Harley
"I am never doing that again," I hiss under my breath.
Each sharp click of my heels against the pavement is like an audible scream of protest, echoing louder than my internal monologue. It's not just the shoes betraying me—it's the moment, the mortifying disaster of what just happened. My body is trying to fake anger, to mask what I'm really feeling: soul-deep embarrassment. Not the cute kind. The type that makes you want to crawl into a trash can and declare it your permanent residence.
Behind that thin, crackling sheet of anger is a thick river of humiliation, bubbling over with hot shame and regret. I tried. I really tried. And what did I get? Played. Like a violin in a sad indie movie montage. Except in my case, Clad was the smug, tuxedo-wearing orchestra conductor, and I was just the stringed puppet he strummed along.
