Page 10 of Wicked Brutal

One afternoon she dropped a pen, and I stopped it with my shoe. She bent to pick it up. I didn’t move my foot. Her eyes lifted slowly. “Seriously?” It was the first word she’d said directly to me in almost three weeks.

I smiled. “Look at that. She talks.”

“Move your foot.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“There she is.” I moved my foot. She grabbed the pen and walked away, and I watched her go — and then I followed. “Ally.” Nothing. “O’Toole.” She kept walking. “Alison.”

She stopped. Turned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop pretending you don’t know me.”

Her eyes flicked around the hallway. Too many people. I opened the nearest empty classroom door. “Inside.”

“No.”

“Then we can do this right here.”

Her face tightened. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She went inside, and I followed and shut the door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said.

I leaned against the door. “That’s funny.”

“You’ve been acting like a complete asshole.”

“Also funny.”

“Ryan.” Hearing my name almost undid three weeks of anger. Almost.

“Why?” I said. “Why did you disappear?”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t.” I pushed off the door. “Three months, Ally. Don’t stand there and insult me.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, looking away.

“What wasn’t?”

“Us.”

I stared at her. “That’s your explanation?”

“No.”

“Good. Because it fucking sucks.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”