Riot Rules (Crooked Sinners)

by Callie Hart

I’ve wondered this for a long time. In my head, when I’ve fantasized about the day Dash finally notices me—a day much like today—I’ve wondered if he’ll be able to see how desperately I like him just by looking me in the eye. I’ve spent weeks practicing the perfect poker face in the mirror. It’s actually been more like months. I thought I’d nailed the whole calm, cool and collected exterior, but that belief has just been crushed in Dashiell Lovett’s palm. He sees it, and me just fine. I hate that I’m that obvious. “You’re a pig, you know that? What gives you the right to make assumptions about people you don’t even know. You might love yourself, but you assume that everyone else is in love with you, too? That’s just—urgh!” I thrust the bottle of vodka at him, using way too much force. The hard-rimmed bottom of the bottle digs into his ribs, but Dash barely moves. He snatches the bottle away, hurling it into the grass on the other side of the car, and then his hand is wrapping around my wrist, his other hand clamping around the back of my neck.