Summer Rae is not stupid.
She’ll happily admit that she’s a lot of things, and they’re all… OK, most of them are good. She’s beautiful, of course- stunningly pretty, a brilliant wrestler, and as everyone knows, one of the best dancers to ever exist.
And all right, maybe she’s kind of a bitch. And maybe she’s… well. A little impulsive. Reckless, malicious, maybe a tad too violent, sometimes.
But there is one thing that Summer Rae is not, and that is stupid.
OK, maybe pissing off most of the other Divas might not have been the best idea. But Summer’s an honest person. Why pretend to be nice to people you genuinely don’t like? Honest hatred’s better than fake friendship, at least in Summer’s eyes.
All right, maybe the others all think she’s a major bitch, but hey, at least she’s not a liar.
And OK, maybe attacking Paige after that match wasn’t her best move. But that hadn’t come out of nowhere, oh no. Paige was a thorn in her side from the moment the crazy bitch stopped her from interfering with Rollins. And watching her rising in FCW and NXT faster than a balloon in the open air only made Summer angrier. She’s just as good a wrestler as Paige. She’s prettier than Paige. What can Paige do that Summer can’t?
Nothing, that’s what.
But that’s all in the past, now. Summer’s moved on. Summer found love, an amazing dance partner, everything she could possibly want.
And now, she has nothing.
And it’s all Layla’s fault.
If it wasn’t for Layla shaking her (admittedly quite nice) ass like a two-dollar whore, Fandango would never have even looked in her direction. If it wasn’t for Layla and her teasing looks and her brazenly hitting on anything that moved, Fandango would never have strayed.
(OK, they might have lost a couple of matches to Santino and that freak Emma, but that had nothing to do with it. It’s Layla’s fault. Has to be. Summer did nothing wrong. Nothing.)
Because as it turned out, Summer never realised how much she loved Fandango until she got that text. That cruel, hateful, badly-spelled text.
There’s nothing like being dumped by a text to tell you how much your lover never cared.
She cried non-stop for three days. She forgot to eat, she drank herself to sleep. She spent hours lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, too numb to move. She sent him text after text and Tweet after Tweet that he never responded to. After a week, she finally emerged from her apartment, pale and withdrawn, but her tears were gone, replaced by cold, steely determination.
She’s not sad any more. Now, she’s pissed off.
Ever since then, she’s got one thing and one thing only on her mind: revenge.
But while Summer’s pretty impulsive, she knows that a random act of vengeance won’t work this time. This needs planning, effort, a lot of forethought before she actually strikes.
The only question is, what is she going to do then?
She can’t decide whether she wants Fandango on his knees, begging her for forgiveness he’ll never get, or back in her arms, where he should be.
And as for Layla…
At least the first time was unintentional.
In order to foster the lie that the superstars are one big happy family, they all live in the same apartment building.
(The superstars all think it’s actually so the higher-ups can keep a close eye on them. They’re not wrong.)
It’s a truly glorious mess, a fucked-up combination of a frat house and a season of Big Brother. If anyone ever did an exposé on the kind of stuff that goes down in there, everyone would get arrested in a heartbeat. Every day, there’s hook-ups, break-ups, fights, wild parties and occasionally, somebody actually works out or prepares for their next match, though that’s pretty uncommon.
The unintentional side-effect of this is that it’s kind of hard to so much as walk down a corridor without accidentally walking into someone fighting, someone breaking down, or someone making out. As a result, getting from point A to point B is considerably harder than it should be, as it is right now.
Summer’s in the lobby, having just got back from the gym. Normally, she likes to take the stairs, but she can hear someone having a screaming match a floor or two up. She hits the up button, only to see that she missed the elevator by a few seconds- and naturally, it’s one of the old elevators that’s slow as all hell. Damn.
She contemplates risking the screaming match, but she really just wants to lie down for a while and watch some shitty TV. Besides, her apartment is seven floors up, and she’s tired and sore and she just took a shower.
The screaming grows louder, and she finally recognises the voices: the Bella Twins and… somebody. Summer can’t tell who, though; the twins really know how to scream.
Yeah, she’s definitely not going up there. No way in hell.
Instead, she turns her head as the sound of footsteps close by reaches her ears.
Summer looks away, her fingernails biting into her palm as she takes a deep breath, trying to restrain herself. Her other hand tightens on the strap of her gym bag, and she does her best to pretend that nothing’s wrong.
She’s so fucking tense.
Just the sight of the bitch makes Summer want to kill something. Preferably Layla. Preferably slowly.
It’s the attitude that gets Summer. Every time she sees Layla, she has the gall to act as though there’s nothing that could possibly be wrong. It’s all fake smiles, smug glances and concealed laughter.
Layla waves at her, and Summer pretends that she isn’t there, but to no avail. Layla starts talking, and Summer does her best to ignore her. She stares at the elevator, and of course the fucking thing’s moving so slowly a snail could go faster.
A hand lands on Summer’s shoulder, and she realises that Layla is right next to her, invading her personal space, and she’s smiling that fake smile again.
Summer’s eye twitches.
A second later, Layla gets slammed into the wall, hard enough that she cries out.
Despite that, she doesn’t even look surprised. Instead, she smirks, looking sexier than anyone has a right to in a situation like this, and her hand tightens on Summer’s shoulder, nails biting into Summer’s skin, her grip so hard that Summer shrieks. Summer’s grasp on Layla’s arm strengthens, and she drops her gym bag, ready to counter any attack.
For a second, the two women just stare at each other, both waiting for the other to make a move, and there’s a weird… sensation, as such. Like the entire world has stopped, except for them. All Summer can hear is the two of them breathing, and it’s like nothing else is happening…
Until Layla leans forward and kisses Summer.
Summer understands the theory. Randomly kissing the person you’re fighting with freaks them out. They don’t know how to react, they get confused. They let go, they back away, and then they’re vulnerable for a few seconds, giving you the opportunity to take them by surprise.
What she doesn’t understand is the heat that shoots through her as their lips meet, or why it leaves her feeling so turned on. She doesn’t understand why Layla’s eyes widen with something that could be surprise, arousal, or both, or why Layla kisses her again, a long, slow, intimate kiss that makes Summer’s knees go weak.
She doesn’t understand why she lets go of Layla’s arm and kisses her back.
Layla lets out a noise that’s halfway between a snarl and a moan and pulls Summer closer, and then they’re making out, pressed up as close to each other as they can get, Summer’s hands tangled in Layla’s hair and Layla’s hand on Summer’s ass and Layla’s other hand is sliding up under Summer’s shirt when-
-the elevator finally arrives.
The noise knocks Summer out of her trance and she stumbles backward, eyes wide- with shock this time, not arousal. Numb, her mind trying to comprehend what just happened, she grabs her bag and backs into the elevator, never taking her eyes off Layla. She hits the button for her floor repeatedly until the doors close, and once the elevator starts moving, she lets her shaking legs give out, sliding down the wall until she hits the floor.
That did not just happen.
There is no way in hell that just happened.
She did not just make out with Layla.
Not the scheming bitch who stole her boyfriend. No way in hell.
And she is definitely not attracted to Layla. Not at all. Never.
Summer looks over at her reflection in the mirror on the wall and freezes. She’s got Layla’s lipstick on her lips, around her mouth, on her neck where Layla kissed her. She looks away as fast as she can, down at her hands- and at the strands of long brown hair that she accidentally pulled out when she backed away so abruptly.
It happened, all right.
Summer’s head hits the wall and she closes her eyes, horrified.
What the fuck is she going to do now?
That was the first time. Things only went downhill from there.
Summer dreams about Layla that night.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
That being said, it’s not all fun and games. The first night, Summer dreams that Layla, Tyler Breeze and Charlotte turn into rampaging multi-coloured dinosaurs, and she teams up with Bray Wyatt to send them back to their own time using a giant sparkling gun that shoots marshmallows and an origami missile launcher.
(She wakes up the next morning wondering if there’s LSD in the water supply, and decides not to eat so much junk food before bed again.)
The second night, she dreams that she finds Layla’s head in her wardrobe. As far as she can tell, it’s Layla’s actual head, not a dummy or a replica, but there’s no blood or gore, and it’s suspiciously warm for a disembodied head. Summer searches as best as she can, but she can’t find the rest of Layla’s body. Nobody she tries to talk to about it will even acknowledge her. She tries to dispose of the head, but none of her methods work: not throwing it away, not locking it in another building, not even setting it on fire. Each time she tries to get rid of it, she goes home and opens the wardrobe to make sure it’s gone, and Layla’s head is sitting there once again, smiling at her.
(She wakes up at three AM in a cold sweat, drinks a few shots of vodka and makes sure that the light’s on before she goes back to sleep again. The next day, she’s mostly forgotten the dream, and she’s incredibly grateful for that, even though she can’t remember why she’s grateful, or why she gets a little nervous every time she opens the wardrobe that week.)
The third night, she dreams that someone’s following her through a dimly-lit labyrinth of smooth white walls. She knows they’re right behind her, she can hear their footsteps, but whenever she looks behind her, there’s nobody there. She runs as fast as she can, tries to catch them off guard, but no dice- they’re always just behind her, and she can never look fast enough to see them. Finally, she runs into a dead end, turns, and sees… something. A shadowy figure, like a humanoid heat haze. It slowly comes closer until it’s right in front of her, and then it kisses her. It feels like a warm breeze on her skin, and then it turns into Layla. Layla smiles sweetly, caresses Summer’s face, and then she vanishes, taking what little light there was with her. Summer tries to feel her way onward, but when she steps forward she finds that the floor doesn’t exist anymore. She falls into what feels like a bottomless pit, and the darkness envelops her, blocking out all sound and sensation.
(She wakes up to her alarm blaring, and calls it every name in the book before she throws it at the wall. Then she spends ten minutes picking up every piece, down to all the tiny plastic shards.)
Summer spends those three days staying away from everyone, especially Layla and Fandango. She works out, she watches TV, she stays out of the endless soap opera taking place outside.
And she broods.
Because there is no way in hell that any of that could have happened.
(So why did she have Layla’s lipstick all over her face? asks that one part of her mind that just won’t shut up.)
There is no way she could be attracted to Layla.
(So why does she keep fantasising about fucking Layla? asks the determined part of her mind.)
And there is definitely no way that she wants to see Layla again, and go a hell of a lot further than just kissing.
(So why- shut up, shut the fuck up, Summer thinks, trying to drown out that persistent little voice. It doesn’t work.)
Things could have worked out. She could have got over it. Maybe. But fate throws a spanner into the works yet again.
At least she can blame something else for the second time.
Summer’s never been the kind of woman who’s content to stay home and not go out a lot. By the third day, she’s going a little stir-crazy. So when she gets a Facebook invite to a party organised by Sasha Banks, she accepts without hesitation, even though she’s not feeling too fond of Sasha right now. Unfortunately, she makes a very big mistake in the process: she forgets to ask about the guest list.
Because as it turns out, there isn’t one.
Typical Sasha, really.
And so when the party starts, Sasha’s apartment is full of people and Summer finds herself draped over Sasha’s couch, drinking her third piña colada in half an hour and looking around the room surreptitiously for any sign of Fandango or Layla.
(They’re probably too busy sucking each other’s faces off to come to the party, she thinks bitterly.)
The noise is appalling, the number of people is enough to make even the least anxious person on the planet feel a tad claustrophobic, and Summer decides to entertain herself by contemplating all the ways the party could go wrong, and which is the most likely. Fire, flood or lightning strike are all pretty unlikely, and so is a blackout or a surprise visit from any of the bosses.
The most likely option, Summer thinks, is a drunken fight between enemies. Given that Sasha- that idiot- just invited everyone, there’s so much potential for a good brawl right now.
Looking around the room, Summer can see all kinds of people who might end up in a fight. Tyler’s taking his… fiftieth? Sixtieth? God knows how many, really- selfie, and he’s managed to position himself so he’s in everybody’s way, somehow oblivious to how angry they all are.
Paige is holed up in the back corner, drinking straight out of a bottle, and Summer has to wonder why she even turned up. The only person Paige even begins to get along with at the party is Emma, and Emma’s dancing with the Funkadactyls, inasmuch as what she’s doing can be called dancing.
(Summer’s still livid about losing the dance-off. God knows the crowd obviously knew nothing about what real dancing is, if they preferred that nutjob to her.)
Bo Dallas is doing his ‘you need to Bo-lieve’ speech to whoever can’t escape, and everyone nearby looks like they want to punch him out as hard as they can. Adam Rose is telling him to be a rosebud, not a lemon, and Summer honestly isn’t sure which is worse. At least Sasha told Rose that he had to leave his posse behind, the apartment’s small enough as it is and only superstars were invited.
Charlotte’s bitching to Alicia Fox and Sasha about whatever banal topic she’s obsessing over. Natalya? Bayley? Like it even matters. Charlotte’s always bitching about something. Hell, she’s even pulling Layla into it, even though Layla looks as bored as Alicia and Sasha- Charlotte should know by now that Layla’s not looking for a replacement for Michelle.
Summer bolts upright, tipping what’s left of her drink out of the glass and over her hand. She swears and nearly drops the glass, and finally finds somewhere to put it.
When she looks back, Layla’s still on the other side of the informal dance floor, but she’s directly opposite of Summer, and she’s smiling. And it’s not even the bitchy let’s-pretend-to-be-polite smile she expects from Layla, it’s a flirty, sexy smile that might even be genuine.
A shiver runs down Summer’s spine, and for a second she stares like a deer in the headlights. She has no idea what Layla’s planning, but it’s going to be a clusterfuck, to say the least.
Layla’s smile grows wider when she sees Summer react, and she slowly crooks a finger in the internationally-recognised ‘come here’ signal.
Summer has no idea why, but she gets up and stumbles her way across the room. She’s a little tipsy, to say the least, and the combination of alcohol and high heels was never a good one. But there’s some part of her that wants to know what’s going to happen next.
(It might be the part that really wants to fuck Layla, but she’s doing her best to ignore that part. Unfortunately, alcohol has a bad habit of making you listen to the parts you want to ignore.)
She’s halfway there when a horrifying stray thought hits her: if Layla’s here, is Fandango?
The thought makes her want to throw up.
(That might be the alcohol, though.)
She looks around, but the combination of alcohol, lots of people and dim lights makes finding one person in the constantly-moving mess almost impossible, and she gets more anxious by the second.
She’s still looking when a hand slides into hers and tugs insistently. Startled, Summer looks down, and her heart skips a beat when she realises that it’s Layla.
Her first instinct is to pull away, but Layla’s grip tightens, sending heat flooding through her. Summer’s head spins, and she teeters on her heels, unable to think for those long, confusing, terrifying seconds.
Layla pulls on her hand again, and this time Summer follows her like a lamb.
Layla leads her out of the apartment, down the corridor and around the corner, into the tiny alcove. This time, it’s Summer who gets pushed against the wall, but she’s still dizzy, so she doesn’t really mind.
Layla looks at her intently, and then frowns. “You’re drunk.”
Summer shakes her head and sways, off-balance. “No, I’m not.”
Layla steadies her, and Summer shivers as her fingers touch Summer’s arm. “You’re barely standing!”
“Fine, maybe a little drunk,” Summer concedes. She frowns. “Why the hell do you care?”
She’s your enemy, her mind is screaming, but it’s ignored. She stole your boyfriend, she ruined your life, she-
Summer officially does not give a fuck.
Then again, that might be the alcohol and hormones talking.
“You know why I care,” Layla says, and her hands move slowly down Summer's body and slide into her dress.
Summer groans as Layla’s hands dance over her skin, and Layla kisses her, and for a glorious few seconds everything’s pleasure and sensation-
-until Layla pulls away, looking disgusted.
“There’s no point,” she says. “You’re wasted.”
“I’m not,” Summer protests. She wonders if Layla’s sincere, or whether this is some bullshit scheme- or whether Layla’s sincere, but trying to fuck her over, make sure that Summer doesn’t get any ideas about the two of them not being enemies any more.
“I could get drunk just from kissing you,” Layla shoots back. She takes Summer’s hand, the one that was holding the glass, and starts licking the alcohol off her fingers.
Summer gasps at the sensation, and her head swims so much that if she wasn’t leaning against the wall, she’d fall over for sure.
Layla pulls away, looking amused. She kisses Summer’s fingers, and then steps back.
“Call me when you’ve sobered up,” she breathes, and walks away, shooting a wicked glance back at Summer.
Summer watches her leave and barely resists the urge to go after her. Now, thanks to Layla, she’s horny, pissed off, and she’s got a really bad headache.
Oh, they’re still enemies, all right.
That was the second time.
Summer spends the next week doing everything but calling Layla. She works out, she watches more TV, she does her matches and she stays away from everyone.
She feels like her life is slowly sliding out of her control, and all she can do is frantically try to hold on, even though her hands are shaking.
It’s not a feeling she likes, to say the least. Especially when it’s over something as potentially damaging as this. Her life is already fucked up enough as it is without any more problems.
(She can just hear Layla laughing at her. Bitch.)
There’s one thing she knows for sure: she is not going anywhere near Layla until she’s figured out what to do.
Unfortunately, she has no idea where to start.
She angsts about it for a couple of days, and finally, she lies down on her bed, stares at the ceiling, and thinks hard.
On the one hand, there’s no way to deny it: she is attracted to Layla like whoa.
On the other hand, Layla is the evil bitch who stole her man.
It’s confusing, and it hurts, because Summer knows damn well that Layla’s told Fandango everything by now. He’s got to be laughing about it- well, they both are, probably. And she honestly can't blame them- how desperate is she to just hook up with the first person who offers, even though it’s her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend?
She hasn’t felt that good in what seems like years. She hasn’t felt that dizzying rush of arousal, that sheer want, and it’s been too long.
So why, she muses, can’t she just use Layla? It’s not like they actually care about each other. But they’re mutually attracted to each other, so why not take advantage of it?
It’s destined to end badly, that’s a definite, but hey, at least Summer might get some amazing sex out of it.
And Layla does seem like she knows how to fuck. Not that Fandango doesn’t, but he’s just as erratic off-screen as he is on-screen.
(Once he got distracted while he and Summer were fucking and wandered off looking for glitter. She had to repeatedly remind him of what he was meant to be doing before he remembered where he was, and by that time the mood was completely dead.)
Of course, he wasn’t erratic all the time. It was a rarity.
Well, OK, maybe a bit more common than that.
All right, it happened pretty often.
(Hell, one time he forgot her freaking name while she was in the middle of giving him a blowjob. He had no clue what it was, and none of his guesses were anywhere close. That one hurt. Especially when it took him ten minutes to remember it.)
So why can’t Summer just fuck Layla a few times and then ditch her? She’s not seeing any problems with that idea.
The more she thinks about it, the more she likes it. But she’s been doing everything Layla wants so far, dancing to her tune like a puppet. No way is she going to go crawling to Layla like an obedient pet. No, if Layla wants her so much, she can come get Summer herself.
The third time… yeah, Summer can’t come up with any excuses for that one.
It takes a week for something to happen. Summer’s on the stairs, just starting her climb up from the lobby and back to her apartment. She rounds the corner, reaches the first floor and comes face to face with Layla.
Fuck it. What are the odds?
Layla looks surprised at first, but then her expression changes to annoyed, almost angry. Summer tenses up, expecting a fight, and all of her previous plans fly out the window.
“You could have just said no,” Layla says quietly, and now she looks… disappointed, almost. Like she expected more from Summer.
“Who says I’m saying no?” Summer asks obstinately, folding her arms.
“You didn’t call, you didn’t text-”
“I’m not going to be your dog,” Summer informs her flatly. “I’m not going to come when you call, and I’m not going to do what you say when you want me to. If you want me, then you can come talk to me, because I’m not going to be your tame pet.”
“Is that right?” Layla asks dryly. “I mean, you say you won’t be my dog, but you’re already a real bitch-”
Summer slaps her, and it's hard enough that the crack echoes down the corridor.
Layla’s hand goes to her cheek, and her expression changes to something that's more confused than angry, oddly enough.
“Let me make something clear,” Summer hisses. “I fucking hate you. You ruined my life and stole my boyfriend. So cut the bullshit and get to the point. What the hell do you want?”
“You know what I want,” Layla says flatly.
“Why? You’ve already got Fandango. Isn’t he enough? Or do you just want someone to laugh at?”
“Stop overthinking it,” Layla replies, sounding a little frustrated. “Like I give that much of a fuck about you. You want me, I want you. You hate me, I hate you. Is that too hard for you to understand? Because I don’t like this any more than you do."
Summer hesitates. She’s sick of it, now, sick of everything. Sick of the bullshit, sick of going out of her way to avoid Layla, sick of the ache in her heart that Fandango left her. And there’s so many questions that need to be answered, but she just can’t find it in her to care.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says quietly.
“Not a thing,” Layla agrees as she takes a step forward.
“Nobody else needs to know.”
Summer nods once, trembling with what could be anticipation, or maybe nervousness. “OK.”
Layla takes her hand. “My room’s closest.”
Summer follows her without hesitation.
Layla barely remembers to shut the door once they get inside.
Hell, they’re barely inside when Layla throws Summer against the wall and kisses her hard, hard enough that it stings, but Summer doesn’t notice because she’s got Layla pressed up against her and Layla’s hands are all over her and she’s having trouble thinking coherently.
And oh God, Layla knows how to kiss.
Summer holds her tightly and kisses her back, and they’re making out up against the wall and it feels so damn good, better than she’s felt in ages.
It’s not fair. Why does it have to be Layla? Why can’t it be someone Summer can actually stand?
Fuck it, Summer thinks, and stops caring.
They somehow manage to make it through the apartment to Layla’s bedroom, even though they’re trying to walk, kiss and strip at the same time. Layla shoves the door open and pushes Summer onto the bed, and Summer finally gets a moment to catch her breath.
For a moment, the two women just stare at each other, and Summer resists the urge to laugh. Here she is, about to fuck her hated enemy, and yet she has never felt better.
“Like what you see?” she asks, her voice husky.
Layla’s eyes are smouldering. “You have to ask?”
Summer’s heart is pounding, but she doesn’t hesitate. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“I’m not,” Layla says with a smile that makes Summer shiver. “Just admiring the view.”
She climbs onto the bed, pushes Summer down and kisses her passionately, and Summer loves every second of it.
Summer comes back to herself slowly, and she's kinda dazed and confused as she wakes up. She has no idea how long it's been since she fell asleep- a few minutes? A few hours? It doesn't matter. Layla’s lying on top of her, mumbling occasionally in her sleep, and the bed is a mess of tangled limbs and sheets. Layla’s hair is tickling Summer’s neck, and Summer can smell her perfume, something rich and fruity. Absently, she runs a hand over Layla’s hair and twists a strand around her finger, half-listening to Layla’s muttered sleep-talk.
She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, focusing on the sensations and ignoring the context. Everything feels so good that she can almost forget where she is, and how she got here.
Then she opens her eyes, and remembers everything.
Layla’s bedroom is incredibly messy, even without the clothes strewn all over the floor. Her things are all over the place- the dressing table is covered in make-up and other miscellany; her laundry basket is overflowing and most of her books are on the floor or the desk, nowhere near the actual bookshelf.
Summer glances around the room idly, and freezes when she looks at the desk. It’s covered in computer equipment, stationary and books, but two items stand out instantly: the first is one of Fandango’s shirts, neatly folded. The second is a photo of Layla and Fandango embracing each other, his eyes closed, her head against his chest, so obviously in love.
Summer feels like she’s been punched in the stomach, and suddenly the scent of Layla’s perfume becomes cloying, sickeningly sweet. She feels like she might throw up, but she kicks the feeling back and closes her eyes, despairing.
How could she have been so stupid?
She’s supposed to be an adult, for fuck’s sake. She’s not a hormonal, lust-driven teenager any more. And yet here she is, having just thrown herself into bed with her worst enemy.
She is such an idiot.
Her skin starts crawling, and she’s struck by an overwhelming urge to get out, get the hell out, get as far away as she can.
Summer’s had a fair bit of practice at gracefully removing herself from situations that didn’t work out to her satisfaction. Granted, one night stands (or in this case, one hour stands) don’t usually fall into that category, but she’ll make an exception for Layla.
She gets up, shoving Layla roughly off of her, and starts finding her clothes and pulling them back on. She’s going to go back to her room, get in the shower until the hot water runs out, and scrub herself bloody.
Then she’s going to do her best to forget that this ever happened.
(Yeah, like that’ll work.)
(She’ll be dreaming of Layla again, for sure.)
Behind her, Layla stirs and shifts. Summer ignores her, and focuses on making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. She dropped her bag while they were making out in the hallway and it wasn’t closed, so the contents have gone everywhere. She shoves them back in the bag and picks it up, closing it hard. The click echoes through the apartment, and from the bedroom, Layla calls sleepily, “Summer?”
Summer ignores her.
She’s almost at the door when Layla emerges from the bedroom, drowsy and a little out of it. Summer pauses, and Layla seizes the moment. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m sure as hell not staying,” Summer says shortly, and some of her bitter despair comes through in her tone.
Layla laughs, and there’s a malicious sound to her voice that makes Summer finally turn around. Layla’s leaning against the open door, arms folded over her chest, and Summer hates her so much.
(There’s one tiny part of her brain that’s trying to call attention to the fact that Layla’s still naked and so incredibly beautiful, but it’s rapidly outvoted by the rest of Summer’s brain. That doesn’t stop it from trying to make itself heard, though.)
“What, you finally realised how pathetic you are?” Layla asks mockingly, and all of her humour's gone, replaced by sneering disdain.
Summer isn't even surprised. She's given Layla what she wanted, it's not like Layla has any reason to be nice to her now.
She would respond, but Layla keeps talking. “You might as well stay longer. I mean, everyone knows it’s all you’re good for.”
Summer bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood. She’s never been so close to killing someone in her life, and God, she wants to do it so much it hurts her to take that crucial step back. Instead, she returns to her favourite pastime: throwing insults.
She’s rattled, though, and her first effort isn’t that good. “At least I didn’t just cheat on my fucking boyfriend like a worthless slut,” she snarls back, trying and failing to ignore the pain.
Layla shrugs dismissively. “He doesn’t care! He knows it doesn’t mean anything. He loves me. Like he never loved you,” she says, smirking.
Summer’s nails stab into her palm, and she’s dimly aware of the pain exploding in her hand, but this time she manages to ignore it. Cold rage spreads through her, and it takes all of her self-control to stay put.
“You’re fucking delusional,” she says quietly. It takes all of her strength to get the next words out, but she manages it. “He never loved me, so what makes you think he loves you? He’ll throw you out like the useless trash you are once he’s bored, count on it.”
Summer turns around and walks to the door, ignoring the pain in her bleeding palm. She opens it and pauses, her fingers on the handle, and raises her voice. “Don’t come crying to me when he dumps you. You’re nothing special. Just another toy that won’t keep him amused for long.”
She slams the door behind her, and doesn’t look back once.