dare dance. They don’t rape; they don’t hurt kids. But they do shoot pedophiles in the face and not lose any sleep over it.
Aaron is breathing softly beside me, shirtless and beautiful in the starlight trickling in through the sliding glass door opposite the bed. It’s cracked just slightly, and I can hear birdsong. Must be early morning rather than late night.
I yawn and stretch my arms above my head, my eyes drifting over to Aaron again. He has both of his girls’ names tattooed on his back. My lips twitch into a small smile, and I reach out with two fingers to brush across the ink. He stirs and groans but doesn’t wake up.
To be honest, I barely remember climbing into bed with him. He drove me home; Callum asked to stop at Wayback Burgers on the way. That’s all I remember.
A rush of hot liquid between my thighs makes me curse, and I shove the covers aside. As I stand up, I squeeze my legs together against the rush of blood, cursing myself for not dumping my menstrual cup last night.
On my mad sprint to the bathroom, I leave red splatters on the floor, like a morbid little nod to Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. Only … if I were in the tale, I’d probably be the witch, so maybe that’s not an apt metaphor?
With a groan, I sit down on the toilet and try my best to remedy the situation.
When Oscar opens the door, I’m sitting there with my fingers and legs covered in blood.
It’s a weird situation, I’ll be the first to admit. Oscar Montauk … watching me deal with period stuff? Not even remotely okay.
“Get the fuck out,” I snap at him, hating this damn bathroom lock and all the bullshit it brings me. First day I get off work—meaning, a day in which corpses and guns are not regular parts of my schedule—I’m going to the hardware store to get a new knob. Might even get a chain-lock while I’m at it.
Oscar stands there far longer than propriety’s sake would indicate. His eyes are unreadable behind his glasses, his shirtless body lean and painted like a canvas. Looking at him, it’s impossible to forget the sight of him with a gun in his hand, red spattered across the lenses of his glasses.
“And I thought the situation at the old house was a bloodbath,” he remarks, smirking with that annoying devil-may-care attitude of his before he finally leaves. I’m cursing him out as I clean up as best I can with toilet paper, and then head out into the hall with fury riding like a cloak around me.
I find Oscar in the kitchen, listening to CEMETERY by AViVA on his phone. The volume is cranked fairly low, but the haunting sounds of the music still stain the air like fog on a cold night.
He’s making himself a cup of tea which both weirdly suits him and also seems like the antipathy of who he was tonight when he was brandishing that weapon. Oscar Montauk is a reptile in beautiful, tattooed skin.
“Don’t think I don’t see the way you look at me,” I tell him, watching as he stirs milk into his tea with a small spoon. I rarely—if ever—see him eat or drink. This is truly a rare occurrence.
He lifts his eyes to me, and I find that they’re the color of a graveyard, when the moon is high, and the trees are barren of leaves. A shiver takes over me that I can’t fight off.
“And how, exactly, is that?” he queries mildly, setting the small spoon aside and lifting the mug to his lips with hands drenched in blood and secrets and ink. I watch those hands and wonder what it’d be like if they were on my throat instead of mine on his …
Eww.
The fuck?
No.
I banish the thought and move around the kitchen peninsula to face off against him.
Why I’m choosing to do this now, I have no idea.
Oscar stares at me, quietly sipping his tea as he waits for me to elaborate.
Lying to other people is insane; lying to yourself is suicidal. That’s what I read in that damn book, right? Devils’ Day Party. Ask me later why I bother to read bully romances. My life is a goddamn bully romance.
I’m confronting Oscar now because I can’t stand the fact that he acts like I don’t exist sometimes, like he appears disappointed at others, because he won’t let me touch him.