Two Roads Read Free Page A

lips. I hate that smile so freaking much. “I forgot to tell you.” He reaches somewhere behind him, and I narrow my eyes. When he turns around, he’s holding a coffee cup and smirking. It takes me a minute to realize it’s my coffee.
    My coffee.
    Mine.
    Oh no he didn’t.
    My blood boils almost immediately, and I resist the urge to spring to my feet and attack him as he holds up the coffee to his mouth, sniffs it, and then smiles when he sees the rage in my eyes. My heart races furiously in my chest, and I have to dig my fingernails deep into my palm to keep from lunging at him. (I kind of value my coffee. Like, a lot.) So I just sit there, feigning calmness, as he takes a slow sip of the coffee, exaggerating it as much as I exaggerated mine. By the time he’s finished, I am seething.
    “This is awful,” he says, mimicking me. He winks at me then, and I just glare at him. I hate how strangely awesome my traitorous brain finds this.
    The truth is, when Logan and I are going at it like this, we’re in our own little world. A world full of fire and passion and hate and dying puppies, sure, but our own world all the same. It’s just us, just me and him, just our insults and our pranks and our twisted, refreshing, perfect and so screwed-up hate for each other. In a really really really strange way, it’s kind of nice. Actually, “nice” does not even begin to describe it. My hatred for Logan is terrible and refreshing, wonderful and horrible all at once.
    “Asshole,” I say, letting the hatred seep into my voice, taking a sip out of his hot chocolate.
    “Bitch,” he replies, and he gulps down more of my precious coffee.
    Heat pulses between us, and the laughter and gossip and all the other sounds in The Dungeon disappear. The world seems to go silent, and when I glare at Logan, he is all I see. He--in all of his innocence and wit and completely frustrating geekiness. He--with his deep blue eyes and glasses and perfect dimples. He--the guy who ruined my life.
    Everything else fades away, and it’s just him in front of me right now, him and me in our own little world.
    And I love it.
    And I hate it.
    And I don’t understand it for one second.
    Everything is intense when it comes to Logan. Everything feels amplified. The hate, the confusion, the passion--all of it is so freaking strong. I loathe him, loathe how he succeeds everywhere I fail, loathe that he knows how to get to me better than anyone else in the world, loathe that I need his rivalry as badly as I do.
    I lean into the table and make a point of touching my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
    It’s on , the gesture says, and Logan just smiles.
    “Loser,” I continue, trying to sound as cold and calm as possible.
    “Heartless freak,” he shoots right back.
    “Dickhead.”
    “Asshole.”
    “Bastard.”
    “Jackass.”
    “Guy no one wanted.”
    “Girl whose parents hate her.”
    His friends keep jerking their heads back and forth between us. “Idiot.”
    “Jerk.”
    “Imbecile.”
    “Moron.”
    “Asshat.”
    “Oaf.”
    At that, Logan stops, bites his lip like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing, and we both silently declare me the victor of this round. Once again, I come out on top. (I hate how I just worded that.)
    “Those were very original insults,” I say after a minute, the ferocity between us slowly fading. We are much better at pranks than we are insults.
    He watches me, dark hair falling over his eyes in a way that would be so sexy if it weren’t so freakish looking. “Right?”
    “You bore me,” I say after a minute.
    “I’m glad.”
    I stand up, sliding the mug back in front of him. “Later, asshole.”
    He smiles, but it isn’t a mean kind of smile. If anything, it’s… well, it’s warm. Soft. “Later, bitch.”
    I try not to insult him further--it’s not as easy as it sounds--as I slide out of the table, leaving him and his friends to their hardcore hot chocolate nerdity, and stride back over to Blondie. I’m