I searched his eyes a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll pull some off my card this afternoon,” I told him, turning for the sink. I was exhausted and embarrassed. I had been at the park for three hours.
Three hours, and I wrote maybe 700 words. That proved exactly why I was there. Exactly what my goal had been, and I hated it.
What was wrong with me?
I went to the park to wait for a guy who, torationalpeople, had sexually assaulted me not once, but three times.Andhe tortured me!
And yet there I was, waiting for him. All because I wanted to feel that thing again. The warmth and electricity and all around aliveness that he had made me feel.
But God, I liked it. I liked what he had done. I liked that he owned that part of me. That he felt like he had some sort of claim over it. I liked that this was all just a game, that I was being used to pay a debt, like I was being punished for choosing a shitty ass guy to date. Ilikedthat he overpowered me and stole something from me. And I wanted him to do it again.
And again.
And again.
And I hated him for it all the same. He made me sofuckingangry too. He made me want to punch him in the face. Right in the nose. He made me want to kick him right in the fucking balls.
He made me curse over and over again. Something I had never really done until he showed up on my doorstep.
I turned on the water and ran it over my hands, feeling the tension in my body as I focused on where Steven was in the apartment. My body always knew where he was. Some sort of survival tactic or something, I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that when he was around, I could never know peace.
I deserved to be punished for this.
I had earned it.
“Baby,” he whispered, his hand sliding around my waist.
I closed my eyes and shut off the water. Great.
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
Earlier when he slapped me for talking back to him. We had had dinner plans tonight, and he told me that I never told him. But I had. I knew I had because I had sent it in a text message a week ago just in case he forgot. Proof that I had told him.
It never reached his phone, according to him. He got angry that I didn’t tell him face to face, which I did, but after him yelling at me, I wasn’t so sure.
Had I told him? My memory was so bad these days. I couldn’t tell the difference between fiction and reality anymore, so he was probably right. I had, after all, taken Lucy to that park because he slapped me. Because he made me feel crazy. I had gone, not just because I was addicted, but because I was angry, and I wanted—needed a fight.
“You just know how to press all the right buttons sometimes,” he went on, sliding his other hand around my waist, the front of his body pressing into the back of mine. “You know how you get.”
Irrational, reckless, crazy? Yeah, I was highly aware of that.
“Just worked up sometimes. Hyphy. It’s okay, I know you’ve been working on it. I just wish you wouldn’t argue with me so much. I work so hard every day just for us, and I hate that you always do stuff like that to make things worse.”
He hooked his chin over my shoulder and tightened his arms around my waist as I gripped the counter, my nails digging into the granite, my hands dripping wet.
I worked my jaw and shook my head. “Steven, I’m really not in the mood right now.”
I was exhausted and, at the moment, dealing with a stream of internal monologue, most of which was telling me how much of a whore I was for wanting the masked man to show up at the park today, I couldn’t deal with this right now. I could handle the conversations, the fighting, but not this. I did not want to get naked and give him what he wanted. Not now.
His hands tightened into my stomach. “I can get you in the mood, baby, please?” he whispered, turning his face into my neck, kissing it softly just above where the scarf covered the collar. “Just a little, I’ll be quick.”
He always was, but it wasn’t about how fast it was, I just didn’t want to do it.
I shook my head and used my arms to push him back enough to turn around. “No, Steven,” I tried, placing my hands on his chest, finding his wheat-colored eyes. “Please, I’m exhausted, I just want to take a nap.”
He leaned in, easing up my dress. “It’ll be quick, I promise,” he pushed.
I caught his wrists, trying to hold them in place, my heart picking up. “No,” I told him. “Not now, please.” I didn’t want this. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to take a bath. I wanted to drink a glass of wine and watch trash television for the rest of the day, but this? I didn’t want this.
