She pushes it open, then leans in the frame, backlit by the hallway light. Her silhouette is a question.
I answer.
I move up behind her, close enough to breathe her in—smoke, blood, flower petals stuck in her hair. My hands are fists at my sides. I don’t want to fuck this up.
She turns. Her mouth is half a smile, half a dare. “What, you gonna make me beg?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She waits.
I pick her up. She squeaks, low and surprised, hands gripping my shoulders. I carry her in, not because she needs it but because I want to. The room is bare—a bed, a nightstand, a desk with a cracked lamp, a chair. The sheets are plain, gray. There’s a pile of books on the floor, most of them never opened. On the desk, next to the lamp, a photo of Colton and me, maybe five years ago, both of us with black eyes and broken teeth, arms around each other like idiots.
She notices it. “You were pretty,” she says, voice soft.
I set her on the edge of the bed. “I’m prettier now.”
She laughs. “Arrogant.”
She leans back on her elbows, eyes up at me. I watch her feet dangle, toes flexing. She has cute little toes.
I go to the desk, pull open the drawer, and grab the little bottle of codeine left over from my last shoulder surgery. I hand her two pills, then a glass of water before taking two myself.
She looks at them, then at me. “Are you trying to get me stoned?”
“No.”
She throws the pills back, chases them with water, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The muscles in her throat move, but the rest of her is still.
I watch her. She watches me.
The tension is tight. It would be so easy to cut it, to just grab her, pin her, fuck her until the world comes apart. That’s what I’m built for.
But that’s not what I want.
She sees it. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. Her voice is broken. “Why not?”
I kneel in front of her, hands on her knees, so gentle it makes me want to scream. “Because you said yes.”
She swallows. “You’re different tonight.”
I run my hand up her calf, stop at the bandage. My thumb traces the edge, careful not to press too hard. “You’re different, too.”
She laughs, shaky. “I’m still a bitch.”
I slide my hand up, under her knee, then to her thigh. “You’re my bitch and I’m your asshole, simple as,” I say, and she shudders.
She pulls me in by the shirt, wraps her legs around my waist. Her hands find my face, her fingers in my hair, and she kisses me like she’s trying to get the last word.
Her mouth is sweet, the codeine and blood and whiskey mixing in a way that makes my head spin. I run my hands up her sides, feel the ribs under her shirt, the stutter of her heart under my palm. She gasps into my mouth, nails digging into my neck.
I push her back, onto the bed. She goes easy, arms above her head, eyes wide and black in the dark.
I crawl over her, careful not to crush her. She’s small, but I’ve seen her break bones with a punch. I wonder if she’ll break me.
