Just tell me what I can do to help. I want to help.”
There was one thing that I knew without a doubt would help me. One thing I knew would take the pain away. The impossible itch was tickling at my veins and whispering its sweet nothings into my ear. It fed me it’s delicious, empty promises, and I wanted it. I needed it so badly, yet I knew I couldn't have it. And that very act of slapping myself with a big, fat no, was in and of itself torture.
“You can't help me.”
Tears sprung to her eyes at the cold slash of my words. “Tell me what I can do. Please,” she begged, reaching out and pressing her hands over my stupid beating heart.
Her insistence was infuriating, but her hands were so warm, so soft and gentle. I melted just slightly under her affection and was reminded of something else I hadn't had in a long time. Something not as numbing as cocaine but just as temporary and almost as good. And Andy could give it to me.
“You wanna help?” I asked, laying a hand over hers, as my brief stint with tears dried sticky on my face.
She nodded. “Yes.”
I took a step forward, then another, slowly backing her into the table and staring at her with impure, carnal intent. Then, I smiled at the sharp inhale of breath she took at the impact of wood against the top of her thighs. She had worn a dress to my father's funeral, and while I knew it hadn't been chosen for sexual convenience, it certainly was convenient now.
“Turn around,” I instructed, calm and cold.
“W-what?”
Her fingers clenched at the fabric against my chest, her eyes searching mine frantically, looking for the guy she'd been dating for the past couple of months. The guy who was crass but romantic, sarcastic but kind. She wanted that guy to carry her to his room, lay her down, and make love to her. But right now, on the precipice of grief and weakness, I wasn't that guy. I couldn't be. I could respect her, I would never hurt her, and if she told me to stop, I would without hesitation. But she wanted to help me and all I had known was to fuck, and so, in that moment, that's what she'd be.
An easy fuck.
“I said, turn around.”
I waited for her to tell me no. I think, somewhere deep down, I hoped she would. But after pausing for just a moment, she stood on her toes, pressed her lips to mine for the smallest fraction of a second, then nodded.
And some part of me still tried. Tried to show that I appreciated her, as I bent her over the table and lifted her dress. I tried to show that I genuinely wanted this, wanted her, as I unzipped my pants and pulled her panties to the side, putting her on full display—eager and trembling. I tried to be gentle, as I repeatedly thrust into her body, holding on tightly to her hips. But all I did was destroy and wreck everything within reach, as we moved from the table, to the wall, to the counter, breaking picture frames and shattering salt and pepper shakers. Mugs crashed to the floor and the toaster fell with a metallic clatter. The kitchen I had shared with my father was all but burnt to the ground as I fucked her, trying so hard to reach a point within her body that would take me to a place of numb euphoria, while also trying to show her I cared.
I succeeded at neither.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANDREA
Someone so angry and sad shouldn't have been so beautiful, but that's exactly what Vinnie was—angry, sad, and so devastatingly beautiful. He had used my body so thoroughly, it was a wonder I could even walk from his bedroom to the bathroom the next morning.
And I should've been mad, I knew that. I should've felt disrespected and betrayed. But even as I stared at myself in the mirror, smudged makeup and all, I only felt sorry for him. And glad I hadn’t left him alone.
Splashing cold water on my face, I recalled the seemingly endless night of animalistic sex that took place in the kitchen, living room, and finally, his bedroom. Decorations had been shattered, appliances had been broken, and not once had he said my name. There had been no cuddling afterward. No romantic moments of sated euphoria. We had simply rolled in opposite directions on a