Love Letters From Hell

27 | quarter past four

"Shit," I swear at myself and pull one hand off the wheel to tug the damn over my frame. I just know that if he were in the car with me, he'd wear the smuggest little smirk and he'd likely make some snide comment about how I was nearing the speed limit. But he wasn't smiling when he left my place and that bothers me for some distinct reason.

Maybe I'm speeding now.

I veer into the car park and it's scattered with vehicles which diminishes the brief idea that this could be a booty call. Definitely not. So, he's inside. He's not actually getting a flu shot, is he? Did he break a bone playing ball with Herrera or something? It's entirely possible.

I'd glanced the two of them across the campus one day with some others, Parker included. I didn't miss the wistful look from the latter and the quick grin from Aryan as I passed by, books in hand. As thrilling as his grin was and the sight of the sun rippling across his dark hair as he swung his head back, I'd winched when my attention was diverted to the bulky boy stood near the goal who literally ate dirt as he lunged to capture the soaring black and white ball. Not only that, but the ball knocked into his face as he fell. I was monumentally surprised to learn that he didn't break his jaw but it doesn't stop me from thinking that sports are an invitation for broken bones. This is what I get for fucking a stupid jock.

He's not a stupid jock, this I also know. He's probably smarter than me too. But hell, if I have any dignity left, I will never admit that one. He'd have to torture that one out of me, and even so, over my dead fucking body.

I whip out my phone from my back pocket, shoes thudding onto the asphalt of my parking spot as I slam the door closed and I'm dialling him in no time. He picks up as I brush past the doors, the air conditioning blasting onto my cheeks.

I must look a little wild as I clutch my phone because an attendant at the door shoots me a worried look. "Where are you?" I demand. And before I can stop myself, "Are you okay?"

His voice rings through, "Aisle eight."

Then, he hangs up.

That's it?

He usually loves the sound of his own voice but now is when he chooses to be sparse with words?

I march over to aisle eight only to stop short before I can even take a step further into the aisle.

"Are you for fucking real?" I nearly hurl my phone at Aryan's head. Raf stands beside him, stone-faced and, I swear to God, Charlie jumps at the sound of my voice.

He slips his hands neatly into the pockets of his navy sweats, rather nonchalant as his eyes sweep between me and the extensive wall of tampons in front of him. "Great. You're here."

This was the emergency?

Tampons?

"Why do you all look like that?" I ask, jerking my chin at them. I know things are bad because Charles Ross is out of the house in his pyjamas. His silk drawstring pants are prettier than any pyjamas I own and I'm a little jealous. Beside him, Raf wears gym shorts that reveal a black-inked tattoo of a compass on his thigh that I'd never observed before and a UCLA hoodie, the hood pulled up over his dark hair, strings pulled tight, expression dark. "You look like a boy band on the brink of collapse or something."

Charlie pockets his panicked expression enough to lift a finger at me. "Too soon, Mira. I'm still sensitive over One Direction's breakup."

I look at him blankly. "It's been years."

Charlie looks at me like I've hit him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish but Raf splices in, "Kenna." He scowls as he explains, "She's fucking feral."