“That's it?” he asked, looking almost angry. “Four hours ago, you were minutes away from being raped out front of your house and you've... had better mornings?” At my blank look, he hopped down off the counter, walking over to me and grabbing the coffee cup out of my hands and put it on the counter behind me. He reached out, his hand lining up over the bruises on my throat, hovering away from my skin for a moment. I guessed to see if he would find a reaction. When he didn't, he pressed against the sore marks. “Seriously? This means nothing to you?”
Please. It would be nice if the worst thing that ever happened to me was a hand pressing into my throat. But I assumed for most women... that was horrifying enough. “You wont hurt me,” I said instead, looking up into his light eyes.
“Why would you say that? I busted a guy's face in last night. Right in front of you. You have no idea what I am capable of.”
I reached up, watching my own hand like it wasn't attached to me because I couldn't possibly be doing what I was doing. I rested my hand over his on my neck. Just a whisper of a touch. But a touch nonetheless. “You might be capable of a lot of things,” I said, looking back up into his eyes. “but not this.”
I saw him take a breath. Slow, steadying. His hand softened on my skin, brushing over the bruises before falling. My own hand fell down at my side. “No. Never that,” he agreed, taking a step back. He shook his head, as if clearing it of some nagging thought. “So you're fine?”
“I'm fine,” I agreed.
He exhaled a breath through his nose, short, almost like a snort but without the noise. “You're all kinds of fucked up, Sixteen,” he said, grabbing his paper and heading out of the room. I heard the door close before I exhaled.
All kinds of fucked up. He had no idea.
But that didn't mean I couldn't at least... try to be a somewhat decent human being toward him. Especially since he had been nothing but nice to me so far. Not everyone needed to be kept at a distance.
I showered, took my calls, packed up some panties, and ran out the door around five. I would miss out on a few calls, but I needed to get back home and then back out before it got dark. Tonight especially.
I walked into the store feeling oddly self-conscious. Which was stupid. Among the shitstorm of awfulness of my childhood, I did get an education on manners. Whether anyone who met me would believe it or not. My grandmother had sat me down and pounded the rules of decent society into me. As ironic as that was at the time.
I remembered the lesson on new neighbors. You should always go over and introduce yourself. Bring a baked good. But only if you made something really well, really memorable. My grandmother said this, knowing I knew damn well that she had never baked a thing in her whole life. There were servants for that. But her housekeeper made the best peach cobbler this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
But if you were not culinary inclined, she would say with a very pointed look at me and my mother, then you should bring a plant. Then, any time they had to water it, they thought of you. Which was so ridiculous even to my nine year old ears that I had to bite my tongue to keep from smart mouthing her.
In the end, I picked out the manliest pot I could find: a white skull and picked out a three-pronged cactus plant to be put in it. The girl at the counter was actually willing to transplant it for me and I took it feeling foolish.
Would it really be that hard to do a nice thing? Was I so messed up that I had to feel like an insecure child when I stepped just slightly out of my comfort zone?
In the end, it didn't matter how I felt. Plant in hand, I walked past the dried bloodstains still on the road and sidewalk, into my building, then up to my floor. I stopped out front of fourteen, taking a deep breath, before reaching up and knocking on the door.
Eight
The damn couple across the hall was what woke me up, arguing at four in the morning like maniacs. I got up with a sigh, heading out onto the balcony for a cigarette. And that's when I saw her. Walking down the street, drunk again, but able to keep a straight line.
The guy came out of nowhere, slamming her against the wall and out of my view. I should have reacted then. But with her active sex life, I just figured it was one of her guys surprising her with some quick, rough, outdoor sex. I couldn't judge them for that. It sounded like a good time.
Then I heard her yell. Loud enough for the dogs in the building to stir. “I don't give a fuck who you are.” And I was running. Through my apartment, into the elevator that was too damn slow in that kind of situation, then out onto the sidewalk.
“Shut up. You like it,” the guy had said, reaching and groping her breasts.
I lost my shit.
I had been so good for so long, keeping myself calm, keeping myself out of situations that could trigger the all-consuming rage that could pop up. That I had trouble reigning in once it started. But in that moment, all the control slipped away as I barreled toward the guy, grabbing the back of his neck and hauling him into the street.
I spared Sixteen the barest of glances to make sure she wasn't hurt, and then I went apeshit on the guy, straddling his middle and banging my hands into his face. I forgot how good it felt. God, how fucking good it felt. To feel you hands smash into soft flesh. To hear the bones underneath snapping. There wasn't a high like that in the world. At least, not for me. Not for someone with my history.
I was out of breath before the alarm started ringing in my head. Loud. Shocking. I sat back on my heels, looking down at the torn flesh, the swollen eye sockets and lips. The mess of a mangled face I had created. And I couldn't say I hated the sight.
I dragged him back onto the sidewalk with the full realization of what I had done. What the repercussions could be if I got caught. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of Sixteen: her eyes huge and scared, the marks already forming on her neck, the bruised and fat lips, the open blouse. It would be proof enough that he got what the fuck was coming to him.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, trying to keep my eyes on her face. When she wouldn't, or couldn't, cover herself, I let my eyes drop for the shortest possible amount of time while I zipped her up. Then I had to pick her up and carry her up to her apartment. It was strange to see a woman like her, a woman who seemed so badass and untouchable be so completely vulnerable.
I carried her into her bathroom and set her on the floor, turning to wash the blood off my hands. Like I had done countless times before. Watching it lighten and swirl around the sink before going down the drain.
I heard her moving and turned, watching as she rolled onto her side, curling up into herself. Her skirt hitched up and her full left thigh became visible. I knelt down on the floor behind her, reaching out. Unable to stop myself from touching them. The dozens of red, pink, white marks from a careless blade and self-loathing hand. I knew she had issues, but damn.
It took more than most people realized to sink a blade into your own skin. The sensation of animalistic self-preservation is hard to overcome. You had to really need the rush of relief to be able to make yourself do it. Sixteen had some demons. And instead of facing them, she was burying them. In all the sex, in the alcohol, in the splitting of her own flesh. She was spending her life punishing herself.
She fell asleep quickly on the floor and I didn't want her to wake up in her bed, confused, and freaked out at how she got there. So I left her on the floor. I took off her shoes before going into my apartment to change into something less bloodstained before coming right back.
Because on top of everything else, she shouldn't wake up alone. Not after that kind of night. I slipped out around eight to grab some food after getting a look inside her refrigerator. I came back, ate a bagel, made a pot of coffee, and read the paper. Sure she would wake up sometime around ten or eleven.
But she came out a few minutes later, looking exactly as awful as I thought she would. Her hair falling out of its band, her eye makeup smudged out toward her hairline, her throat and wrists bruised painfully.
“I've had better mornings.”
I want to throttle her. I really did. I had never met someone so incredibly frustrating in my whole life. And I had met a bunch of pain in the ass people. So I went up to her, trying to get a reaction. Trying to show her that what had happened to her was all kinds of wrong. But she looked up at me with those huge green eyes and told me I wouldn't hurt her. And offuckingcourse I wouldn't hurt her. But that wasn't the point.
She shouldn't have been fine. Of all the things she should be: shocked, angry, horrified, hurt, sad, vulnerable, vengeful... “fine” was not one of them.
But, perhaps even more than she was fucked up, she was stubborn. Pushing at her wasn't going to get me anywhere. Except maybe locked out behind one of those huge walls she had around her. And I would prefer the opportunity to be able to at least speak to her again. I don't know why. Maybe it was just the mystery she had about her. Maybe I just wanted to figure her out.
Or maybe I just needed to go out and get laid. It wasn't like me to obsess about some chick living next door. It was probably all of the loud, kinky sex she had that was making me get all worked up about her.
There was a knocking on my door sometime after six that night, light, hesitant knocking. So I knew it wasn't the hellcat next door. No one from my past knew where I was so I grabbed a hammer off the table and went to the door.
Then there she was. In a pair of tight blue skinny jeans and a tight golden sweater, holding a potted cactus out at me and looking completely petrified. “Sixteen,” I said as way of greeting, inclining my head at her.
She looked down at her feet for a second, stuck into a pair of brown leather boots with four inch heels. I don't know how the hell she was able to wear the ankle-breaking shoes I always saw her in all the damn time. “I... I ... ah...” Was she stammering? Seriously? The chick with the chip on her shoulder and walls higher than Mount Everest was nervous? “Here,” she said, pushing the cactus out until I took it. “It's a... welcome to the building and thanks for saving me from rape gift.”
“Wow, they have a whole section for that, huh?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
It worked a little. She snorted, shaking her head. “Look, I know I'm a bitch and I and am really, really bad at the whole human interaction thing,” she started, her green eyes looking even bigger with her hair pulled and braided down her back. She looked younger, almost soft. “But I do have manners. And you were good to me...”
“Hard for you to say that, huh?” I asked, watching the look of discomfort on her face. “Consider us even. You haven't been assaulted and I have... a... cactus.”
She smiled then, a strange, self-deprecating kind of smile. “I figured you would think of me whenever you saw it.”
Because she's prickly, I thought and laughed, the sound foreign to my own ears. When was the last time I had really laughed? “That was pretty damn clever, Sixteen.”
“I thought so,” she said, shrugging. “Well... um... I just wanted to drop that off. I have to go...”
“Get ready to go out and drink again,” I supplied and I swear I saw a trace of embarrassment cross her face. “Tell you what,” I started, not even sure what I was about to suggest until it was out of my mouth. “why don't you just... hang out with me tonight instead?”
She glanced worriedly out past me toward the balcony. “No. That wont work. You don't understand.”
“Then help me understand,” I suggested.
She ran a hand over her eyebrows, her shoulders slumping slightly. A part of me wanted to tell her never mind, to go do whatever it was she did at night just so she didn't keep looking as anxious as she did right then.
“I cant be home at night,” she said before I could tell her she didn't have to tell me. “Like... when it's dark. I cant be home.”
“Not even with company?” I asked, more than a little curious about why a grown woman was still, for all intents and purposes, afraid of the dark.
“I wouldn't know... I never have company,” she rolled her eyes. “You were the first person to be in my house and only then because...”
“I barged in.”
“Exactly.”
“So what's the harm? We'll go buy some groceries for that empty fridge. I'll cook something. Watch a movie. Whatever. Give your liver a break. I mean... what's the worst that can happen if you're home at night...” I started and her eyes darted immediately downward. Ashamed. “Oh,” I said, thinking about her cuts. So that was the deal. The nights she didn't go out. Which, since I moved in, was one. Those nights, she cut. “Well... whatever. I wont judge.”
She looked up then, her eyes relieved. Like I had offered her a life vest when she was drowning. Like no one else had ever just blindly accepted her problems before. And I realized with a feeling of sympathy for her that no one probably ever has.
“Come here,” I said, looking down at her, watching as she stepped past the doorway. And I knew it was bad timing. And I knew we shouldn't... but I couldn't fucking help it.
Nine
He was going to kiss me. Holy fucking hell. He was actually going to... kiss me. I have to admit, of all the things I thought might happen when I knocked on his door: yelling and arguing came to mind. Making plans to hang out and getting kissed were certainly not on the list of possibilities.
He moved closer, closing the door behind me and slowly backing me up into it. There was a strange lightness in my stomach. A quick, insistent and undeniable fluttering. My neighbor was giving me freaking butterflies.
I felt the cool door behind my back, hard and unbending. I pressed against it, hoping it would shake me out of it. Ground me. Because he was right in front of me, as close as he could get without touching me and his eyes looked heavy-lidded and I swear all I wanted to do was melt into him.
And that was fucking terrifying.
His hands went around me, landing on the door on either side of my head. He leaned down toward me, making me tilt my head upward to keep my eyes on his. And I was lost in them. His body moved slowly forward. His knees brushed mine, then his thighs, his pelvis, his stomach, chest. His boot-covered feet slid in between my heels, holding my legs slightly open.
His head dropped lower and I felt his breath warm on my cheek.
What was taking him so long? I swear my entire body felt like it was standing on edge, like it was waiting for the contact. Like it wouldn't survive if I didn't get it. How long had it been since I was kissed? Longer than I wanted to think about. Years? Probably.
The last time I remembered was in a bar the first week I moved into my apartment, some random hot guy who was more than willing to accommodate me after one too many drinks and sexy songs from the speakers. I had grabbed his face and pulled him down to me. And I remember it being frustrating and lacking.
I took a deep breath, watching Hunter. He leaned in quickly, taking my lips into his. I swear white sparks went off at the contact. I heard myself whimper as he pressed hard, taking my lower lip between both of his and sucking. There was a bolt of desire from my belly and downward, making me want to clench my thighs together. But his feet were holding them apart. His teeth dug into my lower lip, moving slightly back and forth. My arms went out, grabbing the sides of his hips, as much contact as I felt like I could initiate.
He grunted, his tongue thrusting forward into my mouth. I felt my body shudder and his arms moved downward, encircling my back and trapping my arms to my sides. I was completely at his mercy and I realized with more than a small shot of fear, that I was completely comfortable with that.
Hunter pulled my body tight against his. I sighed into his mouth, pressing my tongue into his. Getting lost in the sensations. I felt like I was floating and drowning at the same time, like I was fully submerged but free. That's what kissing Hunter felt like: freedom. After a life of being imprisoned.
His teeth grazed my lower lip then started planting soft, quick kisses over my lips, before they left me entirely. I whimpered
and I could feel his laugh come out as air across the bridge of my nose. He rested his forehead against mine, still holding me against him. “So... pasta for dinner?” he asked, infuriatingly calm while I felt like my body was in utter chaos.
His arms slid downward then released me and he pulled the door open, moving me with it until I stepped out of the way. Was he kicking me out? It seemed like the sonofabitch was kicking me out.
Then he was slowly closing the door and I was sure of it. I was getting kicked out. What the actual hell?
I walked back to my apartment, unlocking the door, closing it, then collapsing against it.
So... that just happened. I slowly slid down to the floor, pulling my legs to my chest and encircling them. I felt frustration laced through every fiber of my being. Every bit of me was craving something it knew I wouldn't give it. Horny was horny, but this felt like more. This felt stronger. This felt overpowering.
Maybe it was because I spend all my time denying the possibility of sex. My body got used to not having it. It wasn't even an issue anymore. I dealt with the physical frustration with the aid of my trusty vibrator.
But now I got a taste of what I had been missing out on, what I had denied myself. And my body was reacting with years worth of repressed need. My skin felt like it was humming with it. I pressed my thighs together for a second, a hand going to my lips. If there was ever a kiss to end the famine, that was the one. A huge feast of a kiss.
Which was great and all, but then I was kicked out. Like some common whore. And that was unacceptable. I heard his door slam shut and the elevator chime then stood up and made my way to my bedroom. Good. Leave. I slipped out of my shoes and jeans, then reached in my nightstand.
For A Good Time, Call... Page 4
