But I’ve tasted her.She makes me weak, yes, but worse than that she makes mewantto be.Softness is how men die in my world.There’s no shelf in my world to set her on that won’t get blood on it.My life is locks and steel; hers is light and paperbacks.I don’t know how those fit together, only that staying away isn’t one of the options anymore.I don’t know that it ever was.From the second she texted me, I was drawn to her.
I hop on my bike and follow the taxi through the city as it drops off Victoria first and then Melinda.I watch as she fumbles to unlock her door.When she steps inside, I shoot a text to Adrian.
Send someone to get Melinda's car.Park it at her apartment.She just left Mirage.Get Adrian to figure out which car is her friend’s and take hers home too.
It’s the least I can do for Melinda, make her morning a little easier by eliminating the need to go back toMiragefor her car.Honestly, I could give shit about making her friend’s morning easy, but Melinda will care and so I will protect her new friend now too.Atlas will have no problem figuring out her name and address.
Adrian sends a thumbs up emoji and I pocket my phone before picking the lock to Melinda's front door.
I tell myself that it’s just to make sure she’s in bed and safe.She was too drunk to drive herself home after all.
She’s asleep on the couch, heels still on, purse half off the cushion.I pace in front of her and argue with myself about moving her.I lose.She’s going to wake up wondering how her car got home if she didn’t drive it so I may as well get her comfortable.I’m busted either way, she might as well sleep without shoes on.
I take off her shoes and slide her dress away, leaving her in her bra.Her cut thong is in my pocket, no way I was leaving it on the bathroom floor, and she’s never getting it back.I think about it for maybe two seconds, then strip my shirt and pull it over her.I’ll freeze my ass off on the ride home, but watching her sleep in what’s mine will be worth it.
She is beautiful, yes, but it’s her vulnerability that calls to me.I gently lift her into my arms and place her in bed.I allow myself a few moments to drink her in, but I refrain from touching her.When I put my hands on her again, I want her awake and willing.My eyes trace her body.Magnificent.
I search around her apartment until I find Tylenol and place it on her nightstand next to a glass of water and a note that reads,
I'm sorry I stopped answering.I swear to you my heart was in the right place.I need you safe, always.If you forgive me, call me when you wake.
I sit in the yellow and gray chair that she has sitting next to the white bookshelves in her room, opposite her bed.I watch her chest rise and fall, hoping, there’s that word again, hoping that once she’s sober she’ll forgive me for not calling, for not sending a single message.I hope that I haven’t already fucked everything up beyond repair.
I keep telling myself to go home, but can’t make myself rise and turn away from her.
Hours later, when sunlight threads through the blinds of her bedroom window, I finally stand.
eleven
Sunlight,cruel and unyielding, streams through my window, dragging me back to consciousness far earlier than I'd like.My skull throbs in protest, a relentless pounding that syncs up with each beat of my heart.I groan, the sound muffled by the pillow I'm half-buried under, regretting every decision that led to this moment.
Almostevery decision.
Not the bathroom.Not his mouth.Not the cool kiss of steel at my throat.The mirror fogging, my knees open on his jacket, his knife cold against my upper thigh.Shame and want braided so tight I still can’t tell them apart.
My limbs are heavy, uncooperative, and every small movement sends fresh waves of nausea through me.It takes monumental effort to sit up in bed.The room spins slightly, a disorienting merry-go-round that I desperately want to get off.I blink slowly, trying to adjust to the light without vomiting.
I plant my feet on the floorboards, toes lined with the edge of the rug because things are safer when they’re straight.The memories of last night start to filter through the haze of my hangover in pieces.After returning from the bar bathroom and managing to send those overly flirtatious men on their way, Victoria and I decided to celebrate our newfound freedom with one more drink.I didn’t tell her about Cassius, his text, his mouth, the cold kiss of metal against my throat, or the way he saidsay yes.
When the afterglow of my orgasm disappeared, for a while all I could think about was that man getting his limbs chopped off because I didn’t get rid of him quick enough.That anxiety ate at me and talked me into ordering one more drink.And then another.And then… well, the details blur into a series of giggling and clinking glasses.
Thank God it’s Saturday.I can’t stomach the thought of having to get up and go to work.I reach for the glass on my nightstand and stop, because it’s not just a glass.It’s a glass of water, two Tylenol aligned perfectly parallel to the coaster, and a note.His handwriting is a command even on paper.
I'm sorry I stopped answering.I swear to you my heart was in the right place.I need you safe, always.If you forgive me, call me when you wake.
He was here.
He put me to bed.He took off my shoes.My clothes.He found the Tylenol in my medicine cabinet and set the pills with the edges squared, like he knew I’d notice if they weren’t.I press two fingers to my mouth and swear the phantom cool of his knife still lingers.Metal flashing when he touched my throat.
My fingers brush the hem of the shirt I’m wearing before I register it’s not mine.It smells like gasoline, sandalwood, and faint metal underneath.Cassius.My pulse jumps.
Couldn’t call me, but could text me and threaten to remove a man’s limbs.
Couldn’t call me, but obviously followed me home.Undressed me.
There’s a part of me that wants to be mad, scared, but it’s a small part in comparison to the part that wants to call him.I put the Tylenol on my tongue and chug the entire glass of water before flinging myself back on my bed.Ten more minutes.
I wake up again a couple hours later, wishing I had some more water waiting for me.My head feels better, so I get up to shower.I stand under the water until it runs cold, counting tiles in groups of seven.Seven is safe.Seven is enough.I don’t bother getting ready, just throw on some sweats and a t-shirt, get a snack, and plant myself in front of my television.I fold the blanket on the couch edge-to-edge, then refold it because the first fold was crooked.I arrange the takeout menus on the coffee table in a neat, alphabetical fan.
