Shooter stands up, squaring his shoulders in that way I noticed he does when he’s trying to prove a point or when he’s being a stubborn ass. “What I want, Addams, is for you to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
“Nobody said you did.”
“So, then what the fuck are you still doing standing in front of me? Go back to the campsite. Drink. Celebrate your win. Flirt some more with Daisy.”
His lips snap together like he didn’t mean to say that last part.
A smirk toys around the corners of my lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you sounded…jealous.”
Shooter scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he looks anywhere but at me. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Addams.” This is the second instance where a hint of jealousy has reared its head, so I don’t believe him. “You do you. I’ve got no shortage of options for myself, so why the fuck do I care what other people do?” He drags his gaze over to me, glowering as he adds, “If my sister is what gets your dick hard, then by all means, have at it.”
“Except I’m gay. And you know this.”
“I don’t know shit, man. You’re as good as a stranger to me.”
“Oh, because you always shove your dick in strangers’ mouths.”
He snorts. “I mean, yeah. I had never seen you prior to that day. Stranger.”
Okay, he has a point. Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
Taking a step toward him, I say, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to not be a dick every once in a while.”
Shooter sneers at me, taking a step as well, putting him right in front of me, so close I can taste the beer on his breath “And it wouldn’t kill you”—he pokes me right in the chest with his index finger for emphasis—“to mind your own fucking business every once in a while.”
A cross between a scoff and a laugh bubbles up my throat. “Sue me for caring about those around me.”
“That’s why you’re never going to make it in this industry,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’re too fucking soft.”
Asshole.
“Was Itoo softtoday when I kicked your ass out there? Hmm?”
“We all have off days,” he retorts. “We’ll see who the real winner is tomorrow. And newsflash, it won’t be you.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
He is so infuriating. I’ve never met anybody more cocky, more full of themselves, more freakingdelusionalthan Shooter Graham. He’s so self-absorbed that he can’t even acknowledge that somebody else may also have talent.
“It would be better for you if you just realized now that you don’t fucking have what it takes to hold the title,” he scoffs, the sneer on his face downright vile. “Bow out now, before you embarrass yourself further.”
I swear, I can feel my blood pressure rising by the second, with each word spewed from his arrogant mouth. My hands are shaking, chest tightening, and I’ve never experienced the carnal urge to deck somebody in the face the way I do right now.God,I bet that’d feel good.
“You know what?” Pressing my palms to his chest, I shove him, opting to not risk screwing up my riding hand tonight. He doesn’t budge. “Screw you, Shooter. Be all bitter and pouty out here alone. Behave like a toddler all you want. See if I care.”
I turn and head back to where I came from as he shouts from behind me, “Good! I fucking will!”
He’s unbelievable. Where does he get off treating people like that? That is thelasttime I try to be the bigger person with him. He can sulk and wallow alone.
The walk back to the campsite is only about five minutes, and when I gently pull open the door to the camper, I glance to the right and see that Cope is already in bed, and it looks like he’s asleep. I make quick work of brushing my teeth before heading back to where my bed’s located. No sooner that I sit down to plug in my phone does the door to the camperflingopen, nearly off the hinges, as Shooter, the freaking brute, comes barreling inside, eyes somehow finding mine automatically.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-yell as he charges toward the back where I’m standing, the entire camper shaking with each step.
“You’re not better than me like you think you are,” he spits out, voice at full volume like people aren’t trying to sleep.
“Will you keep your freaking voice down?” I hiss. “Cope is trying to sleep.”
Shooter’s face contorts into a sneer as he holds his hands up. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Goody Two Shoes.” His volume is finally that of a whisper—albeit a loud one, but a whisper, nonetheless.“I forgot howperfectSterling is. How Sterling can do no wrong. My fucking bad, bro.”
