The first notes of a new song played between my ears; Radiohead’s Creep. Ice entered my veins even as a mortified flush spread up my neck, over my cheeks to the top of my head. Gritting my teeth, I opened my eyes and glared at Duane Winston.

If he thought I’d been giving him hot looks before, then my look now was the polar opposite. I was aiming for the equivalent of midnight at the arctic pole during the winter solstice.

His hands were on his hips, and I watched him slowly nibble on his bottom lip, like he was tasting it, like he was tasting me. His eyes were on the floor of the stage, his breath beginning to even, though not yet completely normalized.

A weird thought occurred to me, making me feel hot with guilt and shame: I’d cheated on Beau, betrayed him in some way. Really, this was just more of my crazy thinking because my infatuation with Beau had always been extremely one-sided. I may have been ridiculous, but I was not deluded.

Regardless, the guilt, shame, and anger I was feeling meant I’d never wanted to stab and/or maim someone as much as I wanted to stab and/or maim Duane Winston in that moment. Therefore I was not surprised when I said the words I was thinking.

“You are such a bastard.”

His eyes lifted then, glittering sapphires that held just a whisper of bitter amusement buried under another hot look.

“Now she speaks,” he said flatly.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Now you speak,” he accused, sounding so different to my ears.

Instead of the friendly and adorable Beau, I heard Duane. Sarcastic, sullen, snappish Duane.

“This whole time, since I walked over to you and Claire, you hadn’t said a single word. Not when I took you away from your friend, not when I pulled you through the cafeteria, not when I brought you here, not when I had my hand in your panties and your tits in my mouth. But now, miraculously you find your voice.”

God, how I loathed him.

“You are such a bastard!” I repeated, louder and a little more violently this time as I pointedly tried to ignore the confusing, swirling, humming desire that still twisted in my belly. I used the lingering passion to fuel my anger.

“Nice to see you again, Jess. I admit, you’ve filled out very nicely,” his eyes blazed a path from my strappy sandals to my breasts, “but you’re just as bratty as ever.”

I charged forward and pushed against his chest. “You lying asshat! I thought you were Beau.”

Before I could claw his eyes out, Duane caught my wrists and walked me backward, against the wall, holding my arms hostage over my head; his body trapped me, keeping me in place. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he deftly sidestepped and pressed his legs against mine to keep them immobile.

“Ah, there now, Princess, we’ll have none of that.”

This unfortunate position meant that his impressive erection was digging into my abdomen and my breasts were flattened against his chest. Again, confusing, swirling, humming desire ignited, and I clenched my jaw to keep from rubbing my torso along his. Our eyes locked. His look was still hot but now tempered with something else, something that felt like contempt flavored with bitterness.

“I hope you wander into a hornet’s nest and die of an acetylcholine overdose,” I spat.

“You say the prettiest things.”

“Let me go!”

“Not until you calm down.” These words sounded exceedingly reasonable.

“Calm down? Calm down!?” I bellowed because I’d never been so angry in my entire life. I didn’t know how I was going to calm down. I might never calm down. I might spend the rest of my life as the five-foot-six, blonde, female version of the Incredible Hulk (so, She-Hulk, but not a lawyer). I wanted to smash everything, starting with Duane Winston.

“Yes. Calm down.”

“I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN,” I shouted in his face.

“THEN WE’LL STAND HERE FOREVER,” he shouted in my face.

I glared at him. He glared back. A storm of feelings whirled around and between us. I despised him, yet some nonsensical—obviously mentally ill—part of myself felt relief at the discovery of his duplicitousness.

Duane had never made me dreamy-eyed because he was definitely not heroic. Duane had made me tongue-tied, but only because he’d always made me mad. He wasn’t perfect, he was real. And he was an arrogant ass. Yeah, he was sinfully good-looking, but he was also argumentative and aggravating.

Nevertheless, and because crazy-brain was obviously still in charge, I desperately wanted him to kiss me again. Kiss me and touch me and pull my hair and bite the softest parts of my body. I wanted his hungry mouth and greedy fingers.

I wanted him.

His eyes—made even more brilliant by his anger—narrowed as he watched me, moved between mine then darted to my lips. I wondered if he could read my thoughts. I wondered if I was still throwing him inadvertent hot looks. I wondered at the unfairness of his eyes. He had such pretty eyes, blue and glittering, mesmerizing…it was a shame they belonged to Satan.

“I hate you,” I whispered, feeling confused, defensive, and therefore spiteful.

Duane’s fingers loosened just a smidge where he held me, and his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. I shivered, and I hated myself for the involuntary response.

He cocked an eyebrow and whispered gently, softly, “I hate you too, Jess. I hate you so very, very much…”

Inexplicably my breathing quickened. Further muddling matters, Duane’s pretty eyes were fastened on my mouth, and his mouth was lowering—inch by excruciating inch—closer to mine. As though pulled, as though our lips were still magnetized. I lifted my chin.

Then, like before, he pulled away. Again I felt the loss of his heat first, but this time I felt like he’d also thrown me off a bridge; I was free-falling into nothing. As well, his eyes—instead of unfocused with desire—were mocking and hard.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his lips twisted to the side in a derisive sneer. “Did you forget? I’m not Beau.”

I drew myself up, straightened my spine, braced my feet apart, and shot him daggers as I said, “Obviously you’re not Beau. He doesn’t have to lie about who he is in order for me to like him.”

Duane’s flinch was subtle; if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. The muscle at his temple jumped, and his eyes hardened further. He looked like he was going to toss me another insult, so I bent and retrieved my beard, staff, and hat. My cape swirled around my shoulders. I was intent on getting as far away from him as possible, as soon as possible.

“You know what, never mind. Just…just go away, and leave me alone.” I turned, tucking my hat under my arm, and managed three paces toward the curtain before Duane’s hand caught me by the wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened. “I’m leaving.”

“Not that way, you’re not.”

I huffed, still not looking at him. “Why not?”

Without answering me, Duane turned me around then slipped his hand in mine. I promptly planted my feet in place and pulled my palm out of his grip.

He turned suddenly and charged me, cursing under his breath before spearing me with a menacing glower and barely restrained fury. “Listen, Princess, my brothers are probably waiting for me out there. If we leave the way we came in, they’re all going to see us. Together. And that includes Beau. Now do you understand?”

I frowned at him, absorbing his harshly spoken statement. At length I nodded once, reluctantly realizing I would have to accept his help in order to avoid an epic walk of shame. “So…how do I get out of here?”

“Follow me.” He moved like he was going to touch my hand again, but I pulled it out of his reach and took a step back. His eyes shot scorching flames at my retreat.

“You don’t need to hold my hand in order for me to follow you.” I crossed my arms over my chest, closed my cape around me, and lifted my chin. “Lead the way, Duane.”