The next moment, a wail emanated from inside the car, and Quintessa's shoe flew out of the window.
At that moment, all Quintessa could think was: Why the hell did I ever open my mouth to ask him?
She knew damn well that nothing good ever came out of Tyrone’s mouth.
—To sleep with her until waking up naturally?
Ha! She’d like to punch him awake every single day.
Tyrone pushed his hair back, narrowly avoiding the flying shoe. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing his hair back into place with a look of disgust for Quintessa, “What, haven’t washed your feet in days? They stink!”
Quintessa, with one bare foot propped up on the dashboard, shot back, “Had I known I'd be using my shoe to hit you today, I wouldn't have washed my feet for a week.”
Tyrone glanced at her bare foot, then at the abandoned shoe outside.
“I was trying to keep a low profile, keep my grand plans under wraps. It is you that have asked me, and I just told the truth. How can you blame me? Though the goal isn't easy to achieve, one must always dream, and you can't stop me from dreaming beautifully!”
Rolling her eyes, Quintessa snarked, “Fine, you’re a jerk, you win. Now, would you be a dear and fetch my shoe?”
Previously, Quintessa felt that her words could make Tyrone turn red and get furious. But these days, it was becoming a Herculean task.
It wasn’t that she was losing her touch; it was that Tyrone’s skin had grown irritatingly thick.
Tyrone grabbed Quintessa’s ankle, dropping it, “You think I’m an idiot, to pick it up for you just to let you hit me with the shoe again?”
Quintessa kicked out, “You think I need a shoe to hit you?”
He caught her leg, giving it a squeeze, “Easy, save some of that energy for later. Didn’t you say I should be doing more manly things? I’m all prepared for that.”
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