Page 88 of Roped

He watches me a beat. “Yeah.”

“So around the scar then?”

Another beat passes where his eyes shimmer somewhat mysteriously. “Yeah.”

I finally look at the words around his scar again; there are a bunch, not random, though, because these are all the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. Home, rainbow, help, no. They make emotion swell up in my throat, but I push it down and keep reading. Until I stop at one and my mouth falls open. It may be one word, a name, but after a certain point past his thigh, it is all there is. Repeatedly, multiple times. Ten times, twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty times.

“That’s…” My chest heaves and stutters and I have to press a hand on my trembling belly before I can continue. “That’s my n-name.”

It is, isn’t it? Because for a few seconds, I don’t even remember what my name is. I’ve forgotten everything except that he has Peyton written all over his thigh. Over the bulge of his bronzed, powerful muscles. Oh God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.

“Yeah,” he rasps.

My eyes skitter up and clash with his. “But you… you hardly ever say my name. You…” I shake my head. “You call me all these things and I hated them at first. I hated how you called me a princess when I’m not, but then I started to like it because you made me feel like it wasn’t a bad thing. Like I was your princess. And then you called me darling and I love that. God, I love that. I…” I inhale a shaky breath. “I thought you hated my name. So then why do you have it tattooed on your body?”

By the time I finish venting, my words jumbled and hurried, his eyes have started to shimmer with emotion. With intensity and heat and so many things I can’t possibly understand. Then, “’Cause for the longest time, I didn’t know what your name was. All I called you was Princess ’cause that’s what you were to me. My Princess. And then I found out who you were and”—he swallows—“I hated you for it. Hated you for who you were, who you came from. I was an asshole, still am, but back then, I hated knowin’ you were never mine and you’d never be mine. But no matter how much I hated you, I finally had a fuckin’ name. I finally knew what my Princess was called and fuck, it was perfect for her. Peyton. Sweet, delicate, pretty.

“It got stuck in my head. Not ’cause I couldn’t say it but because I wanted to say it all the time. Peyton, Peyton, Peyton. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops; Jesus, tell everyone what your name was when I fuckin’ hate people. Wanted to call out to you through the shadows, through your window. Wanted to moan it out loud when I came in my hand, jerkin’ off to the shows you put on for me. I wanted to say it in my sleep; wanted it to be the first thing I said when I woke up. ’Cause I finally knew the girl I’d been obsessed with has got the prettiest name there ever was. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t want that, didn’t wanna want that. Didn’t wanna call out the name of the Turner Princess. So it banged around in my skull all day long, wouldn’t let me sleep, wouldn’t let me work. Echoin’, hurtin’, drivin’ me goddamn insane. So I did what I always did, gave it a place to go. Purged it, once, twice, ten times, more than that. Because no matter how much I wanted your name out of my head, it wouldn’t leave. It’s still there. In my head. My chest. My body.”

The Turner Princess.

That’s what I am. I know that. I knew that. But God, it hurts. That the reminder of it is everywhere. I can’t escape it. We can’t escape it. It’s our fate. I will always belong to the family that killed his, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.

“You don’t have to look at it.”

His tight voice breaks into my thoughts, and I look up. Only to find him blurred because I’m crying. Tears are silently flowing down my cheeks, and his body, his features, are so tight, it seems like one wrong move and he’ll break. Sniffling, I ask, “What?”

He moves his jaw back and forth for a few moments. Then, “My scars.”

I blink. “I don’t have to look at your scars?”

Emotions are flashing through his face, too quick for me to hold on to one and try to understand. When finally he lets one pause, it’s anger, and he says, “Yes, you don’t have to look at my scars.” When I still stay silent because I don’t really know what to say to that or why he’d say that, he explains, “There’s more than one way to fuck, Princess. And missionary ain’t what it’s all chalked up to be.”

I flinch then. And his nostrils flare at my reaction.

I’m such an idiot; of course he’d say that. The man didn’t even want to take his clothes off in front of me. He wouldn’t let me look at his wounds even. And I know him enough by now to figure out what he’s doing. Trying to scare me, but God, he really needs to understand that even if scared, I’m not going anywhere. Because painful or not, I love him and I’m staying. Until I have to leave.

“So how would we do it?” I ask.

His eyes flash with fury and I know it’s because he wasn’t expecting me to take the bait and bait him back. Whatever; he can deal with that too. Then, unhinging his tightly clasped jaw, he goes, “I’d take you from behind.”

My belly flutters. “From behind?”

His mouth pulls up in a lopsided smirk, bitter and humorless. “How about we stop talkin’ about it and you get down on your hands and knees. Show me that wet cunt I can’t wait to fuck.”

I squeeze my thighs together. Squeeze and squeeze and feel my own wetness smearing my skin. Then I say the words that taste so bitter in my mouth: “First, you tell me if this is how you do it. Always, with every girl?”

His frowns at my question. As if he hates me saying those words as much as me, and I’m proved right when he speaks, his words brimming with fury and fight. “You wanna know if this is how I fuck other girls.”

I nod again, even though I want to shake my head and cover my ears. I do not want to hear about other girls from him. I do not even want to think about him with other girls. But I have a point and I’m going to prove it, even if it kills me.

“Fine,” he bites out. “Wasn’t always like this, you know that, right? So before I became a monster, I fucked girls however I wanted. I fucked whoever I wanted. Until I became this.” He clenches and clenches his jaw. “The next time I fucked, it was two years after the accident when I was seventeen. A couple of girls in town made known they wanted me despite my scar, the one they could see, anyhow. Didn’t wanna get involved with ’em, didn’t wanna get involved with anyone. But I was young and horny and hadn’t fucked in years, thought maybe not everythin’ had to change because I’m… So I picked the one I thought looked pretty. We went out, ate good food; I brought her back to my barn. It was all goin’ fine until she saw the scars on my torso. She threw up all over the floor and then took off, tellin’ me what I already knew. No girl wants to get it on with a monster.” He pauses here, his nostrils flaring with his breaths, his chest swelling up and down. “Since then, I only fuck from behind so they can’t see me. And I only fuck when I’ve paid for it.”

“P-paid?”

He lets a moment pass. “Whores. I only fuck whores, Princess.” I let that information pass through me as he continues, “They don’t make a fuss. They don’t expect flowers or dates. It’s simple. Uncomplicated. They get me off. I get ’em off, and apparently, not everyone they go out with does it for ’em. And we go our separate ways.” Then, something that hadn’t occurred to me but clearly did to him: “If you’re worried about catchin’ somethin’ from me, then you should know I’m clean. I don’t ever fuck without a condom. Not before and not after.” Then, shifting on his feet, he adds, “And not tonight either. Told you I’d keep you safe and I will. If we’re doin’ this, I’ve got rubber for you too.”

That’s not my concern. That was never my concern, so I let it go for now as I ask, “When was the… last time you had sex? Free or… or otherwise.”