Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,205
God let her get in? I still pray the things I learned at her church, but I’m not sure if there’s a God at all.
He let her in. He let her touch me. I was gone. I should have known right then, I should have fucking left town, but I was weak.
I needed her. Not wanted. Needed, like the need to breathe or swallow.
Free will? I’m not so sure about that. I eviscerate myself for not leaving, but if I could have, I would have—right?
My real belief: I couldn’t go. As soon as I spoke to her, as soon as she touched me, I was lost to Gwenna White.
I don’t understand it. Something…fit. That thing I needed fixed inside me, it was quieter when she was around. The more I got of her, the smaller the wound became. It healed.
Magic. Who could walk away from magic?
Maybe it wasn’t possible for me to get away from her. Or maybe it was, and I’m a greedy asshole.
I don’t know.
What was the purpose of this?
I don’t fucking know. I wish I did.
It gets dark, the house gets quiet, and I get scared. I feel it, feel the darkness. There’s the purpose. I can feel it like an undertow, pulling me down where I can’t breathe, where I can never re-surface.
Good, it whispers.
Over there, it used to speak. You would feel it in the air that day when something happened. Die. You’re going to die.
But I don’t want to die, because she’s still alive. She’s right next door. I can’t leave Gwen. I know I ought to. But I can’t. When she cries, I cry with her. I’ve already sold all the guns, but then there are the knives. There’s a bungee cord down in the basement closet. There’s a thousand ways. I know them all.
So torn…
That truck goes up and down her driveway, and I watch while my mind races.
TWENTY SEVEN
GWENNA
January 22, 2016
“Gwenna Isabella White. This has got to stop. Lift your head up and look at me, you little drunk!”
When I don’t, she walks over and grabs me by my temples and she makes me.
“Owwww. That…doesn’t feel good.”
“Good. It’s not supposed to.”
Jamie drops my head, and through my closed eyes, I see bright light.
“Don’t…”
“Oh yes. Curtains open. Veni vidi vici!”
I can hear her coming over to me, so I try to draw my shoulders in and push my face into the pillow like some kind of drunk, sick turtle.
“Oh, no you don’t.” She grabs my shirt collar, tugging. I bat at her hands.
“This is Stella McCartney, slutface. And it’s cute.” My words are croaks.
“Well that’s a shame, because there’s wine all over it.”
A half-assed shriek escapes my lips. I lurch up.
“Huhh?”
I turn…slowly—my head throbs—to find Jamie smirking with her arms crossed.
“That’s what it took. I’m not surprised.”
“What?” I draw my elbows in against my ribcage, cradling my sore head in my hands. “It’s bright.”
“You’re still as vain as you have been since college.”
“I’m not vain.”
“Materialistic.”
“Materialistic?” My pulse pounds above my eyebrows.
Jamie smirks again. “I’m teasing, Gwen babe, but at least it got you moving. I can tell that you’re alive now.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because your brother came by earlier today. He couldn’t get you to the door, so we were worried. He called, and you answered. You said you were sick. He asked what was the matter, you told him swine flu. I don’t even think that that’s a thing right now, but that was a red flag to him, I guess. Which is another way of saying you sounded drunker than Cooter Brown.”
“Who the fuck is Cooter Brown?”
Through my shaking fingers, I see Jamie shrug in her crisp, light blue blouse. “I’m not sure, now that you ask. It’s something that my grandma says. We probably don’t want to know. You know how those old, Southern stories are.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Why the hell is she still talking?
I hear something. Crack an eyelid open.
I find Jamie by me… Sniffing. “Woman, how long since you had a bath?”
I stick my middle finger up. “Today,” I lie.
I’m not sure when it was, but there’s no way I smell. I wear deodorant and have a Glade Plug-In right there in the bathroom. I put it in for—
My throat seizes, and I’m darting toward the bathroom faster than I would have thought was possible. For whatever reason, my still-slightly-drunk self sees the sink as an easier target than the toilet, so that’s where I throw up, a bunch of awful, streaky, slightly reddish stuff.