Page 22 of Savage Salvation

“Kinsley,” I say her name as her eyes finally meet mine. There’re no tears, but I see pain looming in them.

“I hate you. I really do.” Her voice is low, wavering, but her eyes are hardened, steely. “If you truly know what that stupid taffy means to me and gave a flying fuck about anything other than yourself, you wouldn’t use it to torment me. And the fact that you remember the significance and still continue to taunt me with it says all I’ll ever need to know about you.”

I can still taste the sweet candy lingering on my tongue. The only reason it’s there is because of her. When she goes to step around me, I shift in front of her. I thought I was cracking her hard shell, but she’s cracking mine instead. “Aren’t you tired?” My hand comes up, cupping her cheek. My thumb rubs across the dry, soft skin that once had tears. But not anymore. “Tired of not feeling anything but pain? Not feeling shit, other than misery?”

The tension in her shoulders lessens, her eyes closing. “I’m just tired of this place. Of all of it. And above all … you.”

“No. You’re exhausted from all the bullshit. Just like me. You want to feel something real for the first time in your life.” My lips brush tenderly along hers, but she remains unresponsive, her shoulders still hanging in a defeated submission. I wanted her surrender. But not like this. I need her fire, and I need her to crave me as I do her. “Let me show you. Just once.” Because that’s all it’ll take. That’s all I’ll need to show her how good we can make each other feel. And my desperation is no longer a secret when the words fall off my lips against hers. “Please, Kinsley.”

16

Kinsley

Gage Hawthorne just used the word please. I didn’t think it was part of his vocabulary. But he just said it, lips on mine, tenderly kissing me … and I’m letting him. Why? Because I’m so tired of fighting him. Because he’s using my mom to do it now. Yanking a memory of her into his evil plan.

But in this moment, he’s something else. A gentle, affectionate guy who I want to kiss. His words struck me—I do want to feel something real. But he’s not it. Not this version of him. Not the one who’s pulling me closer, devouring me with his mouth. His kiss becomes eager, and his hands drop to my ass, gripping as he swiftly rotates and pins my back against the door. He pushes me against the solid surface, pressing forward like he can’t get close enough. And I know the feeling when his rock-hard dick rubs against my stomach, even with the material between us, it sends pleasure through me, a feeling I bask in for a moment as it moves through me. Wanting to feel more but not wanting it at the same time. My body can get pleasure with him, from him. I’m sure he could make me feel things that I’ve never imagined. Because his kiss alone brings something amazing to my core; it rises in my chest, something no one has ever pulled out of me. But it’s not real. He’ll use my body, then discard me. Then the cruel beast will return, and he’ll have more to use against me. No trace of this passionate version will remain. Because it’s not real.

Squirming out of his vice grip, his lips leave mine, sending a good dose of reality to my mind as my hands press against his chest, pushing him back enough to look at his face. His eager, intense need is clear in his tempting eyes. But he won’t get his way. I can’t allow him to take and destroy me. Because he will.

“Nope. Still feels like shit. And I still hate you.” I feel the way his muscles go rigid under my touch as I force him back, turn, and pull the door open. His fists slam on the door, smashing it closed the few inches I’d managed to open it. My fingers grip the doorknob, my back to him as he leans against me, his mouth by my ear. His fists remain on the door at either side of my head, caging me between his arms.

His harsh, determined tone causes me to flinch slightly as I hear his words. “Then use me. Fuck me. Take every ounce of that hate you feel for me and siphon what you need to replace it. Because I don’t believe for one goddamn second that you don’t want this.”

“That’s because you’re deranged.” And I am too to be standing here, in this situation with him. How the hell had it even come to this? And how do I get away from it, from him, intact?

His left fist moves off the door, his knuckles drag down my cheek. “You’re so fucking scared. But not of me. Of yourself. Because you know hate-fucking me will feel better than anything you’ll ever experience with anyone else.”

“Pain. That’s the only thing you’ll ever give me.” And the reason I can’t surrender to him. Even if I want to feel something other than emptiness, I know the euphoria provided will be short-lived and encased in severe agony that will soon follow. It always has been from him.

“Because that’s all you’ll allow.” He shifts back, and any lingering tenderness vanishes as he flatly says, “Have a good show tonight.”

He yanks the doorknob, pulling it open which forces me back. He steps through the threshold, slamming the door behind him.

My show. That was a threat. Only, I don’t know exactly what to brace myself for. Is it even possible to brace for his dark, twisted mind?

* * *

The rest of the day has been surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. I skipped the remainder of first period, knowing I wouldn’t be missing much instruction with Polski in charge. The rest of the day played out uneventfully. Only a few awkward conversations with Isaac were out of place including at lunch, but thankfully Gage was a no-show there and behaved himself when he did appear in class, albeit in a sullen mood.

Isaac seems to be out of his mood finally, a smile on his face as he walks in to Savage Serenade. “We have to go, Kins.” He waves at Johnny, who is standing across the store speaking to a customer.

I’d offered to help him out, but Johnny fussed, saying I wasn’t even supposed to be working since we had a show tonight. I wasn’t technically working, just hanging out until it was time to head out. And as much as Johnny lets me practice when I’m on shift, I don’t mind helping him out even when I’m not on the clock.

“Did you want to ride with me?” Isaac asks.

“No, I’ll meet you there.”

He nods even though he’s not happy with a solo ride—but it’s a whole twenty minutes away, so give me a break. “See ya there.”

Glancing over, I see Johnny is still engrossed in his conversation, so I head to the back. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a black racerback, I slip on black flip-flops. The great thing about the bar crowd, they don’t give a shit what we’re wearing as long as we’re performing and they’re drinking.

Moving next to the bed, I toss the quilt back, feeling around but come up empty-handed.

No. My guitar. It was here. It still has to be. Frantically searching in every place it could’ve become wedged, it’s not like a needle in a haystack—it’s a damn electric guitar. And it’s not here. It was on my bed when I left this morning. I know because I was sitting on the bed, playing unplugged, just trying to chill before I had to head out. When I stood up, I set it down on the mattress, and went to Sacred Creed.

Gage’s words ring in my head. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But he could. He got in here the other night when the alarm was activated and the doors were locked. Rushing into the main area, I hastily move next to Johnny as he looks to me, stopping when he sees me in a panic that I’m doing my best to simmer down. “Has anyone been in the back?”

“No, why?” he steps towards me, giving the customer a signal that he’ll be just one second. And I hope that’s all it takes to find something that feels very much like my lifeline.