by Hazel Grace
“Has he been...inappropriate?”
Stormi's opulent lips press together, which begins to elevate my frustration.
And here we go with my being off base again.
She owes me nothing, and all I want is more. I won't stop pushing and opening her up.
I can’t let off.
I don’t enjoy the thoughts running through my brain that, at one time, she may have liked it then changed her mind.
“Nod,” I command, shoving away my inner turmoil. “Or shake your head.”
One quick bow of her head and the nails of my fingers are digging into my palms.
I shouldn't be caring about this. I should be interested in this Bianca bitch and what role she has in all this.
But it's in my head now.
That roly-poly son of a bitch did something. And I have a funny feeling I know what that might be.
"The night I found you," I continue, trying to keep my tone as neutral as possible, but my heartbeat is about to break my eardrums. "Did you want to be on that couch?"
She shakes her head.
“And you didn’t want to be touched...the way you were, did you?”
Another swing of her head and my body tightens. The familiar sensation of frenzy clogging my veins and blurring my vision.
I harshly persecuted this fucking girl who was being molested and violated because I thought…
“Stormi,” I caution, my frame on the verge of breaking out into a fighting match with the nearest wall. “Did he...were you...has he raped you?”
Those blue eyes kill me.
They gloss over in unshed tears.
They pierce through my anatomy and to my utter fucking relief, another swivel of her head. I release the pent up exhale I was holding and remove my hands from my pockets, clutching them together to keep my calm.
“Last question.” I take a risk and take a step in her direction. “You really were just there by chance, weren’t you? You’ve never heard of Reagan, you were with Hollis by whatever means, and everything you’ve told me...is true.”
One bob and I fucking lose it.
I’m pivoting on my heels, finally giving in to my impulses to have his dick removed from his body. I feel my knuckles hit drywall, the crumbles falling to the ground as I make my way to the top of the stairs. Right before a small hand swiftly grazes along the cotton of my shirt just for it to disappear as quickly as it came.
I pivot, knowing who it was because who else could it be, and I’m slapped in the face with those damn eyes.
They plead for me to stop and listen to whatever it is that she has to say, but I'm too amped up right now.
My heart is battering so hard in my chest that it's going to take me a while to calm it after I make the call to Bishop. I'm going to have to smoke the shit out of half my stash of weed just to find some sort of composure.
“Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to,” I grumble over her.
She bats her eyelashes then straightens that spine. “If you kill him, you won’t find out who’s behind everything with your sister.”
"Don't worry about it," I seize, hating how my words harshly leave my lips, but it's how I'm feeling right now, and I'm not going to bother hiding it.
I begin to move again, but this time, she looms closer, freezing me to the floor.
Her presence has too much power. It’s sucking me from my free-will and grounding my feet when I should be moving.
I'm the one who stalks and hunts for whoever needs to pay for their sins. She won’t be saving Hollis.
“My father,” she whispers. “You said—”
“I promised, didn’t I?” She bows her head, and I inwardly growl at how I’m speaking to her. “How and why are you showing compassion for these men?”
She snaps her head back up to me, brows knitted together.
Because that’s what normal people do. They don’t go off slicing people and prodding them with sharp objects.
I’m the one still making her life a living hell because that’s who I am. I’m the darkness standing next to the light, and she’ll illuminate all my scars and secrets if I let her get too close.
But this isn’t what this is about.
I’m taking this beefy fuckers place, making her uncomfortable and making her shake from my words. She wants to protect a father who was sipping on beer and playing cards while his daughter was being fondled in the other room against her will.
When he acts like he could give two shits if I fucking killed her or not.
I almost did.
“Speak, sweetheart, or I’m going to make shit happen.”
“I’m—" She draws in a long inhale. "—not going to be the cause of someone’s death.”
The opposite of me.
Remember that asshole.
Opposites won’t attract here. This is why my imagination and rationality need to get on the same page because I’ll never get to know this woman like a normal human being.
“You won’t be,” I retort. “I will be.”
She doesn’t like that answer and pouts, not aware that she is but that bottom lip that’s protruding is—fuck no.
I. Will. Not. Be. Swayed. By. Some. Cute. Ass. Blonde.
“Go back to bed, Stormi,” I assert firmly. “And no more climbing out windows. I'll be back to check your bandage in a second and—”
"It hurts," she reveals, clutching her side then.
Right.
Her sudden change of subject has more remorse coursing through my body.
I should just let her go and say good luck.
Being around her causes too many emotions. Ones that "Emric" doesn't feel. He's closed off, stern, and does not eye-fuck the prey.
"Let's go, we'll do it now." I gesture for her to lead the way, surprised that my tone comes off placated.
On the way there, I grab more bandages, peroxide, and some aspirin for the pain. She patiently waits for me on the bed, hands clasped together, and messy blonde hair draped around her face.
She needs...girl things. A brush, new clothes—even though I love her in mine—whatever else women need on a daily basis.
Taking a seat next to her, the mattress dips with my weight, and I sort all my items out on the bed, starting with the First Aid kit. After a moment, she speaks again.
“Where did you learn to be a medic?”
"The Marines," I deadpan. I can sense her eyes on me, which gets me to flick mine to her.
Sure shit, her eyes are panned wider in surprise that my crazy ass could be enlisted to protect and serve the country.
If she only knew the other shit that lied in the shadows of the government that the population will never know about.
“Why do you look so shocked, sweetheart?” I hedge, watching her expression soften.
“I just...nothing.”
I return my attention to get my heavy gaze off her. “Go on, you can say it.”
“Say what?”
“That someone as fucked up as me shouldn’t be able to—”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
My brow pops. “Yeah? Then what?” I revert my attention to her. “Need you to lie down for me.”
Surprisingly, she does without hesitation and lifts her shirt for me to examine without my asking.
I let out an inaudible exhale at the sight of her flawless skin. The softness of it and, unfortunately, I'm knowledgeable.
I force my brain to work, not react.
To fucking focus on the reality of where we are, what we just spoke about, and answers I still need to know.
She needs to continue on with her life, and I call for this madness to end.
The bandage on her side doesn't have too much blood on it, so I'm able to make quick work of gingerly removing it.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I tell her. “I’d love to know what pretty picture you’ve painted me up as in your head.”
“Why would you want to know that?”
I chuckle, slowly
peeling the sticky material from her creamy skin. “That bad, huh?” She gives a wary shrug and keeps her eyes on the ceiling above. “What would it take for me to change your mind?”
Her head turns in my direction, but I keep mine on the other side of her bandage. She stares at me, exhausting my self-restraint to return it.
When I give, she peers down at me under long eyelashes, no makeup, and a fucking face that I'd do things for. A body that is underneath my hands at this current moment where I'm forbidding my cock to do anything inappropriate.
“No?”
She blinks at me.
“How about I take you to a store and get some fresh air. We’ll buy you some clothes and whatever else it is you need.”
“Then what?”
My brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“Will I be able to...walk around and try things on?”
“Sure.”
“Without you handcuffing me or—”
“Stormi,” I ground out. “As long as we have an understanding that you’re not going to act like a lunatic, screaming and shit, you can skip around the store for all I care.”
The corner of her lips lift a tad, and it pricks at my skin in warning.
Watch your fucking self, Romeo.
Shifting to move and not make a move on her, I work the rest of the tape off her skin and pull back the bandage. Her skin is healing and scabbing the way it should with no sign of infection.
“It looks good,” I quip. “It’s bothering you, though?”
She knocks her head around. “Not anymore.”
I steal a glance, and she's still gawking at me. "You sure?"
She nods. “I’m sure.”
I begin preparing the new bandage in silence while she finally looks away from me.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about taking her out and causing a possible scene. Also, not going to say that putting a dog collar to zap her ass if she screams has filtered through my fucked up mind. People might think it's kinky, I'm just trying to get the woman fucking clothes and the essentials.
“Do you have any of those beers left?” she voices eventually.
“You want one?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll grab you one when I’m done here.” I tear off a piece of tape with my teeth and gently place down the gauze.
“Can we go outside?”
“If you want.”
“And can you tell me why you have two names?”
I snap my eyes to her blues. “Why?”
“You don’t have to.”
But I want to. I don't mind telling her anything, but it won't make me feel good when she finally has to go. When she takes off with things about me, and I barely know a thing about her.
It’s better this way.
It really is.
But it still fucking sucks.
It’s also gonna suck for Hollis when he’s staring at his dick on the ground after I cut it off.
The best thing about being invisible is that you can stare without looking like a weirdo. You can study people, their body language, and how they present themselves.
I’ve picked up more information on how to flirt over the course of years than people learn in their whole lifetime.
Emric tries to mask it, but I see the way his eyes glimmer with something other than wanting to strangle me. How he meticulously takes my bandage off and how his voice can change when he doesn’t want to scare or upset me.
So, when he was going to stomp off to do God knows what to Hollis, I faked that the wound on my side was giving me trouble.
It wasn’t.
It’s a tad achy and scratchy, but I didn’t want another death on Emric’s hands.
Not that I can somehow find a way to make him ever stop or be forgiven by a higher power, but I didn’t want Emric doing whatever it is he does when I was around.
It made me feel like an accomplice to whatever he had planned. And if Hollis was going to suffer, I’d rather it be in jail where he could think about his evil doings for the rest of his life—whatever all those were.
The beer idea was just to keep his mind off his anger. I don’t drink, seeing how Dad and his buddies reacted after too many, but it worked. He grabbed us two Coors Lights, and now we’re rocking on chairs made of unstained wood in silence.
I can’t say that I don’t mind it. Being surrounded by woods, enclosed in a nook, and trying to pretend like the last week or so didn’t happen, it keeps my nerves settled. It also passively exhibits that I can make the monster do things.
Definitely a change of events.
It makes me believe that I might be able to pull off Emric being less leery of me so I can get out of here.
Ideas have deluged through my brain since he followed me to my room and changed my dressing.
He’s a man, and I’m not that bad looking.
His eyes have roamed my body, and he’s...made innuendos towards me. I’m not sure if he was serious, but it’s one of the only things I have to play with, and I’ll take anything at this point.
If I can get him off his guard, I might have an opportunity here.
“Marty was given to me by my adoptive mother,” he blurts out through the owl that is hooting nearby and the crickets surrounding the house. “Emric is my real name.”
I don’t pacify him with a glance but keep mine at the dark woods—my escape. “Why does Reagan call you Marty then? Is it more of a nickname?”
“Her mother isn’t my birth mother,” he conveys. “And Marty is a different man than Emric. He stays separate from my family.”
He’s crazier than I thought he was.
I nod, tugging back on my beer and forcing myself to swallow it.
“Is Stormi a nickname?”
“No.” He stays silent, and I glance over at him, waiting for me to continue. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. The plan was to keep him from personal details. “My mother was high when she had me, and there was a storm outside, and...that’s my name.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead. Overdose.”
“Sorry to hear that.” I shrug it off. I didn’t know her and didn’t care to if she left me with my dad and never came by to visit.
I’ve never felt like something was missing by not learning about her, so it didn’t affect me like other people who lost a mother at the young age of six.
“Do you still have your knife?”
What is it with him and this knife?
“Yes,” I reply, slowly shifting to feel it brush against my upper thigh in the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Another spot to hit someone—” He tips back on his beer. “—right here.” He points to the upper part of his abdomen. “Liver. Holds blood in reserve and acts as a filter.”
“Why do you keep telling me...places to stab people?”
He taps his bottle with his index finger, pulling his gaze to the forest ahead. “You never know when you might need it.”
Okay.
“I don’t think it’s in your best interest to keep telling me these things.”
“Why, are you planning an attack on me or something?”
“I’m not the one telling me the best places to shank someone.”
Slowly, he turns his head to me, hitting me with his eyes that are dark in the shade of night. “Shank?”
Squaring up my spine, I lift my chin. “I think we’ve established I’m not some weak and worthless—”
“You’re not worthless, sweetheart,” he rebuffs. “Never that. I can still feel your shanking just fine in my shoulder.”
Why do I have to feel so bad for people that don’t necessarily deserve it?
I hurt him, not as much as he did me, but regardless...it doesn’t make it better.
“And now you’re regretting it.”
“No,” I state too quickly. “I—”
“When you start thinking about things, you space out. Your eyes center on one thing, and only my voice seems to snap yo
u out of it.”
I scoff lightly. “Anyone’s voice would bring me out of staring off into space.”
“Maybe. But the fireworks show I just put on and the band of trumpets that were just playing—” I laugh at his ridiculous, overexaggerated story, feeling my stomach muscles work out for the first time in a long time.
I place my hand on my belly and lean back in my rocking chair as it sways me back and forth.
“Damn,” Emric mutters. I slant my eyes to him, again, seeing that he shifted his whole body to align with me as his new view. “That’s what it sounds like.”
My cheeks rise in a smile as I say, “What?”
“Your laugh, I’ve always wondered what it sounds like.” My brows descend at his words because there it is again. The strange look that he gives me that I’ve never seen before on other men.
It’s not flirty or a charming smile.
It’s not his voice trying to seduce or melt you.
It’s his eyes, how they pry into you with hidden meanings of things he wants to plant there.
“Why?” I don’t bother to hold it in because I thought I remember him saying that his thing got hard when I beg and plead.
My body repositions. I’m uncomfortable at how quickly he changed his demeanor towards me. How he held a lighter under the palm of my hand and wanted to hurt me. How his vivid eyes tore me to shreds in his sister’s kitchen like he was going to kill me right there.
But then in that bedroom, when his hand covered my mouth, and he told me he wasn’t going to hurt me—that’s where and when the confusion started to form.
I’m not sure how to handle this situation. I’m at a loss of how to feel and maybe how I should be acting. Drinking a beer on the porch with your previous torturer doesn’t sound like something a person with half her brains in her head would do.
But I guess I’ve never been ordinary.
I’m the shadow on the wall that no one notices. The silent footsteps that go unheard because everyone has their nose in their phones or talking to the person at their side.
Unseen.
But in the midst of what things used to be, Emric peers at me all the time like he sees me. Every time—now or then—he’s always detected every emotion written on my face. He read me like a book he’s been studying and reading for years.
And that might be what scares me the most.
