“Take that off,” Callum ordered, without looking at me.
I glanced down at the dress that was so slutty it wouldn’t even be suitable to sleep in. When the house is empty and the room is dark. “Right now?” I asked dumbly, although I knew exactly what he meant.
“Of course not!” he snapped.
“Whoa, okay, Master,” I muttered. “Cool your beans.”
“Shut it, Aurelie, and go change into something more suitable.”
Now it was me trying to convince someone to keep the dress. “Nuh-uh. Melinda’s a scary-arse woman and if she comes back and I’m not wearing it, she’ll kill me.”
“I’m not dancing with you while you wear that.”
What a stubborn idiot. “Yes you are.”
“No I’m bloody not!”
“I’ll call Gina,” I threatened.
“Why the hell do you want to wear that dress anyways?” he questioned sharply. “It’s for slags!”
“I already told you. Melinda made me.”
“You could take it off for a few hours, and before she comes back, put it back on!”
I looked at him and noticed how he was forcing himself to not look at me, and the very lightest pink tinged his cheeks. Then I realized it. “Are you...embarrassed? Why the hell would you be embarrassed? I’m the one wearing it!” I thought of something. “Unless you want to wear it. Melinda would be happy that at least one of us were wearing it.”
“I am not wearing that thing! And I’m not embarrassed!”
“Prove it,” I ordered. “Turn around.”
I started towards my bag. “Gina would just looove to hear this...”
“Okay, fine!” He turned around and stared straight at me.
I put my hands on my hips and stared at him flatly, my eyebrows cocked. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t like that dress,” he snarled, clenching his fists.
“Have a cry,” I replied unsympathetically. “Can we just start?”
“We have to warm up first.” That permanent scowl on his face, he moved over to the bar and began stretching.
Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t bloody stare, Rory. It’s just the same Callum. The same Callum I’ve known for months. I guess...thought I knew was more accurate.
At that thought, I scowled and moved over to him. His left leg was over the bar with his toe pointing, and he was bending down to touch the ground, so I tried to mimic him. But really, I have no flexibility. I end with touching my toes when both feet are on the ground. Besides that, nada.
I swung my left leg over the bar like him and tried to copy his movements, but got stuck halfway. I growled. How is it fair that he can sing, play guitar, act, and dance? What is he, freaking Superman?
“Screw this!” I snapped to the bar and tried lifting my leg, but I couldn’t. I’m such a fail.
Callum glanced over at me, and I could tell he was trying to smother his laugh at my messed up position.
“Help me!” I cried furiously.
He walked over to me and cocked his head, eyes dancing dangerously at the sight of my position. I glared at him, noticing his eyes traveling to places they really shouldn’t. “Should I really?”
I grimaced as my muscles tightened in pain. I’m an idiot, really. “Yes you bloody well should!”
“Aw, have a cry,” he mocked me. I would’ve flipped him off if I wasn’t currently in a precarious position.
“Please, Callie!” Shite, I called him Callie.
He froze and glared over at me, then walked closer. In one swift motion, he forced my trapped leg up and I toppled backwards with a cry, only to be caught, once again, by him.
But this time his hands didn’t linger. He moved away like I had scorched him and then shot me flames with his eyes. Why does he hate me so much? What the hell did I do to him?
I glared at him as well. That boy wouldn’t screw me over without getting a severe beating