“Considering I’ve only had such stress relief once since my untimely kidnapping, it’s not been too fun,” I bite out.
His brow furrows, and he cuts his confused attention toward me. “When the hell did you get yourself off? You’re under constant supervision, and I sure as hell haven’t seen—”
“The night you were drunk and came staggering in with the wound on your stomach that’s just started healing,” I point out. “I was left uncuffed, and I didn’t do anything nefarious. Yet I still get chained to the bed every—”
“You jilled off in the bed with me while I was drunk out of my mind and bleeding everywhere?” he asks with an undue sense of incredulity.
“You perved from your window every night while I handled my stress relief. Out of the two of us, you’re sicker than I am.”
He shakes out the magazine, clears his throat, and smirks as he starts reading again.
“You’ve gotten business-like about orgasms—treating them like a chore. A little self-control and pleasure denial would do you some good,” he answers.
My thighs press together, which is just my fucking damage and not the normal I’m still striving toward. I pretend I’m not even a little aroused right now, because it’s alarming how easy it is for me to want to go back to the old me.
The old me would be straddling him on this couch, stripping his pants down just far enough for me to free the important part of his body, and riding him like I’m on a mission while the two of us lose ourselves in each other. Now I know that’s a toxic habit, because sex was once my drug. Especially sex with Rush.
We were two broken kids trying to heal ourselves by pretending to fall in love. I’m not even sure what love actually fucking is. My therapist assured me we weren’t ever feeling any form of healthy love. Well, he let me figure that out on my own, rather.
It helps me break up the tension to think of the countless hours I spent traumatizing that small-town man who was used to dealing with privileged kids and their neglect issues, attention depravation, and deep-rooted insecurities that stemmed from overly rigid parents and shit.
My level of fucked-up-ness both intrigued and horrified that poor man.
Just as I turn to look back, I muffle the startled gasp in my throat.
A man is dragging his body across the ground toward the front door as fast as he can, tears silently streaming down his face as his teeth grit in determination.
There’s a blood trail behind him, even though I’m not sure where the blood is coming from. I start to get up, but Rush’s hand reaches out, and he grips my arm, dragging me closer to him without ever looking up from his magazine.
A wash of cold awareness slips over me when I realize we haven’t come to see a long lost grandma.
This house is in the middle of no-fucking-where for a damn good reason.
The guy doesn’t even risk a glance in our direction, and I watch in a state of helplessness as he reaches up, whimpering in panic, as he fumbles with the seemingly taxing door knob. His blood is smearing all over the white frame that I now notice has some other, subtle bloodstains surrounding it like this isn’t the first time this has happened.
His hands have blood running out of them from what appears to be stab wounds, and I’m positive his dick is bleeding, giving the pool of blood near his crotch.
I have no idea who this guy is or what he’s done, and Rush seems cold and indifferent toward the entire situation.
Just as he gets the door open and manages to drag himself out onto the front porch, there’s a muted, distinct sound of a silenced bullet buzzing the air.
The man grunts and writhes for a traumatizing moment or two, before his body gives one last jerk. He starts bleeding from his head where the two stealthy kill-shots impacted, and I sit very, very still.
I swallow thickly when I hear the distinct sound of someone skipping toward us, while whistling the tune of I Feel Pretty. It’s one of the single most horrifying moments of my life, and that says about my internal panic right now.
“Rush! I thought I heard you pull up,” an enthusiastic, familiar blonde says when the whistling abruptly stops, as I chance a glance in the direction of her voice.
She’s grinning broadly as she continues skipping around the blood trail, her long ponytail swaying like a little kid’s, as her eyes remain bright and happy…
Fuck my life. This chick is a complete lunatic.
I swallow hard once again.
“And you brought your girlfriend! Want some tea?” she asks, pointing that last question at me and waiting patiently for my response…like she’s being a good hostess.