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I wipe my mouth with my hand, making sure to hide my smile.
“You killed my doctor.”
“She wanted to fuck you. She wanted me out, so she could be in.”
“Marcie was very useful to me.”
“And now she’s dead.” With a shrug, she drinks some more whiskey and points at her forehead. “And look,” she slurs. “I fixed myself. I can be the doctor now.”
I huff, slowly making my way to her.
“That’s very bad.” I step over Marcie’s dead body. “And another body to add on our list for tonight.”
I take a second to think to myself, before admitting, “We have issues.”
“We do.” But that little smile at the corner of her mouth shows me she doesn’t give a shit about my half-assed telling off.
“We went out of the house together once and killed for each other.”
She imitates my low, stern voice and scowls dramatically. “We did.”
“It’s problematic.”
“Is it?” She shrugs carelessly.
There’s something more problematic than tonight’s murder. The fact that despite trying to scold her, I can’t stay mad at her. Not with the pretty face looking up at me. I brush away some strands of wild hair on her forehead. Some of it is stuck under the band-aid.
“It’s safe to say you’re no doctor.”
I pull it off, making her wince, and drop a soft kiss on her wound. “You’re drunk. You haven’t eaten anything, and you hit your head. I’m not happy, Kayla.”
She looks up at me, her drunk ass pouting like a four-year-old, and her eyes innocently wide. “I’m doing my best. It’s not my fault I don’t belong in this town. It’s not my fault I’m a fucking mess.”
I pinch her chin and pull her closer as I lower my head. Can someone become addicted to kissing? It’s the same two lips I’ve been kissing for weeks, and I still seem to want more.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur as I pull away.
We observe each other for a minute, keeping silent in the light of tonight’s event. Things feel different, and I’m not sure I can pinpoint how.
Maybe it’s her letting her guard down. Maybe it’s because I killed someone for her and her for me. I guess that means something, right?
I want to ask her to name it, and yet I hesitate. Something stops me.
Before dinner, she refused to acknowledge what I was trying to express, and it created a dangerous fear inside me.
What if Kayla doesn’t feel the same way? What if I can’t make her? What if the way she’s acting, the sweet words, the jealous behavior… What if that’s just her trying to get on my good side so she can leave? She could be playing me.
What an utterly terrifying possibility.
I’m scared she truly doesn’t reciprocate how I feel toward her, and that grips my gut like a parasite. It makes me sick to my stomach. It makes my chest so tight I can hardly breathe.
I take a deep breath, deciding to give up. If I don’t ask her to name it… If I don’t know how she feels… I can live in my own fairy tale. I can pretend Kayla is by my side because she wants to be, not because she’s forced to be.
“So,” I say blankly. “You like chocolate cake.”
Her eyes light up, and she nods eagerly, looking much too innocent. “I love chocolate cake.”
I grab her waist, hauling her out of her seat, and she wraps her legs around me, her arms circling my neck.
