The Hard Count(48)

“You called me a dickhead,” Nico says, pulling my attention screaming back to him.

I breathe a little harder, my heart starting to pound with this nightmare. Confrontation is so much more enjoyable when it’s in a class, over some line in a book. This kind sucks ass.

I knew I’d run into him eventually, have to answer to my behavior, but I expected a little more time. My mind races through my options, and I keep my mouth shut while I think, my eyes on his, taking in the hint of a smirk while he waits for my excuse. Then it hits me. I don’t really have an excuse. I have stupid girl emotions, and a brother who is trying to take me down with him, but none of it is an excuse for how I’m treating Nico. I sure as hell don’t want to tell him that, though, so instead, I cross my arms over my chest and sway once to adjust the weight of my bags while I stare him down in that position.

Nico runs his hand over his mouth, and after a few seconds I can tell he’s laughing behind it.

“You think I’m being funny?” I ask.

“Oh, I think you’re being hilarious,” he says, letting his hand fall away and relaxing against the wall behind him. He’s so comfortable, even though he’s late for class, too.

“We’re going to be late,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“So,” he quips.

A laugh punches out from my chest.

“So, he says,” I mumble to myself.

“Yeah,” he says, drawing my eyes back to his. “So.”

I meet his stare again, and we both battle through this standoff. I’m clearly losing, and my arms start to quake with the weight they’re carrying. I shake my head at him and begin to walk away, but his hand wraps around the strap of my bag again, this time pulling me closer to him.

“Nico, I’m late for class. My things are heavy. Just…tell me what you want?”

I push my lips together tight, but can feel them twitch. I’m nervous, and I want to go back to fighting with him over ancient philosophies and the foundation of religious beliefs. That…that…is actually easier than standing here and feeling like this.

Feeling…vulnerable.

“You missed practice yesterday,” he says.

“It’s allowed to happen without me there,” I respond back quickly.

My tongue passes over my bottom lip, a move I don’t even realize I’m making until Nico’s eyes catch it. He looks at my mouth in a split second, and his chest moves with his breath. It makes my mouth dry again, and my heart beat even faster. I can feel every twitch of my nerves vibrate through my body, so I shift my weight and let my bags drop to the floor so I can flex my tired fingers. Nico grabs them in his.

I don’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stare at the way his hands are holding mine hostage. His grip is strong, a suggestion I shouldn’t try to pull away, but not so strong that I couldn’t if I wanted to. My instincts tell me I should, but I don’t.

“You’re mad at me,” he says, his fingers sliding to mine, his thumb covering the top of my knuckles while the rest of his hands hold my palms.

“I’m not mad at you, Nico. I was busy. I have things that don’t have anything to do with you,” I say, still fighting.

He chuckles.

“You’re still mad at me,” he says, and I glance up just enough to see his smile, all lopsided and perfect, the dimple that he gets when he’s right in its place. I hate him so much.

“Why would I be made at you,” I sigh, acting as best as I can while my mind races through all of the reasons I am mad at Nico Medina—not a single one of them really his fault.

I meet his challenge, staring back at him, forcing the stern expression to remain on my face, while he looks back at me with perfect lips curved up a hint on one side and unfair eyes that act as target sights. I’m caught in them, and they will not let go.

“You’re mad because you think I want to go to that homecoming dance thing with Izzy,” he says, and I laugh once because…f*ck!

“Admit it,” he smirks.

“Nico,” I begin, finding it hard to even say his name. “I could care less who you want to go to some stupid school dance with.”

“Couldn’t care less,” he says quickly. I tilt my head and pinch my brow. “You said you could care less, but really…you mean you couldn’t.”

I jerk my hands away and huff.

“Could you?” he says, his hands back in his pockets, his head tilted, angled so I can’t ignore it.

I push my tongue in my cheek and shake my head, glancing away, but always coming back to his gaze. His stupid, perfect, eyes and face that I want to put my hand on. The damned lock of his hair that falls forward when his head leans forward, his tongue caught in his teeth. His kissable lips that I felt in a dream and watched speak in class. His arrogance. His confidence.

“Gah!” I exhale, shaking my head and focusing on the bricked wall behind him. He stands there with one foot against the wall, his back leaning into it, so comfortable seeing me so uncomfortable.

“You make me so mad!” My eyes slide to his, and his lip ticks higher.

“I knew you were mad at me,” he nods.

I stretch my arms out wide, my eyes wider, and I stare up to the ceiling with another shake of my head.

“Fine!” I shout. “Yes, you got me. I’m mad at you! Can I go do class now, please?”