“And what was that?”
“I don’t know. I know that I fucking liked it though. I know that you did too. So I want you to tell me now, and don’t fucking lie to me, Ami, is there someone else?”
Her eyes flick away, and it’s the only tell that I need. I know that whatever she’s going to say to me next is going to be a bald-ass lie, and I can’t stand to hear that shit, so I don’t give her the chance.
“There isn’t. There isn’t anyone, but you made me think there was.”
“I never made you think anything. I never said there was. What you chose to believe isn’t my problem.”
“No?” I arch a brow. “Has there been anyone since you left? I asked you before, but I didn’t ask you the right way, and that damn well is my problem, but I’m asking you now, the right way. I’m not asking you as a prick or a piece of shit. I’m not asking you to piss you off. I just want to know. Have you been with anyone else since that day?”
“Since what day?”
“Since the wedding.”
“What wedding? Because the last time I checked, that day was just us being thrust together by two opposing forces. We were like prisoners there. It wasn’t a wedding.”
“That’s just semantics. I want you to tell me. Tell me and I’ll sign your papers. Tell me honestly and I’ll sign them and leave, and you won’t hear from me again.”
Ami squares her shoulders, looking more confident by the second. “Tell me why you want to know so badly. What does it matter? I wouldn’t care if you were with someone else?” The weird sheen in her eyes, and the way they flick over my shoulder again, refusing to focus on me, tell me that she’s a liar. And a terrible one at that.
“Fine. No. No, I haven’t been with anyone, but it wasn’t because you meant anything. It was just that I was busy. With school and work. I didn’t have time for any of that bullshit.”
“And you just happened to outgrow random hook ups?”
Her face pales and I regret the jab. I watch her bite down on her bottom lip. “You said that you’d sign and leave if I told you. So sign. And leave.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell happened back in the living room. And at my house. Then I’ll go.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” she snaps as her head cranks up.
“We didn’t have a deal. We didn’t fucking shake or pinkie promise or any of that bullshit.” I grab the papers away from her and throw them onto the table. “Tell me. Tell me and I’m gone. I’ll swear it to you this time. You tell me. You tell me honestly and I’m out the door. You won’t have to see me again. We’ll call it even. I won’t blame you for not thinking twice about leaving. I’llgive you that absolution and you can get on with your life. Move on.”
What I don’t say is see other people, because that shit is never going to happen. Not if I have anything to say about it. And I’m a liar. I’m a fucking liar. Obviously, my word means shit because I don’t plan on leaving her alone. I’m not gonna leave her alone. I’m not gonna let her go.
The silence that fills up the kitchen is thick and brutal. Choking and cloying. Ami’s eyes finally swivel back to mine and the trust there feels like someone just ripped my heart out and shit-kicked it all over the ground.
The fresh tears shock the hell out of me. It takes all my strength to keep my hands at my sides and not grip Ami’s face. I want to kiss those tears away when she blinks and they fall, tracking down her cheeks in wet, silvery tracks. Her lips quiver and I want to kiss them, to ease the ache that I see mirrored in her eyes and the pain blanketing her face. I want my touch to banish her agony, but I know that it isn’t possible. I realize that if I reach out, she’ll run. That she’ll just keep putting distance between us, because she needs it.
I half expect her to lie.
So I’m shocked as fuck when she grips the hem of her dress in her palms, her knuckles white again as she balls them in the dark fabric. She closes her eyes, like she can’t bear to look at me. Or like she can’t bear to look at me looking at her.
I have no idea what she’s doing. Why she suddenly feels the need to disrobe when every single time I’ve tried to go there, she’s run from me like I’ve just revealed that I’m some kind of sick as fuck killer with a penchant for hiding bodies under the floorboards.
I suck in a breath and wait. Say nothing. If she wants to take her damn dress off to explain this shit to me, then I’ll fucking stand here like a tree and listen.
The hem of her cotton dress rises above her knees, brushes her thighs, slides past, baring herself to me. I try really fucking hard not to focus on her sex, which is still glistening and swollen. I try extremely hard not to ask her what the devil game she’s playing with me, because if it’s about control and I’m supposed to resist, it sure as fuck is going to backfire right into her face in a matter of seconds.
She keeps going though, keeps lifting that dress past her hips and then I see it.
The black that isn’t supposed to be there.
The letters. Thick. Blocky. Crude. Inked into the porcelain fine skin of her stomach by a lilting hand belonging to a madman because only a goddamn lunatic would do something like that. Would fucking dare.
As my eyes focus on the letters, as they make out the word, I have one single thought and one single thought only.
Whoever did that to her is a dead fucking man.
