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“Me too,” she said. “What a fucking nightmare.”
8:15 p.m.
DECKER WAS DRIVING again. He didn’t know exactly where he was headed.
“Let’s go to your place,” piped up Essence from the passenger seat.
He moved his shackled hand onto the steering wheel to steady the car as he shot her a glance. “What?” Back to the road. “Why? I thought we were going to Hollis.”
“After,” she said. “I really want to fuck you right now.”
He nearly slammed on the brakes. He was really confused. “Why would you say that?”
“It was because of what you said. About how I was afraid, and about how much more frightening it is to be a woman, and… and swoon. You promised me redemption, anyway. And your place is on the way back to Shepherdstown.”
“We should get the handcuffs off first,” he said, and now his body was confused. He was still pissed off, really.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been. Admittedly, it was rare that he had had to deal with the sort of naked speciesism of Zebedee’s grandfather. He almost preferred it to the unconscious variety. At least, this way, he didn’t have to point it out to someone who wouldn’t have realized he was even doing it, and who would therefore deny, loudly, that he had done it.
No, no, dude, I don’t have an unconscious bias against anyone who doesn’t look like an elf or fae, I swear. The fact that I accidentally forgot to call you for your table twice and called other parties ahead of you, it’s not because you’re a gargoyle, promise. Just a coincidence.
Still, it was like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face, an icy reminder of the ugliness that lived inside people. At first, it just hurt, and then the anger kicked in because it hurt too much to handle, and anger was the only way to feel like he had some kind of control over it.
But he hated being angry.
And he’d long ago learned—as a kid, in fact—that it was one thing when some lithe, tiny kid with pretty features threw a temper tantrum, but it was another entirely when you were made of stone-like flesh, had retractable claws, a big wingspan, and sharp canines. So, even if you were only four years old, you learned to control yourself in daycare. Because, you know, people were afraid of you.
Angry outbursts, he couldn’t afford them.
So, then, it was all bad.
He was hurt—he turned to anger for a sense of control—but he had to control his anger—so he felt even more frustrated. He felt, well, barely in control.
And now, she’d just brought up sex?
Sex wherein she wanted him to be gentle?
Fuck that.
“No,” he said in a clipped voice.
“No?” She was hurt.
“Let’s get the cuffs off,” he said.
It was quiet.
“It’s because of the not all elves thing,” she said. “I swear, I just didn’t think before I said that, and I really was absolutely horrified that Zebedee’s grandfather would be like that, and I didn’t mean to be all righteous elf-savior or whatever. I totally get why you felt like that. I feel like shit.”
“Essence—”
“No, and you don’t have to absolve me,” she said. “I get that you already have way too much on you right now, and trying to put that on you too? No. I didn’t mean to make it about me. It’s not about me. I’m… tangles and briars, Decker, why does the world have to be so awful sometimes?” Her voice was thickening.
He seized her hand, the one that was handcuffed to his, and squeezed.
She squeezed back.
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
