I don’t really know how to do that.
I fucked half the dancers from the Velvet club and some Vermilion wives but I never really kissed anyone.
I’m a real nutcase.
So I just sit there like an idiot with my heart in my throat, letting her hold the part of me I hate the most.
And for the first time all day, I don’t feel dirty.
She tilts her head and runs her fingers along the scars up to the wrist, touching the spot where they end. She grazes the inside of my wrist and runs her fingers along the veins, as if she’s getting to know me through the touch. As if she’s not realizing what she’s doing.
The touch is sending heat down my body, settling at the bottom of my spine.
Shit.
Okay, I was actually afraid the vardenafil would mess up my natural hormones, but I guess I’m fine.
Yeah. I’m fine.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second to calm down, then she stops and takes her hand away.
Let’s wrap this up. I’m a little too out of it.
“You should sleep,” I tell her, barely whispering.
She just nods and smiles.
We get out of the car and I walk her to the hedge fence. I grab her and throw her back over the fence, gently, stretching the moment as long as I can. She gives me one more smile before she turns to the door.
“Wait,” I whisper-yell. “The book. Throw it out the window.”
“Fine, it’s the one facing the street, on the right,” she explains.
I nod and she disappears through the door. I walk around the corner of the house and wait under the window until she leans out and throws me the book. The moment it lands in my hand, I check the title.
Wuthering Heights.
Toxic, obsessive, destructive romance.
Of course.
I lift my gaze to her window, giving her a wink, unable to hide the satisfied smile before leaving for my car.
So I’ll read it one more time, I guess.
Kasien
Present
Rodrigo hangs from the ceiling by his wrists, his toes barely brushing the concrete floor. I made sure the angle of his arms would keep his blood pressure steady. I need him to be conscious. Unconscious people are useless, noisy, and they drool. My basement is spotless. No splatter. Not a single drop on my shoes.
Rodrigo’s breathing rattles in his chest, shallow and wet. His shoulders are already burning from the strain, sweat running down his ribs in clean, thin lines.
I spread out the plastic wrap under his dangling body, smoothing the wrinkles with my foot until it’s perfectly flat.
If there has to be a mess, it will be contained. I haven’t touched his torso yet. That would get messy.
I start with the places that don’t bleed much. Under the fingernails. A shallow line behind the ear, just deep enough to hit a nerve but not a vessel. He’s shaking, but all his blood is where it should be.
