But it still doesn’t give me my sanity back. The sanity he confiscated with his hot, strong words.
“Why should I be scared?” I can’t help it, okay? I want to know why, because maybe that will give me back the air I lost as collateral damage from being near him.
There’s a bang when he hits the top of the car next to my head, and I jump, my heart doing a strange jolt that freezes me in place.
That and the way he hardens his jaw and darkens his eyes, then directs them at me like daggers.
Holy shit. Why does he get to be so damn hot when he’s angry? Doesn’t that defy the whole purpose behind it?
“Were you listening to a word I said?”
“Yeah, and that’s why I asked. Why should I be scared?”
His hand reaches for me—well, not for me, but for my hair, for a stubborn rusty strand that’s been flying in my face for the past twenty years. I can’t tame it into submission, no matter what I try.
Nate has a hold of that strand now, and my throat pulses, then something between my thighs pulses, too, because they’re jealous of that strand. But they’ll never admit it.
I’m jealous of that strand, of the way it has the sole attention of his dark eyes. But I don’t have to be jealous for long, because he tucks it behind my ear, slowly but not sensually. That cold edge is still covering his face, still tightening his jaw and turning the veins in his neck rigid.
“You should be scared, because…” his thumb slides from behind my ear to the hollow of my throat, to the insane pulse that’s currently self-destructing me. “If you don’t stop flaunting yourself around, if you keep provoking me and don’t stay in your lane, I’ll be inclined to take action. I’ll swallow you down so fast, there’ll be nothing left of you, let alone your sarcasm and na?veté. You’ll stare in the mirror and not recognize yourself anymore. This is my last warning and the only courtesy I will give you. Stop, Gwyneth. You don’t know what the fuck you’re dealing with. So go back to college, to your safe boys and vanilla milkshakes and boring little life.”
Is it possible for a heart to leave the ribcage and still beat? Because it feels like it’s spilling out of my chest with each word from his mouth.
I should probably listen. He does look terrifying, and I don’t know if I can really handle it when he takes action while in this mode.
But what’s the point if I don’t find out for myself? If I don’t take the step and see it personally. All of it.
So even though I’m having some sort of a heart attack and I still can’t breathe properly, I say, “But I don’t want safe and boring.”
I want you.
I almost say that. Almost, but I don’t get to, because his next words knock the living breath out of my lungs.
“You’re well and truly fucked, baby girl.”
11
Nathaniel
When my father said that I have a train brain, it had absolutely nothing to do with how much I actually love trains.
My train brain doesn’t reverse. Ever. Once it’s moving forward, it just keeps going. There are no regrets. No going back and definitely no retracting what I fucking said or did.
So now, I have a train life, one that’s only focused on getting shit done and moving on to the next thing, then the one after that, and so on. That’s how my train brain works.
Forward.
Outward.
Nothing is kept inward. Otherwise, it’ll rot and cause my downfall.
Now is no different. The present and the past are only a step for the future. A stop, a station. They’re not what I should be focused on and I certainly shouldn’t be thinking about her fucking words. The words that she shouldn’t have said in that sultry voice that I want to hear say fucked-up things.
I don’t want safe and boring.
That’s what started it all. That’s what brought us to this moment where she’s staring at me as if I’m the big bad wolf from her favorite fairy tale. Even though it used to scare her, she wanted to hear the story over and over again, because that’s what Gwyneth does. Instead of running away like normal people do, she stands in front of what scares her and looks at it—or him—with those chameleon eyes.
I want to see what makes them that way, she used to say. Everyone has a reason, right?
And now, I’m the one she’s focused on. The one she obviously fears—or is at least apprehensive of. But she still willingly stands in the path of my destruction.
When I drove her back to the house, she didn’t stop her scrutinizing either. Her inquisitive eyes kept watching, observing, as if waiting for some sort of a sign.