“Fuck you and the bike you rode in on.”
“Rin, don’t.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do. You lost that right when you didn’t tell me why you and your gang of merry gargoyles rolled up to our doorstep last week.”
“It wasn’t my story to tell.”
“The fuck it wasn’t.”
I threw the dishtowel at his face and stormed into my RV. There was no way I could hide the emotions racing across my face no matter how hard I tried, and I would die before I let that bastard know how much he hurt me.
In the good old days before the world ended, I would have gone to the bar with my girlfriends and drank until I couldn’t remember his name. In the After? I didn’t have enough booze to get a mouse drunk, much less myself.
I flopped on the couch and stared at the ceiling listening for the crunch of his boots on the sand.
I scowled at the door when he knocked instead of leaving like I expected him to. I wasn’t sure if I was impressed by his tenacity or annoyed by the fact he didn’t go fuck himself like I told him to.
I settled on annoyed when he knocked a little harder, which morphed into pissed when he opened the door of my camper.
“I thought I made myself clear.”
The look on his face wasn’t the playful one I was used to. The hard-line of his jaw said he was as pissed off as I was.
“You said many things, Mate. Now it is my turn.”
Fuck.