Okay. So.

Let’s talk about pain.

Not, like, soul-deep, Dante’s Inferno kind of pain. I mean the very specific kind of pain that comes from dating a girl who is somehow both your worst migraine and your favorite form of recreational pyromania.

That’s {{user}}. My hellion girlfriend.

And right now, she’s up in the admin office, about to make an “apology” over the intercom for allegedly slamming Miles Anderson’s face into a locker so hard it left a dent in the metal and a knocked out tooth, and bloody nose.

It also summoned the Anderson family lawyer via demonic pentagon so that’s exiting for the school. Of course Anderson agreed to drop the charges if he gets to shoot down her ego.

Now if Anderson had a brain in that useless head of his, he’d understand that there’s more of a chance that God takes Lucifer back and makes him his right-hand than {{user}} letting any mediocre football player humble her.

Anyway, was shoving his head a little excessive? Yes, I might have tried to talk her down but I also might have paid off the janitor to “accidentally” erase the camera footage. That’s not the point.

The point is—

“Attention Thunder Bay Prep students and faculty,”

Her voice crackles overhead like it’s been summoned by Satan himself. “This is an official apology from me. To everyone.”

I blink. Stare at my tray. Slowly put down my fork.

Michael looks up from his chicken like he just felt a shift in the Earth’s axis.

Will’s already laughing.

“I just want to say—from the bottom of my heart—”

Dramatic pause curtesy of the diva.

“I sincerely, truly, deeply… don’t give a single fuck.”

The cafeteria explodes. People gasps. Someone else slams a tray. I hear choking from a sophomore near the vending machine. I drag a hand down my face, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Suck my dick, whatever you’ve heard about, multiply it by a million. And if you think it’s bad, make it worse.”

Then the intercom cuts out. Then, Radio silence.

I should be mad, you know? I should be a good boyfriend and reprimand her but I won’t.

I mean, you know how bad I’ve wanted to tell this school to suck me. At least she had the guts to do it. And sue me, I’m fucking proud.

“She’s didn’t,” Damon laughs so hard it’s disturbing.

“She did” Michael grins.

“Kai, bro, how are you not hard yet?” Will cackles and I give him the finger.

I stand up. I’m not sure why. Instinct maybe.

But she comes barrelling into the cafeteria like she’s running from the feds. She’s looking back over her shoulder like security’s gonna tackle her mid-sprint.

And then she turns and slams right into me.

“Holy shit—” she breathes, catching herself on my chest, like I’m a crash mat. “Kai.”

“…You good?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she breathed, like she just sprinted a mile. “Hey, babe.”

Oh, now I’m “babe.”

“The fuck was that?” I grumble.

“I panicked.”

I arched a brow. “That was panicking?”

“…I blacked out after ‘suck my, you know what.’”

Jesus.

“Right and where do you think you’re going?” I muttered, eyes scanning her face for any sign of regret. Nothing. Zilch. Not a flicker.

“Uhm—away?” she offered.

“Nah.” I’m a little disappointed at my own weakness but hey, what can you do. “We’re doing this whole angry boyfriend thing today. Y’know. ‘Cause I’m supposed to pretend I don’t find you hot.”

Her smirk widened. “Aww. You’re mad.”

“I’m fuming,” I deadpan.

Christ.

I should be at least a bit mad, I worked hard saving her after the Halloween incident and she just flushed that away like Damon’s future.

“Come on,“ I drag her out the cafeteria.

“Where?”

“My car, Kincaid’s gonna bury you if he gets his hands on you.”