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"Beat it, James." Dallas flicked his barely smoked weed into the ashtray. "This ain't your side of the tracks."
It was hard to believe I ever loved him, or if I even did love him, as I stared him down again. He was slender and looked like he was battling a tough cold, with dark bags and hair as if it were seldom combed, hanging in lumps. He was attractive in an unconventional, chilling kind of way; the kind of guy you shouldn't like.
"To hell, it ain't. I'm a greaser, it's in my damn blood." I narrowed my eyes. He didn't spare me a glance, only stared down Dallas like he was a predator and Dallas was his prey.
"A greaser and a square?" Dallas jerked his brows and shot me an amused look. "Ain't that swell."
"A square? Why, because I'm not a scum liar, I don't slash tires? You know, I don't appreciate the name calling." He said, feigning offense, and placed a hand over his heart. He ambled around the store, seeming a little too at ease, and swept his fingers over everything in his path, including the books. "It hurts. Really."
Dallas gave him a bored look and peered out the window.
"Where's the old man?"
My brows shot up. My lack of expression quickly turned quickly into a glare. "How do you know him?"
"I've seen him around. I snag things from here time to time. I figure he knows but's too damn old and ill-looking to do anything about it."
"Get out."
His lips stretched into a spine-chilling grin. "Did I hit a nerve?" He probably took notice of my lip quivering with anger, and the crease that would leave a wrinkle on my forehead. "Oh, boy, I think I hit a nerve."
"I swear to you, James, i'll-"
"You know what?" He interrupted, then pulled a book from the shelf. It was something by Sylvia Plath, somewhat tattered although it held its shape. James opened it, barely glanced at the words, and tore the pages without a second look.
I didn't know what to do, so I stood there frozen, staring solemnly at the shredded pages that drifted to the floor.
"I love my car," he said simply, reaching for another book. "And you... well, you love books, don't you? You were always pretty boring."
He tore out the pages of another novel, discarding them on the floor as if they were merely something to walk on. "We could have left it how it was. But then you started dating this low-life, piece of trash." He reached behind him and slipped another book from the shelf. "And suddenly my brand new car is all beaten and broken."
Before he tore the cover, I caught a glimpse of Shakespeare, the red rose behind black, near wilting, and I felt my heart clench at the sound of tearing paper.
