Chapter 9

“Arrick?” I glance his way again, hating his ignorance, the silence making it almost unbearable to continue being so quiet. I lean over to let my fingertips trail down his arm, over his black jacket meekly as the little tiny eruptions of anxiety play off inside me like fiery tingles. Trying to attract his attention and knowing he won’t ignore physical touch.

I catch that tiny tensing of his jaw deepen, muscle twitching under his cheekbone, and know for certain he is more than just a little mad with me. He’s in closed off, livid as hell mode. My stomach sinks again, breathing slowly to push back the effects of the night’s drinking and the new waves of hurt that are directly connected to him.

“Leave it alone, Sophs, I’m not in the mood.” He sighs, shifting in his seat to pull his arm away from me, resting his hand on top of the wheel instead to show we’re not doing the touchy thing right now. He doesn’t even look my way, just that frown he does to show he wants me to leave him be and stares straight ahead. I bite on my lower lip anxiously, pushing down the knot of apprehension.

“I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.” I sniff back the threatening downpour, pleased to hear I’ve lost more of my slur and my voice sounds pretty normal. My throat starts to burn with the effort of holding back the floodgates, chewing on my lip more severely in a bid to keep it all down inside. He hates when I cry, and I hate letting him see me cry.

Arrick frowns harder, even from the side I can see his brows dipping, his eyes darken almost instantly, even in the semi-darkness of the car, and I know from memory the green will have taken over more of the brown. The windows to his moods, sometimes they are the only tell-tale sign.

“Then stop acting like some spoiled brat in self-destruct mode, Sophs. This isn’t you. He gestures down my body frostily. The short denim skirt that barely covers anything much when I am sitting this way and the low-cut strappy top that is completely open at the back. I get that he doesn’t like this outfit or any I have ever worn like it, but these were rare finds. I spent hours in line to get this skirt at the recent Dior release. Even if it’s barely a scrap of fabric.

“This is the current trend, this top was a steal from a little unknown designer making waves in the fashion world, and someone I think’s going to be a hot topic next season. You wait and see, and I don’t see you telling your girlfriends to cover up when they walk around half dressed,” I snap, pushing myself lower in the seat so I can prop my knees on his dash in a stroppy pose, letting my feet dangle to ease the ache from being on them all evening. I shimmy myself so I can get my skirt lower on my hips to cover the flesh I am flashing and catch him glaring my way. That look just pushes my anger buttons; the look he loves to throw at me when he thinks I’m being childish and it’s all he seems to be offering right now.

“You’re worth more than this.” He states quietly, indicating to make a turn and checks his mirrors. All emotion reeled back in beneath that deadpan demeanor once more, like a well-oiled machine, sliding it back down, despite the moment of weakness in that cool armor of his. I hate that he has become this way with me. The Arry I knew and loved never had need to keep himself under that perfect check. He would yell if he needed to, smile way more than I have seen him do in a while and frown at me with every little annoying thing I did. This right here is one of the reasons I hate HER so much, she makes him this way. To me, it just signals that he isn’t happy, he’s not himself anymore and that maybe she is all wrong for him. So poised and cool always. She calls it being mature; I call it being emotionally crippled!

“Am I? Really?” I burst out suddenly, anger breaking in my throat. I wriggle myself awkwardly in the smooth leather upholstery, back into an upright position, as my full rage and sadness collides in the middle of my chest from his criticism. Frustrated with how he’s being, emotion bubbling from the last few hours of my life, and general hostility at everything. Of all people, I can never take anything negative from Arry, it devastates me. My raging hot temper flashes up to stick its nose in, whether I want it to or not.

“Because where I am, it looks a hell of a lot like no one gives an actual shit about what I am worth anymore.” I cross my arms churlishly, tears slipping down my cheeks and full-on pity party hitting home as my voice croaks. Thinking about dickheads who cheat and so-called friends they fuck. Best friends who treat you like minor annoyances, insult your fashions sense and seem only intent on dropping you home to get away from any real conversation.

I lose control of that inner wave that I have been trying to hold in, becoming completely drunk dramatic, and it starts pouring down my face hurting way more when it’s let loose. I screw my face up to try and gain control of that biting pain that consumes my chest and throat. Feeling stupid for even getting this upset so easily. Over nothing! A fucking wardrobe criticism!

Arrick grits his teeth, glares in his mirror, and swerves the car over to the side of the road, curbing a sidewalk and slamming to a halt in a dramatic fashion, especially for him of late. He turns to me suddenly, so angrily that it makes me jump in fright. It’s so unexpected. I scramble down in my seat, recoiling in mild shock at his sudden outburst, winded into silent submission.

“What the fuck, Sophie? Really? No one gives a shit?” He yells at me, eyes blazing with rage under furrowed brows, looking like he wants to choke me. It comes so completely out of nowhere that I’m too stunned to respond. “So, me, your family, Jake, and Emma? None of us gives a shit, right?” He unclips his belt aggressively. I try to turn away, tears back to stinging my eyes as pain, which was momentarily muted, hits me even harder. My heart beating a little too painfully as atmosphere clouds the car between us. “If I didn’t give a shit, then tell me why I drop everything in my life the second you need me, huh? Why your family has been trying to get you home for weeks after you walked out on them, and never give up trying to contact you. Why Leila, your sister, has been crying nonstop over how wild and reckless you fucking are nowadays, despite the fact she went through a phase of being as bad? No one knows what the hell is going on with you anymore, Sophie. No one can get through to you, not even me, and you have the nerve to pull this bullshit right here? Grow the fuck up!” He barks and slumps back, one hand hitting his wheel hard so I flinch and stays put as he stares out of the windscreen to let himself simmer, breathing hard with the exertion of shouting all that in my face.

I know he will try to reel his temper back in fast, he hates being this way with anyone, especially me. That in itself pisses him off … that I have pushed him to yell at me like this, to be this angry, even if I deserve it.

I don’t know how to respond; I never do when he snaps, which is rarer than rain in the desert. It’s like that inner child in me gets scolded, and it hurts more than I can ever explain when it’s him that does it. He’s the only one who pulls this from me.

My heart bursts with raw agony, and once again tears trickle down my face involuntarily. I feel stupid and immature as my lip trembles and I want to be anywhere but near him anymore. Reeling back as though I have been slapped and doing what I do best.

Running.

“I need air, I’ll walk home.” I manage to whimper out through muffled sniffs, heart well and truly bruised. Not waiting for a response, I unclip my belt and slide out quickly. Arrick makes a move to catch me across the center console, but I’m quicker. Dodging his outstretched grasp and leaving his door open, I move fast along the grassy edging to the road.

I’m an expert in heels on all terrain, so don’t even blink at the soft surface, or the way it threatens to upend my stupidly high shoes. I tuck my head down, determined to just walk.

Arrick catches up to me quickly, easy strides for someone with legs like his. I don’t hear him approach and inhale sharply at the sudden warmth of hands on me as he catches me by the waist from behind and pulls me back to a halt. He spins me gently, so that I have no choice but to turn and tugs me against him, so my crossed arms sit against his abdomen. His body a formidable wall of muscle, becomes a firm cushion to lean against. I try to turn my face away to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks, to hide that part of me that acts like a stupid kid who has had a telling off and doesn’t want to see him.