Dead Pretty - Samantha Towle Page 0,40

to my lips, taking a long drink. I can’t believe how upset I got then at the thought of Gary being alone.

Maybe because you’re alone, and you know how it feels.

Yeah, but my being alone is my choice.

But is it really? Or is it a necessity that arose from a situation you hadn’t caused?

Oh, fuck off, subconscious.

I put my beer down. Keeping ahold of it, I pick at the edge of the label with my thumbnail.

“Hey, just a thought …” I start, needing to take the conversation into humor. “Maybe this is why Eleven keeps escaping from your apartment … because you keep coming home, smelling of dogs. She probably thinks you’re cheating on her with those damn dogs, so she packs up her shit and leaves you.” I smirk.

He barks out a laugh. “Funny too.” He taps a finger to the table. “Along with a good heart.” He catches my eyes. “You can add those to your list of good qualities.”

A hollowness seeps into my chest.

Because he’s wrong. So very wrong. I am none of those things. Well, maybe I am funny. But I definitely don’t have a good heart. Maybe I used to have one once upon a time ago.

But now … no.

To have a good heart, you would need to use it, and I put that muscle to rest a long time ago.

I look away, down to the label I’m picking at.

“I’ve embarrassed you.” His deep voice touches my skin.

“You haven’t.”

“If you want your lie to be convincing, maybe wear makeup next time. It’d cover your red cheeks.”

My face is warm but not from embarrassment. More from … disappointment. Disheartenment that he sees something in me that’s not there anymore. Or maybe he just sees what he wants. Most people do.

Folks can create an illusion of the person they want you to be, and when you fail to live up to it, the truth is somehow your fault.

Or it’s the reverse, and we create the illusion. Make people think we’re something we’re not in order for them to try to catch and keep us.

The very trait of a serial killer. Only they don’t try to keep. They take. And take. And take some more.

And me … well, I am none of those things. A creation of circumstances. An anomaly.

What you see is what you get. A bitch most days. And a hollow carcass for the rest.

“How come you don’t wear makeup?” His question jolts me back to the now.

My brow furrows. I don’t know why, but his words irk me. I sit taller in my seat. “Should I? Is wearing makeup a requirement for women?”

Why am I being so bitchy all of a sudden?

Because you are a bitch, remember?

He gives me a confused look. “No …” he says slowly, probably wondering where my snit has come from. “It isn’t a requirement, merely an observation. Most women wear it, right? You don’t. I simply wondered why.” He gives a small lift of his gentle shoulders.

“Do you like your women to wear makeup?” Part of me already knows the answer to this question. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be sitting here with me right now. So, why I’m asking, I have no clue.

“My women?” He laughs. It’s loud and bright. It loosens up the tightness in my chest. “Do you mean, like a harem? Don’t have one of them, sadly.”

I roll my eyes, batting away his humor. “I meant, women you’re attracted to.”

“Ah. Well, I’m attracted to you.”

“And I don’t wear makeup.”

“Guess you have your answer then.”

Fuck. Walked into that one, didn’t I?

I hate that my insides warm up like a mug of cocoa.

Ignoring his words, I rest my chin in my hand and look directly at him. “So, to make you dislike me, I need to start wearing makeup?” I grin.

Another laugh. “Honestly, nothing could make me dislike you at this point, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl?

He called me pretty girl.

Cue my melting heart.

Stop. Don’t get distracted by silly pet names, Audrey.

Focus.

“You sure about that?” I push.

“Well, I’m never wholly sure about anything. But, yeah, I’m almost sure that nothing could stop me from liking you.”

I tilt my head to the side, thinking. “What about smelly feet?”

“What about them?”

“Well, what if I have stinky-ass feet?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then, it’s a moot point.”

Argh! Stop being so damn cute, man.

“But what if they did smell? Like rotten, decades-old cheese.”

He leans back in his chair, hand still curled around his beer bottle. His lips lifted at one side.

He looks so hot right now.

Ack. Who