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He was gruff, rude, and anti-social. But there were moments I found sweet enough to make me look at him for long moments when I knew he wasn’t paying attention.
“Ruth?”
I turn my head to see Warrose with his eyes still closed.
“Yes?”
“Are we ever going to talk about it?” he asks in a scratchy, sleepy voice.
“About what?” I really have the nerve to ask.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye, once, twice, stares at the ceiling without blinking. His left hand flexes against the charcoal ground, but it’s so quick I barely catch it.
“The Ecstasy Dance,” he says.
I release my breath slowly, so it isn’t heard as a sigh. The Ecstasy Dance. Flashes resurface in my mind in a single blink. Being grabbed by multiple male inmates, tossed to the ground, hearing my name yelled in that husky baritone. Feeling Warrose’s body shielding my own. Fireflies swarm my chest, leaving tingly eruptions in their wake.
I shift uncomfortably.
“What about it?”
At those three words, Warrose turns his head to face me abruptly.
“What about it?” he repeats, offended. “Are we still doing this?”
My gaze rips away from the sheer impact of his question. The bluntness of the topic he’s trying to form into this conversation. And he doesn’t avert his eyes at my sudden retreat. I can feel all of him burning his question into me through the bars.
“Say what you want to say, Warrose,” I answer casually. “Be a man, and spit it out.”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“You asked me to promise you that what we were doing wouldn’t end when we left that stage.”
He said it.
I’ve been dreading this conversation every moment since it happened. What was I thinking, making him promise something like that with everything that was influencing us in the moment? What was wrong with me?
Embarrassment sets the nerves of my spine on fire. But I sound aloof as I say, “And?”
His gleaming hazel eyes just widen as his jaw tics.
“And I want to know how you feel about that.” His nostrils flare wide.
“I was drugged.” My words seem to spear through his chest. The impact of the way that sentence lands is almost visible as he flinches back.
“Then I’m sorry for the way I acted,” he states, voice full of shame and regret. “I should have controlled myself better, Ruth.”
I turn my head back to him, unable to blink away the astonishment tightening my expression. “Warroseyou don’t have to be sorry. We were both under the influence of that gas. You did nothing wrong.”
He shakes his head with that stubborn gaze. “No, I fucked up, Ruth. I could have stopped myself. I knew it was wrong.” He closes his eyes for three seconds. “I fucked up.”
I’m sitting up on my elbow now, shaking my head repeatedly. What is he saying? What have I done? I’ve made him feel like a predator for touching me. He wasn’t. I wanted it. Goddamn it.
“Warrose, stop!” I reach for his arm through the cage, managing to grab hold of his wrist. “I begged you to touch me because I wanted you to.”
His jaw flexes, but he remains silent.
“I wanted it. I’m sorry. I was embarrassed about what I said because I didn’t know if you’d want it outside of that stage or not.” My throat is a desert. I swallow dryly. “I fucked up.”
