“Summer,” Dean pulls my attention, but his eyes are no longer narrowed at me. It’s like a completely different man is sitting across from me now than the one who joined us more than two hours ago. “Thank you for your honesty!”
I say nothing.
In between Connor telling me how I’ve just adopted him and I’d never be able to get rid of him, the praises Link offers for thedesserts, and Carter’s gratitude for the evening, I don’t ask myself how the words for an extended invitation slip through my lips. And yes, that invitation includes Dean.
He excuses himself to use the restroom, while the rest head outside.
Atlas seals a kiss on my lips with a simple “Thank you!” which holds so much more than those two simple words, before following his friends.
Strolling toward the kitchen with dishes in both hands, I let the swirl of emotions from tonight take over. I gave away much more than I was comfortable with, but these psychos were already sailing full speed on the Major Bonkers boat, so they welcomed my honesty.
Cleaning a plate with a knife, I hear a crack of the wooden floor behind me, and I’ve already dropped the dish in the sink, pivoting with the weapon in hand, before my brain could even process the information. I look up, only to find a set of blue eyes, a shade lighter than my own, staring at a threatening distance. He doesn’t blink, and neither do I, but I’m the first to break eye contact when a strand of black hair falls above his eyebrow.
When I glance at the knife in my hand, there’s a streak of blood painting the edge.
“Fuck! You’re bleeding.”
Leaving the knife on the counter, I take Dean’s arm to inspect it. It’s not a deep cut, just a superficial one.
“You’ve killed people, but you worry about a small cut you’ve inflicted?”
I pause, staring at him, channeling my anger more than my hurt. Am I being debased to someone who’s not capable of compassion because I’ve killed?
“I’d never hurt an innocent on purpose.”
I pull his forearm roughly over the sink, putting a finger right into the wound with the sole intention of causing him pain.
Yes. I see the irony.
Then I stride for the bathroom on this floor, fetching the first aid kit.
“You think I’m innocent when I’ve killed more than you have? You thinkyou’reinnocent, for that matter?”
He offers those words while I pour the peroxide over his cut. I hope it stings like a bitch, though his face doesn’t show it. Atlas mentioned that Dean has a problem experiencing emotions like a normal human being, but pain isn’t an emotion. It’s a reaction of the body.
You feel it, asshole, even if it’s just a little.
“I don’t believe killing someone automatically makes you a bad person. Not all people deserve to live, and most certainly not all deserve to be mourned.”
He lets out a chuckle masked by a grunt, making my eyes squint to slits at him, while I pour some more peroxide over his wound, not because it needs disinfecting anymore.
I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to further defend my stance.
“Not everything in life is black and white, Dean. There’s gray, too. That’s where people like us exist.”
“You mean freaks like us.”
I put the antiseptic aside and take a Band-Aid to plaster over his cut.
“Don’t be ashamed to call yourself one.” I look at him, taken aback by those words. “You’re beautiful. Stunning really. And you are smart. Cunning. But you’re also a freak.Own it!That’s your superpower.”
That’s the nicest thing he’s said to me all evening, though part of it sounds like the kind of praise a mental institution patient would offer.
“Weren’t compliments a waste of breath?” I point out, unable to contain my surprise.
“You made a valid point to the contrary.”
Freaks—that’s the exact word I used to describe them during my not-exactly-stalking ventures. If I fit right in with them, am I one too? I guess I’ve always been.
