She's not the girl for you. In fact, she's your best bro's ex that shattered his heart— which you said you'd get her for. Of course, you never got along with the egotistical, abrasive bitch who had the gall to challenge you to multiple rap-offs, but you're alright with giving her shit on John's behalf.
You came across her in a club a few weeks after the incident and you were probably a little wasted as you stormed up to her, shoving her away from the dude she was flirting with. You recited the very angrily worded speech that you prepared especially for this situation and all she did was laugh. She's even more wasted than you, you decided as she cackled and told you to shut your face up. But fuck no, you didn't because you were on a roll and there was no way you were stopping. Or, that was your train of thought until she took her beer and poured it down your mouth. It was a shitty beer, too, and you spit it right back at her. When it comes to it, you honestly don't remember much about that night— fuzzy recollections of stealing each other's money to buy countless drinks, disorientating music that pounded dizzyingly in your chest, and the beginning of what would prove to be a very steep downward spiral.
You had set out to wreck her, but she's the one that got you and you're fucked because now you're the one that doesn't want to go. You find out she's dangerous and sultry and volatile and everything you claim isn't your type but still draws you back in like a a fly to a Venus fly trap's deadly nectar.
In the end, that's all you are: a fly. You're a fly caught in her inescapable web and when she bites you— holy shit, you're dead. You are dead and you've gone up to heaven. Or maybe it's hell. It could work either way with the way you two go.
You never feel bad about biting her back, about trying to match her heat and be the better one this time around. She tells you she finds your efforts cute. She giggles and flashes that devious, horribly heart stopping grin and when she pulls at your hair and traces lines across your chest, you're melting into her and hating yourself for it.
She'll mention something about you being so much better than lame, old John and your stomach will twist in guilt and anger and you'll lash out at her, throw her onto her kitchen table and try to ruin her. She'll let you be on top, to claw at her hair and glare down at her as she stares levelly back. You should expect it as she grabs the front of your shirt, but you're still caught unprepared as she shoves you off the table and to the ground where she's on top and giving you no time to regain your breath before slamming her lips against yours.
Sometimes you'll taste blood— yours or hers, you're never quite sure— and sometimes it'll be that mint gum that she chews so often, and they're both more addictive than they should be. She says you taste like girly candy and cigarettes— only one of which you'll admit to actually doing— and you can't help but hope that means she's hooked too.
You'll be dizzy and breathless and so fucking intoxicated by her that if you were thinking straight you might consider checking into rehab on accounts of life-ruining addictions. In fact, you're prone to staring up at the ceiling, covered with nothing but a bed sheet as she sleeps soundly beside you, and wondering if maybe you do indeed need help. Not that you'd ever give her the satisfaction of knowing she was able to get to you.
Truth is, she already knows. She knows she has you and you know she has you but you still fight and you still do everything to stay in control. You'll pull away when she moans into your mouth, smirking at her brief moment of dazed confusion and laughing at the glare she shoots you not a second after. She hates it when you ignore her and she isn't above digging her sharp fingernails into your arm but you smugly tell her it's cute when she's at your mercy and trying viciously to take the reins back. Her sharp eyes flash and she'll shove you up against a wall, and it's not a surprise to either of you when your small semblance of dominance comes crumbling back down to nothing.
It's pretty messed up, how she strings you along and how you so aren't yourself around her. She's heartless, you think, and— fuck if it's a strong word— you might even hate her. You hate the way you have to sneak around with her and lie to John, Bro, everyone, and how, despite all of that, you don't leave.
She's not the girl for you but she's your girl. Or maybe you're the one that's hers. It's a shitstorm of a relationship, but she'll kiss you until you have to fight her away for air and you can't help but think it's so fucking right, although admittedly in the wrongest way ever.