled at me and tapped my nose. “Okay, my little prisoner? Can you do that for your master?”

I tried to grab for his throat with my right hand, but the damn cuffs kept me from reaching.

“Look at who’s got whom on a tight leash. This is an amazing accomplishment, if I do say so myself.”

A car parked a few hundred feet away flicked its lights on and off.

“Just go,” I mumbled, resting my head against the wheel.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he said, retrieving something from the backseat. It was the baby monitor we’d bought from Babies ‘R’ Us, its volume dial turned to its maximum. “I’ll have the recording end of the monitor on me at all times, so you can listen to whatever the hell I’ll be doing. You won’t miss a thing.”

“I could have stayed home and listened to AM radio.”

“Just stick to the plan, Muffin-cakes, and let your pal win you some poison.”

With that, he opened the passenger side door and climbed out of the car. “Can you hear me?” he whispered as he made his way towards the other parked vehicle.

I honked the horn in the affirmative.

I could see the outline of his body jolt. “Stupid bitch,” he hissed into the device. “So much for a covert operation.”

A tall, lanky man with a limp in his step—age thirty-five, tops—and wearing fit and trim clothing met Spyro at the half-way point between the two cars. I couldn’t exactly see the expressions on their faces, but a few dim streetlights kept the area slightly illuminated.

“Why, Marcello. I believe you’ve grown all your hair back, haven’t you?” I heard Spyro say.

“Like it?” A hand went through the lanky man’s thin locks. “Took me a year to get the skin grafted and have the hair transplant. No thanks to your little friend.”

I could see Spyro’s back tense at that. “Come now. I thought we were over that whole ordeal. My old man paid for all the damages and hospital bills—did he not?”

“Also saved my ass couple of times in court—Pete’s ass, too. That’s why we’re here, of course. Hey, who’s that in the car?”

I looked at the thug in the eye but made believe I hadn’t heard a word.

“What, you guys just at the prom or something? Hey, Pete!” the man yelled to his friend, who was at the front wheel of their car. “Check out Ken and Barbie over here. They just got back from prom.”

I didn’t have to see Spyro’s face to know that he was grinning. “It’s October—so, technically, we were just at the Homecoming Dance. Prom’s at the end of the year. But it’s all the same to you, Marcello. You dropped out too soon to figure that out.”

“Hey!” The guy started poking Spyro in the chest with a long, forceful finger. “Counting from one to one-hundred is all I needed from school. Got that? Everything else is pointless, kid. Y’want to get ahead in life? Take it from me: learn what you got to. Survive. Live life and have fun. Especially with that doll you have in the front seat.”

No. Don’t say it.

“Damn, would I like to enjoy myself between her legs.”

I was never going to wear a dress in my life. Never again.

“Her?” Spyro collapsed onto Marcello’s shoulder in a spasm of laughter. “Shit, Marcello. You can only see her top half. Pretty good looking face, perfect breasts—it’s true. You’ve got to hand it to her. But her ass? Fuck. Cellulite all over the place. And her legs are like two tree trunks, with spider veins up and down her calves. It’s nauseating. Plus,” he hissed, “I hear she has the clap.”

Lesson Learned: When looking for a unique and entertaining way to offend and embarrass Brendon Spyro, start talking about his tiny little dick.

“No kidding. So why’d you take her out?”

“Decoy. You know how my father gets when he doesn’t know where I am and with whom. When you told me to meet you here, I knew the old man would be suspicious, so I told him I was going to Homecoming. All the hot chicks at school were taken, so I had to drag along Cellulita over there. She’s totally oblivious. Thinks I’m running an errand.”

I could hear Marcello groan in disgust.

“Sorry ‘bout that, kid. Guess it’s our fault, with the change of plans. You know how our schedule gets.”

“No trouble at all, my friend. But I have to get Cellulita home soon, so let’s exchange the goods and get back to our lives.”

“Let me get ‘em for you,” Marcello said, and walked towards his car to bring out two grocery-styled paper bags.

“Here’s the dough,” Spyro said, handing the thug the envelope filled with five-hundred bucks.

“Seven-fifty, right?” Marcello looked at Spyro expectantly.

I thought it was five-hundred.

“You told me it’d be half a grand, Marcy. Don’t play me,” Spyro said, getting close to him.

“Price went up two-fifty since we spoke last.”

Seven-fifty for poison? What, did they amalgamate gold leaf into the heparin mixture? What kind of cheap trick was this?

“You’re fucking unbelievable, Marcy. I’m leaving.” Spyro bent to grab the bags from the ground.

“Hey!” The man grabbed Spyro’s lapels. “A deal’s a deal, you little basta—“

I’d never felt so goddamn relieved and scared for my life when Spyro right-hooked Marcello’s jaw with such force, sending him careening to the asphalt. Spyro grabbed the bags and darted towards the car.

With nimble fingers, I gunned the engine.

“Abe!”

I threw the car in drive and swerved a few feet in front of him.

“Put the bags in the backseat!” I told him.

For some ungodly reason, the moron listened. The moron listened, and when the poison was safe and sound in the backseat, I stepped on the gas and left Spyro scampering after the rear of the car.

“Abe!”

I could hear his shouts and heavy breathing through the baby monitor. Oh, this was great. Aside from that whole Homecoming experience, this was the best night I’d ever experienced in my life.

“Abe, they’re fucking right behind me! Abe, I swear to god, get back here!”

I laughed, driving faster. My rejoicing would have continued had I not made a move to do a fist pump with my left hand. My wrist was still cuffed to the steering wheel. It came to my attention that a beaten-to-a-bloody-pulp Spyro—and certainly a dead Spyro—would be a serious hindrance to my escaping the manacle around my hand. I made a quick U-turn. There were shouts coming from the monitor. Up ahead, I could see Spyro crawling on the floor, attempting to get away from the two asses trying to beat the shit out of him.

I rolled down the window. “Hello, boys!” I yelled. I slammed my foot on the gas pedal, driving directly towards Marcello and Pete. They ran as fast as they could—Marcello with much difficulty—as I chased them. I only swerved out of their paths when I knew for sure that I’d run them over if I continued to speed up. I slammed on the brakes a few feet away from Spyro’s sprawling body.

“Come on!” I yelled out the passenger window.

As he opened the door and clambered in, I shouted a nice, “And don’t you ever fuck with us again” to Marcello and Pete, who were making an effort to sprint to their car, around a hundred yards behind us.

Satisfied, I slammed my foot on the gas once again, and we were out of there.

I took in Spyro’s appearance—a deep gash at the bottom of his lip, the side of his face a bit bruised, his suit torn at the lapels and very dirty. He looked at me and smiled, showing bloody teeth.

“Well,” I said, “you ruined your suit. Can’t take you anywhere.”

“What the hell was that all about, Kit-Cat? For a second there, I thought you were me.”

It was probably the greatest compliment anyone had ever given me, but I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the road. “Wanted to make you sweat is all.”

“We could’ve achieved that in a much more pleasurable way—like by my screwing you in the backseat of this car.”

I couldn’t believe that, after all this—after I’d abandoned him and gotten him beaten up —he was still able to infuriate me.

“I also wanted to make you bleed,” I said, a bit monotonously.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

“You’re angry with me! Don’t lie—I know that tone of voice.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Come on. What’s gotten your panties in a twist this time? Is it because I called you Cellulita and said you were bottom heavy? You know I was joking, right?”

“I weigh one-hundred and twenty pounds, I’m five-foot-six, and I’m completely comfortable with the way I look. I don’t give a crap what you call me,” I murmured tightly.

We grew quiet then. Spyro spent an hour and a half trying to stop his mouth from bleeding, and I just drove, not really thinking about anything in particular.

“What’s bothering you?” he whispered finally, putting pressure on his mouth with the sleeve of his suit.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” I shouted, “calling the shots and telling me to stay in the car? It’s been six goddamn months, and you waltz into my neighborhood and start acting like you’re the expert. Last time I checked, I was telling you what to do, what shit to buy, what to kill. This is my war, Spyro. Mine.”

“Talk about venting built up emotions,” he said with a sigh. “Do you think I kept you in here to punish you? To spite you? Actually, now that I think about it…I did kind of do it just to get you into those handcuffs.”

I glared at him. “Did you even check the bags to make sure that all the stuff’s there? See? You’re an amateur.”

“You know, every moment we’ve spent in this car has been filled with hatred and heated arguments. If we could only seize that energy and move it into the bedroom, we could make the world explode.”

“Stop bothering me, Spyro,” I said, pulling into his driveway. It was one-fifteen—still had forty-five minutes to spare until curfew. “We’re here. Now take this cuff off. It’s starting to hurt me.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do, Kit-Cat. What’s the fun in it otherwise?”

“I’m not joking. Please take it off.”

“This was a good first date, wasn’t it?” he said, gazing up at the sky through the windshield. Then his hands began to travel over my silk dress, up the length of my thigh. “Good enough to warrant a kiss.”

“Don’t touch me,” I said, swatting his hand off. “Listen to me, you ignorant ass. You sicken me to death. I am never, ever going to go out with you, never going to kiss you, never going to like you. Understand?”

Spyro bit his bottom lip and took out a set of keys from his suit pocket. I followed the dangling pieces of metal with my eyes, shocked when Spyro dropped them at his feet. “Oops. I must have lost the keys.”

I growled.

“It’s one-twenty. You’ve got forty minutes to get home. But first you have to get yourself out of that cuff. However will you maneuver yourself to retrieve those keys?” Obviously satisfied with the look of anger I was giving him, Spyro opened the passenger side door. “Oh, and Abe?”

“What?” I shouted.

He shot me a cruel smirk. “Whoever said anything about you liking me?”

With that, he shut the car door and strolled into his house.

--

Readers—

Thank you so, so much for reading this. I hope you enjoyed it! Please refer to past disclaimers and warnings.

Thank you so much to all the reviewers, who took the time to give me such amazing words of feedback and/or constructive criticism: jammi, A.K.A. Writer's Block, TouchOfChaos, Lover of ALL Books, Lynn-Night, meowza, Pieces of the sun, A passing ghost critic..., cookiepiecookiepie, asiam, Cupid's Jinx, jenjen-0, WriterGurl123, DMLpacker, GryphonFledglingOfSilverWings, nomadsland, Sam, goodshirt, SecretFeelings, Le Meg, Invision 1870 Lust, .gasp., Disoriented, nonaccount, Misty, SpontaneousSilhouette, ncognito, Initially loaded, FM Radio, AndWeWatchThisCityBurn, poohbear512862, BluePillow75, MiseryLovedHer, lifeispeachy278, Pineapple Lifesavers, Liisha2theMoon, StarShineSparkleDust, Thriftstar, A Perfect Sonnet, edoran, Adora Bell, codyismypup, Comodin, itsjustmeimjustobscene, A Quirky Tale, and lunabella.

Thank you to Stocie (Anastasia Williams), for the beta read.