Just tell them. They’re right there and listening.
“I think Razor’s…”
The screen door ripping the stiff air apart behind me shuts me up, my eyes glossing over with a conflicting rush of thrill and despair.
“It’s nothing,” I whisper to them.
They’re not believing me. Which, I don’t know if that helps or makes things worse. But girls understand girls. Our vaginas talk or something, because if it were a man I was trying to fess up to, he wouldn’t read the room. Instead, he’d blab his big fricking mouth and get me caught.
While the predacious presence slinks closer, both Duse and Gwen jump into a random conversation, as if the door was just alarming enough to briefly cut them off.
“Well, Razor’s right there,” Gwen points over my head, giving Duse an applauding smile of elation. “I’m sure he won’t mind goin’ in there for a big ole meaty strap.”
She doesn’t want to. Cross my heart, hope to die, I know she doesn’t. But Duse gets a whiff of my panic and rasps out the most convincing laugh and smacks a hand to the table, shooting her best puppy eyes and batting lashes to what’s making my skin slowly crawl off the bone. “Would you be so kind, Raze?”
He’s getting closer.
Oh, Jesus, do something.
Scooting my chair back, the loud scream the legs do across the linoleum shoot too many eyes to me. An awkward laugh huffs through my nose, abandoning the seat and swerving around the oval table.
But his heat.
His heat is migrating off his body, stretching through the small gap between us as I widely step away from him coming to a stop near the table.
I don’t look back. I know it’s fishy not to, all things considering. I mean, I did dry hump his stiff cock through his pants and get off to it but-
I’m not fricking helping the buzz underneath my skin.
“No… I’m not doin’ that,” he drones, his voice husky with concentration. “But you guys can take the truck. I’ll keep Bunny company. She still hasn’t practiced for tonight.”
Whining internally and reaching up to open the cabinet of cups, flashes of his electric symmetry and dark hair between my legs rattle my spine.
“Wait, you’ll really let us take the truck?” Duse asks.
He’s cutting open my back with his eyes. It has me stiffly bringing a glass down to the countertop, manually breathing through the part in my lips and praying to Jesus that my horny mind stops manifesting images of his death persona hunting me through the crowd.
“Just don’t get pulled over. You don’t have a license.”
Filling the glass with filtered water from the pitcher we keep in the fridge, the keys jingling quietly drop my heart to my butt.
I’m horrified to be alone with him now.
There’s this magnetic pull that seems to crush all logic. It turns the lights off for anything scary or concerning, so that I no longer see the red flags. I just feel him. I feel how alive he makes me; how functional my body becomes.
With him, I don’t sink through the earth.
That’s not love, right? Or is it?
Isn’t love unconditional? When you meet the darkest, most deranged pieces of someone, but don’t build their entire character off it because they’re just pieces. They’re fragments of the whole being. Notwhothey are.
A cold flood on my hand snaps me out of the blur I didn’t mean to get sucked into, my focus clearing and jerking down to the water overflowing and puddling around the glass.
“You’re so messy,” he whispers over my shoulder.
My soul lurches from my body, accidentally slamming the pitcher down and smacking my other hand in the puddle.
Water splashes up my arm and smatters my chest, gripping the countertop with my afraid eyes attached to the peeling backsplash.
