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“I know.”
I wind my arms around his waist and plaster my cheek over his back, holding on to him.
“This is stage five clinginess, you know that, right?”
Closing my eyes, I reply, “Whatever. You like it.”
I feel his short burst of laughter as he kickstarts his bike, puts his hand on my arms and gets me to tighten my grip around him. The bike comes to life beneath me, vibrating against my sated core.
As we take off into the night and I breathe in the air of freedom, I decide that no matter what he thinks or says, I’m saving him.
I’m going to save him from his glass tower and I’m going to save him from all the cruel people in his life.
And while I’m saving him, I’m also going to kiss him.
On his mouth.
I was six when they diagnosed me.
It started with ADHD that led them to figuring out that I had dyslexia.
My dad wasn’t happy, but I guess he accepted it. He thought extra lessons, special tuition would make me good as new in no time.
But by the age of seven, they found out that I had dysgraphia too.
That pissed him off, I think.
But I can’t be sure.
All I remember was me working hard and my dad not being happy about it.
I remember him finding faults. Tearing up the pages of my book. Every night he’d come to my room and demand that I read to him. When I struggled to spell out words, he’d leave frustrated. He’d tell everyone to not let me go outside or have any play time.
He’d fire tutors left and right when he thought they weren’t doing their jobs.
Then I made them that fucking card. And that was when I realized that my dad, all his anger and aggression, was because he was dyslexic too.
“It didn’t take me that long to learn how to write.”
That’s what he said to my mother that night.
I asked Nora about it and she told me.
So my dad, Benjamin fucking Prince, was dyslexic himself. Maybe all his frustration was due to the fact that his son was imperfect like him. Maybe I reminded him of his childhood days. Maybe he hated me because I was too much like him.
Talk about a fucked psychology. I’m pretty sure a shrink would love to figure him and his self-image out.
I quit figuring him out a long time ago.
All I care about is making him as unhappy, as miserable as he made me all my life. If that means never learning to read and write like a normal fucking person or unlearning whatever I’d learned, then so be it.
Blue thinks I’ve been bullied into believing all the crap about myself. She couldn’t be more wrong.
The thing is, I don’t care what they made me believe.
All I care about is my revenge.
My hatred for the man who gave me life.
My bully.
I’m in Zach’s room.
It’s nothing illegal. I’m just here to clean. Actually, Grace was supposed to do that, but I switched towers with her.
She smiled at me a little but other than that, she didn’t say anything.
It’s okay. She’s good at keeping secrets. Not that anything secretive is going on here. I’m just doing my job.
Among other things.
The only kinda iffy thing is that the door was locked and even after knocking, he didn’t open. But I got in anyway via a hairpin; I had it on good authority that he was home.
And he is.
He’s in the bathroom, taking a shower, and I’m out here, making his bed.
Over the gentle hum of the water and trying not to imagine him naked, I straighten out his pillows, tuck his bedding the right way and pick up his strewn-about clothes. Even with that, I think his is the cleanest room I’ve cleaned.
His book is nowhere to be seen and I wonder what he did with it. I wonder if he still has it.
Then the shower’s turned off and a shadow falls across the room – as crazy as that sounds – and I know he’s out.
He stands at the threshold of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his slim but muscular hips, and he’s drying his wet, extremely wet, hair with another one.
His eyes are trained on me but he doesn’t look surprised to see me. I might be losing my touch there.
I might also be losing my mind and all my senses because all I can do right now is stare at him. Stare at his gorgeous cut body.
I’m not one of those girls who go all crazy over a good physique. Nope. I mean, I enjoy it but I don’t make it my wallpaper. But I’d make him my wallpaper and I wouldn’t even be ashamed of it.
Take his neck, for example. It’s something so innocent and mundane, but not on him. On him, neck takes on another meaning. Long, graceful, tendons rippling, veins standing taut.
