Hundreds (Dollar Book 3)

by Pepper Winters

  She danced backward, her breath heating my cheeks, her tongue licking mine, matching my urgency until she slammed against something and then she was still.

  I pressed my entire length against her, giving her no apology or warning as I grinded my erection into her taut belly.

  Somewhere in my mind, I waited for her to scream and beg. To fall to her knees. To shut down and check out.

  She did none of those things.

  She kissed me back.

  Fuck, she kissed me back.

  It was as if the girl I’d rescued had vanished and in her place stood a stranger. A girl who kissed with recklessness born of the same desperation inside me. Kissed with the same infection I suffered as if unable to understand how she’d become so sick but desperate for a cure.

  She was me.

  I was her.

  And goddammit, the kiss turned feral with urgency.

  I groaned as she arched her hips into mine. She moaned as I bit her bottom lip, not sheathing my teeth or remembering to be gentle.

  She matched me crazy to crazy, and for a second, I let go. I felt the obsession. I lived the aggression. I almost tripped into the place I could never go.

  Wrenching myself back, I stumbled away. Rubbing my mouth, I hated that her taste infused with mine, fogging my mind until all I could focus on was my heartbeat and how much I wanted her.

  She mimicked me, pressing fingers to red lips, her eyes wild and scared, her face white with shock. She looked like she did when I was inside her just before she’d broken into sobs.

  “Fuck.” I breathed hard. “Once again, I didn’t mean to do that.” I backed up farther, then circled around her, heading into my suite. I needed a door to lock—a barricade between us so she was safe.

  The bathroom would do. I’d take that shower. I’d rid myself of my desire. I’d remember who I was.

  “Wait.” Pim stepped into the room, darting forward on tiny feet. “Don’t go.”

  I froze, turning to face her. “But I just hurt you. Again.”

  She looked at the floor, wringing her hands. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Kiss you? Slam you against the wall and try to fucking crawl inside you?”

  She shivered. “I mean, yes, you did those things—”

  “Exactly.” I bowed stiffly. “In that case, good night, Pim. Get the hell out of my quarters.”

  She moved forward, holding up her hand. “No, wait. You did do those things, but you didn’t hurt me. I-I wanted them.”

  My eyes widened. “What?”

  “I kissed you back. You had to have felt that.” Her cheeks pinked. “I’m sick and tired of being afraid of passion when you live and breathe passion every day. You were hurting. I wanted to give you something—”

  “Wait.” It was my turn to hold up my hand. “So you kissed me out of charity?” I didn’t know what was worse—trying to blow me to keep her or bestow a kiss to make me feel better.

  Fuck!

  “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted it just as much for me as I did for you.”

  My temper unfurled like a sword from its scabbard. “You pity me now you’ve met my mother and heard how unwanted I am by those I love.”

  “What? No?” She shook her head. “That isn’t the—”

  “You think you understand me now, is that it?” I balled my hands, pacing around her. “You think you can judge me, read me? Know what goes on inside my goddamn head?” Stopping in front of her, I growled, “You know more about me than you should, Pim. And I know nothing about you. That isn’t fair, nor is it part of our agreement.”

  She turned on the spot, keeping her gaze locked on mine. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know a thing about you.”

  I smiled coldly. “You know more than you should.”

  “I’d know more if you told me.”

  I laughed. “Never going to happen.”

  The itch to play my cello hijacked my fingers. I’d trained myself enough to know when I was borderline, and I sought out music rather than a new obsession. Pim was right to expect me to be playing. It was time. I needed her gone. Before I did something I regretted.

  Stalking toward the bedside table where I kept a pre-rolled joint in case of emergencies, I fumbled in my pocket for my lighter. Holding the weed to my lips, I lit the end and inhaled. Hard.

  A flash of grey and black appeared then my marijuana salvation vanished from my fingers. “What the fuck?”

  “Stop.” Pim held the smoking joint. “Talk to me. You’re hurting. You should talk to someone.”

  “Talk?” I looked at the ceiling and laughed. “Again, you want to talk.”

  “Yes, I think—”

  Grabbing her, I tossed her onto my bed. “When I’m in this headspace, Pim, the last thing I want to do is fucking talk.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ______________________________

  Pim

  HE CLIMBED ON top of me, wedging me against his mattress as his scent from his sheets rose up the meet the scent from his skin.

  The wildness in his eyes terrified me.

  The smoking weed in my fingers could set fire to the bed if I let go.

  A panic attack from my years at the white mansion swivelled into being, begging me to let go and disappear. To leave this physical plane and return only once he’d finished with my body.

  Every other time, I would listen. I would fall. I would leave. But there was something about Elder and the pain tainting everything around him that kept me there, that locked me to the present.

  I didn’t move as his lips sought mine again. I didn’t cry out as his hand found my breast and squeezed. And I didn’t scream as his leg wedged between my thighs to press against my core.

  I stayed frozen beneath him, forcing myself to remember the coal burn of lust I’d enjoyed from kissing him on the deck. How wonderful it’d been to let go and just accept the kiss, to bestow one back, to allow heat and liquid to course through me with the promise of one day being whole enough to enjoy more.

  Now, I clung to those memories, clinging to sanity, refusing to succumb to the panic squeezing my airway.

  But I didn’t do it for me. I didn’t do it to force myself to get better, to accept sex for sex, to finally recognise the hindrances of my past.

  No, I didn't do it for me.

  I did it for him.

  I forced myself to hold his joint with one hand and run my fingers through his hair with the other. I ordered myself not to cringe against the imaginary chains ready to bind me and disciplines ready to scold me for touching him. I ordered myself to kiss him back. To open for him, to lick him, to accept the agony he poured down my throat.

  I corralled my body to rub against his. I arched my hips against his leg. I let him believe I wanted him on top of me. I wanted his touch, his kiss, his lust.

  And I did.

  The more I pretended for his sake, the more my body took control for mine.

  My heart galloped for need rather than fear.

  My skin prickled for want rather than terror.

  His attack could’ve lasted a few seconds or a few minutes—I didn’t know. All I knew was the amount of energy it took to be a girl I wasn’t. To pretend to be a woman who wanted this rather than beg for help to overcome her issues.

  Stars swam in the quicksilver of my mind; exhaustion settling in as Elder suddenly shot off me and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands. “Shit.”

  The curse fell almost silently, his shoulders rising and falling with ragged breath. His erection distorted his jeans while need crackled in every motion.

  Slowly, I sat up.

  The joint still smoked in my fingers; the bedspread a little singed from where I’d brushed the ash on white linen.

  I wanted some distance to sort out the clanging desires and thoughts inside, but I didn’t move away. Instead, I stayed close to him, so he knew I didn’t hate him for what’d happened. That he wasn’t at fault and didn’
t have any reason to worry. That he could do it again if it made him feel better.

  My heart prickled with the need to remind him that someone wanted him, someone appreciated him, someone ultimately cared and was so grateful for his kindness, protection, and generosity.

  Me.

  I hadn’t fully understood why I’d sought him out tonight. Why, after spending the evening alone after a silent journey back to the Phantom, I’d decided to walk into the lion’s den rather than stay out of his business and give him time to cool off.

  I knew he was angry and likely to do things we’d both regret, but for once, I wasn’t thinking about me. I refused to be afraid, and by putting his hurt above my own, it made the parts of me not ready to heal start to piece together again, happy to be whole, even if that whole would be completely different from the girl I was before.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he breathed tiredly. “I can’t control myself around you.” He held out his hand. “The joint please, Pim. Then go. It’s not safe for you to be here tonight.”

  He’d told me something similar before. He’d smoked that night, too. I should do what he wanted. I should hand over the weed and leave. But I wouldn’t let him do one thing and expect me to do another.

  He’d treated me with tough love since he’d taken me. He didn’t let me wallow. He’d given me choices and decisions and made me remember I was a person, not a possession.

  He couldn’t do that and then expect me to obey him without question.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered, hoping he didn’t hear the lie masquerading as truth.

  He stared at the carpet. “You should be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a good person.”

  I twirled the still smoking joint. The sickly sweet smell of marijuana made me wrinkle my nose. “You’re an angel compared to—”

  “Don’t even think about comparing me to that bastard who kept you.”

  “I’m not comparing you—”

  “Your perception of humanity is screwed up. Most men aren’t like him, and most aren't like me. I’m not—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “I don’t care about other men.”

  He froze, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re saying you care about me?”

  “I—” Words formed a noose, unwilling to let an answer pass. How could I tell him that seeing him like this helped me more than his brash brutality and capable control? How could I tell him that I felt stronger when he was weaker and more ready to stop moping because I no longer had to get better for my sake but his?

  Seeing his pain today had made me grow up—just like the storm had washed away my past. He’d fought for me, yet no one had fought for him. They’d tossed him away. They’d refused to forgive him. I couldn’t give him back his family, but I could give him my friendship and understanding. I couldn’t answer for his past sins or even say if it was forgivable, but I could judge him based on our interaction, and I refused to let the past dictate how I felt about him.

  Was that short-sighted? Should I dig further into who he was?

  Probably.

  But Elder had been the one to save me. That gift alone was worth my loyalty, no matter what cost.

  “No reply.” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t blame you, you know. No one can care about me. It’s a curse.”

  You’re wrong. I do care.

  Say it out loud, weakling.

  I bit my lip as he stole the joint and held it to his lips. If I was honest, I didn’t want him to smoke. I wanted to finish this conversation with no haze from substances. If he was able to use such tools, why couldn’t I? Why did I have to face my fear of sex cold turkey when he could abuse drugs to find reprieve?

  He didn’t inhale, holding the pot, following my attention and disapproval. He sighed. “I don’t smoke for enjoyment, Pim.”

  “You said it helps you.” I tilted my head as he took a drag then reached over me and stubbed it out on a silver ashtray on the bedside table. “Helps you how?”

  “Long story.”

  “I want to know.”

  “You haven’t guessed thanks to my mother?”

  “How could I guess?”

  He shrugged, rubbing his jaw, the rasp of his five o’ clock shadow on his fingers gave me goosebumps. The more time I spent with him, the more aware I was of him as a man rather than a terrifying entity. He was beautiful, and not because of correctly proportioned features or a body that’d been honed and trained into perfection, but because he truly was a different species to the monsters I’d lived with.

  He had a soul. And it was a vibrant, throbbing thing visible, not just in his eyes, but in every nuance, kiss, and motion.

  His legs spread as he pressed his hands together between them, staring at the floor. If he truly didn’t want me there, he could’ve stood and left by now.

  But he hadn’t.

  He hadn’t thrown me out.

  Hadn’t tossed me over his shoulder.

  I took comfort in that and stayed where I was, giving him time if time was what he needed.

  Finally, he murmured, “How can you sit beside me? How can you kiss me after hearing I’m responsible for my father and brother’s death?”

  I forced myself not to flinch as his eyes locked on mine, trapping me in his questions. “How, Pim?”

  “Because I’ve made my own opinions about you, and I won’t let other’s change them.”

  He sighed again, shaking his head as if I was woefully naïve. “We’re not talking about liking dogs over cats or hating vegetarians. We’re talking about murder.”

  “I know.”

  “Then stop being so young and romantic.”

  My spine tensed. “I’m not. I haven’t felt young in decades, and I stopped being romantic the day I was strangled only to be brought back to life.” I crossed my arms. “Instead of putting words in my mouth and telling me how I should feel, tell me. I’ll form my own opinions without the manipulation of others.”

  He chuckled sadly. “And have you hate me, too? I don’t think so.” His eyes lingered on my lips before tearing away and focusing on the carpet again. “Go to bed, Pim.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  I cocked my chin. “Talk to me. Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

  His eyes darkened slowly, threateningly. “Anything?”

  My heart shook its head wildly, reminding me that that look meant sex and all things I wanted to run from. But if my body was the price for Elder’s secrets, then so be it. I was stronger now. I could gift him that. After all, I’d been willing to barter a blowjob for his protection.

  Was this any different?

  Weren’t all relationships based on reciprocal giving and taking? We gave out of love and took out of selfishness. It was symbiotic.

  “Yes, anything.” I held his stare, falling deeper and deeper into their black depths.

  I waited for him to kiss me, scold me, tell me I wasn’t ready and order me to leave.

  Instead, his lips quirked with a sinister glint. “So be it.” Climbing off the bed, he moved toward the desk where scrolls of blueprints and pencils littered the surface. Pulling out the office chair, he wheeled it closer to the bed then sat with his legs spread and fingers steepled between them.

  I didn’t let the fact he had to face me rather than sit beside me bother me. If that made it easier for him, I was glad.

  I waited for him to say something. I shifted on his bed, wondering if I should be the one to start whatever confession he’d air.

  The space between us thickened until it moved like fog, painting his elegant bedroom in so many unknown, clouded things.

  Finally, he said, “I’m OCD. Always have been; always will be.”

  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

  A condition I’d done studies on in my classes for my degree. Symptoms and solutions labelled textbook cruel rather than personally discussed. Elder was many things, but OCD?

&nbs
p; I couldn’t diagnose it.

  Back in high school, I’d known a boy with it. He’d been dosed on pharmaceutical medicine that turned him into a zombie and didn’t participate in class, or, if he didn’t take the tablets designed to make his life easier, he would wash his hands until they were raw. He’d leap up after the teacher had finished writing an assignment on the whiteboard and copy it word for word seven times over.

  Every week, some new tale circulated about him: he’d gone through each classroom and stacked workbooks in colour coordination. He’d painted the jungle gym in the playground bright green because he said the sun faded browns weren’t right. He couldn’t stand people eating from mismatched lunch boxes and avoided the school cafeteria at all costs.

  He suffered.

  Yet I hadn’t seen Elder do any of those things. I hadn’t seen him lock and relock a door countless times. I hadn’t seen him count under his breath or do a task repetitively because the coding in his brain skipped occasionally.

  He had no flaws, only sheer focus on perfectionism. His yacht, his cello, himself.

  He followed my train of thought, enlightening me without me asking. “OCD comes in different packages. Some you’re aware of, others you’re not.”

  “What do you suffer with?”

  “Mostly I can ignore the tics of repetition. I can ignore the allure of having to be overly clean or panic about every microbe. I’m more of a selective obsessive.” He pulled a piece of lint off his jeans, flicking it to the floor. “I find something I like, and I have no choice but to master it. I forget about everything else. The world no longer exists. Nothing does apart from that one thing.”

  His eyes clouded, remembering things, bringing them back to life by discussing them. “It started young. Legos to start then other toys. I’d play with them once, and then I couldn’t stop until I’d built every design, solved every clue, figured out every solution. My brother’s origami book took me all night to master, and after that, I went through our local library on how to get better, more intricate. I folded and folded until I could fold one handed and half asleep. My parents worried about me. Okaasan tried to stop me, but Otōsan knew it was pointless. He understood my issues even though he didn’t suffer the same. He did have an addiction, though—his violin.”