14
ARYA
Ishake my hands, which are trembling.
There. He’s proven again he’s not that into you.
Stop taunting him. Stop teasing him. Stop everything.
At the moment, that feels impossible to do. There’s so much tension and heat inside me. I need it to end. If Sorensen and I are never getting together, I don’t want to be near him. Because there’s something wrong with me when I am. It has to do with my wanting the physical and emotional intensity I used to get from Luis. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. Late in the relationship that turned horrible and scary. But early on, it was such a rush. I still crave it.
Reaching that edge again, this time with the Viking, is like chocolate and alcohol mixed together… so enticing. Sorensen is actually the only one I’ve ever feltthislevel of attraction toward. So, deep down, I want him to want me the way Luis did. But trying to push the Viking is insane. What if he became explosively violent the way he does on the football field? What if he started to hurt me more than I could stand, and I couldn’t get him to stop? The way Luis did?
The thought makes me shudder. Rubbing my hands together, I blow on them.
You could just have nice, quiet sex with him. When it isn’t satisfying on any level, you will stop wanting him. Itch scratched.
Except I don’t want lukewarm with the Viking. I’d rather have nothing at all.
As the realization hits me, my confusion lifts. This is why I can’t stop myself from taunting him. There’s also another simple reason.It works.Teasing him is the perfect way to flirt because he likes it. If he didn’t, he’d ignore me the way he ignores everyone else. So instinctively, I keep going, hoping to get what I hunger for.
Listen to yourself!Clenching my teeth, I shake my head violently.You want him to lose control like the fucking psycho who actually raped you a couple of times? Yeah, that’s super healthy.
My eyes burn with frustrated tears. I ball my hands into fists. I won’t let myself cry. It’s tough, though. The more exhausted I become from lack of sleep, the harder it is to control my emotions.
Standing in the kitchen area, I close my eyes and take a cleansing breath, trying to clear away my thoughts.
I have a real problem. Until now, I’ve been lucky because I’m not attracted to most men who are interested in me. It’s also good luck that the Viking’s relatively indifferent.
A really hard workout would help right now. Despite having slept more soundly last night than I have in a long time, I don’t feel refreshed. Lately even when I'm unconscious, my mind remains jittery and preoccupied with violent assaults and missing girls.
“Don’t go there,” I whisper. “Moving on, remember?”
A minute of Navy Seal box breathing follows. A year of therapy didn’t help at all, but this does. Apparently, what I need in my life is Special Forces training.
My mind is on autopilot as I make breakfast tacos. It’s only when the Viking emerges, freshly showered and dressed in his uniform of jeans and t-shirt with sweater over top, that I notice I’ve put two plates on the counter. Two tacos on one, four on the other.
He takes the plate with four, and neither of us says a word.
After sprinkling cheese and hot sauce over mine, I sit at the table. The silence is oppressive, squeezing me as if I’m at the bottom of the ocean.
I get my ear buds and phone, turning the music on to drown out my thoughts. As soon as I reach dance music tracks, my mind settles and starts to focus on ideas for ramping up our competition routines.
After breakfast, I use his large shower. The walls are covered with reclaimed blue-gray slate tiles. I love the eco-spa feel as the water pounds down on me. If I lived here, I might not even miss having a tub.
I dry off, do my hair and makeup, and dress for the day in a Lycra emerald and black dress with a deep “v” neckline. When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m alone in the loft, which surprises me.
Walking to the window, I wonder if I was mistaken about the plan to drive to school together. When I look out the windows though, I realize that both vehicles are still in the lot. And actually, Sorensen has some sort of makeshift device that he’s using to examine the undercarriage of his truck. He seems to have made it from a broom handle and a telescoping duster, but the basic shape is like that of an angled mirror that prison guards might use to check cars coming in and out of the facility.
I guess he was a good choice of bodyguard after all. I would never have thought to check under the car for a GPS tracker or bomb or whatever he’s looking for. Shaking my head, I walk away. The police need to catch Casanova already. They’ve had plenty of time.
The Viking returns with cold-reddened cheeks and shoves the apparatus in the metal closet. Again, I wonder where his gear is from.
“All clear?” I ask, packing snacks, dance clothes, and my laptop into my black-and-white weekender tote.
“Yeah.”
“Good. See you,” I say, walking toward the door.
