Do people really think he’s crazy?
And if they do… am I in actual danger?
“I’m not a fan of this,” I say, pushing back to try and dislodge him from me.
It just makes him press harder, and his low chuckle rumbles in my ear, echoing in my chest. “Sure about that? If I reached under your robe right now, you wouldn’t be soaked for me?”
His free hand skims my thigh, just below my lace hem, and I squeeze my legs together out of habit. He chuckles again, the sound throaty, and its malice rains down my spine like icy drops of water.
Slamming my head into the door, the tendons in my neck scream in agony as I stretch, trying to crush his knuckles with the blow. I repeat the action, and he moves at the last second, my cheek colliding with the wood.
Pain smarts along the bone, searing a path up my nose. My vision blurs, splotches of color flashing across line of sight, and then he’s turning me.
Fat tears well in my eyes as the wipe falls to the floor, abandoned as I reach up to cradle my cheek. It’s hot to the touch, not that I can put much pressure on it without the sting splitting my face in half.
“Stop trying to hurt me,” Aiden says, one of his hands coming up to cup the side of my face that isn’t pulsing. “I might not be in the fucking Mafia like your brother, but you’re not going to be able to overpower me.”
My nostrils flare, anger bubbling inside me. “Don’t talk about my brother.”
“Another touchy subject? Jesus, Riley, you really are full of secrets, aren’t you? I wonder which ones you’re willing to sell your soul to keep.”
Leaning my head back against the door, I close my eyes, letting the tears spill over as the pain in my cheek crests. It throbs outward, sending jolts of misery through my body.
“Leave me alone,” I say, hating that this isn’t the first time I’ve had a breakdown in front of him.
What is it about this man that cracks me wide open?
“You hate me. Messaged received.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, but doesn’t move away, either. I peek out from mostly hooded lids, looking up at him as he studies my face.
My cheek feels swollen, so I’m sure the scar beneath my eye looks worse than usual. The one at the corner of my mouth probably does too, just in comparison, and never in my entire life have I wanted to die more than I do in this moment.
Strangely, he doesn’t look disgusted. I’m not even sure he’s looking at the wounds, until I feel his thumb graze the one at my mouth, and my entire soul feels like it’s combusting in the worst way.
Thick, scorching hot embarrassment collects in my throat, making it impossible for me to say anything else.
I have no other plea. Nothing more to offer.
The tears continue streaming down my face, a lifetime’s worth pouring out in front of him, taking the shape of the physical pain.
Aiden releases me and steps back. My eyes pop open wide as he puts distance between us.
“Don’t hide them again,” he says, walking over to the bed to retrieve his coat. He shrugs into it, the material stretching tight over his broad shoulders, and then he turns to leave the room.
Pausing at the door, he glances back at me. “If you do, I will make this experience worse for you.”
And then he leaves.
29
I’ve unloaded my cock probably a hundred times since the other night, frantically trying to erase the mental image of tears streaking down Riley’s porcelain cheeks.
I’m doing it again now, palm squeezing my dick like I’m trying to punish it, the memory of her breaking down playing on a loop in my mind.
Sick fascination had seized my brain as they spilled over. Arousal, hot and poisonous, spread from my chest down my spine, collecting in my balls.
My tongue ached to lap at the salty droplets. To consume the essence of her ugliest emotions and store them on my tastebuds for eternity.
I’d gone back later, after she’d fallen asleep, and studied her in the dim lamplight. One side of her face was swollen and already bruised from where she smacked it into the door, the other mutilated by scars I can’t make myself comprehend.
They’re clean, precise cuts, even if the skin that healed over makes them look messy.
The one on her cheek even has that crisscrossed look, proof that it was stitched up at some point, and yet I can’t fathom why there’s nothing about them in her medical records.
After I’ve finished painting the shower floor with my cum, I step out, wrap a towel around my waist, and sit down at the kitchen table to pore over everything I have on her.
My wrist itches, and I scratch my nails over the skin, then press the pads of each finger to the shattered compass on the inside of my forearm; it stretches from the bottom of my hand to my elbow, the glass shards breaking off and turning into a flight of birds.
Some of the birds take irregular shapes, sadness hidden beneath the ink.
I stare at the puckered slivers of skin, barely visible and only if you know what to look for.
It’s my one secret.
Glancing down at the files in front of me, I’m drawn back to wondering what Riley’s are. How does a seemingly normal girl like her have so many?
My phone rings, and I groan as I get up to answer. “What?”
Liam’s laugh fills the line. “Mountain air isn’t as relaxing as they say, I take it?”
“Mountain air is the same as the air everywhere else.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s scientifically incorrect, but I digress. Why do you sound so grumpy?”
“Have you ever considered that this is just my personality?”
“Many times,” he says. “I’ve just been holding out hope that one day you’d change.”
Ignoring the spark of annoyance his words cause, I move back to sit at the table, propping my feet up on the surface. “You have a reason for calling, or are you just trying to piss me off?”
“Doesn’t exactly take much.” He laughs, and I remain silent.
After a beat, Liam clears his throat, and I can imagine him standing in front of the mirror in his apartment in Queens, sifting through an assortment of ties as he decides what to wear for the day.
When I had more things for him to do as my publicist, the morning phone calls were part of our off-tour routine. He’d check in while he got dressed, then stop by on his way to the little office space he rents downtown, usually with scones and coffee.
Sitting in this cabin with my empty refrigerator, I’ve never missed that more.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I just thought I’d let you know that I booked you for a New Year’s Eve party.”
“I told you, I’m not ready to perform—”
“You have to do it at some point, man. Consider this your reintroduction to the world as the new and improved Aiden James.”
A sharp pang flares up behind my ear, and I exhale, forcing my voice to remain even. “Fine. As long as I’m done here, I’ll do it.”
“You can’t really negotiate once the date’s been set—”
“I’m not asking for permission.” Carding a hand through my hair, I lean back in my chair, an abyss sprouting inside my chest, taking any ounce of joy or contentment with it. They disappear, leaving me hollow, as if they never existed in the first place.