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My dick is hardening, and my annoyance is maxed out. Her lips are so fucking pink. I’m on the edge of losing it. I know I am.
“You need to leave.”
“That book is mine,” she repeats.
“It was until you gave it to me,” I remind her. “Now, you don’t get it back.”
Holding the book tight in my hand, I walk over and open the old cookie jar on the small kitchen counter top. “How much was it?” I ask, fishing through the jar of cash I have yet to deposit.
“My words are worth a lot,” she says, and then I hear her stomp toward me. “Now the book—” She stops when she’s beside me and sees the cash on the counter. “Why the hell do you have all that money?”
I look at her and hold out a hundred. “I have a job.”
She doesn’t take it. She’s still looking at the cash. “You should put it in a bank. Someone could steal it.”
I give an annoyed laugh. “Nobody is stupid enough to come up here.”
She looks up at me. “Except me.”
“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, Tatum Longley,” I warn.
I expect her to be afraid, make an excuse to get the fuck out of here, but she doesn’t budge.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she finally says.
“Well, that’s pretty damn stupid.” I thrust the bill at her.
“I...” She stops and looks down.
I know damn well what she stopped herself from saying, I do, and I’m just waiting for it.
She looks back up at me. “Michigan State.”
I shrug. Hell, it wasn’t a lie.
“You... You killed a man.” She keeps her eyes trained on mine.
“Yes,” I answer automatically. I knew she was going to find out after I gave her my name.
She looks at me, just staring, not appearing disgusted or disappointed.
“Take the money, Tatum, and leave.” I push the money in her hand.
Instead of leaving, she grips my hand. “You had no drugs in your system. You didn’t kill her like they said.”
“Wasn’t convicted of killing her,” I tell her, shocked by the fact that she is still gripping my hand.
“You...” She pauses, and I pull my hand back. “You were seventeen.”
“Not discussing this with you.” I walk to the door and hold it open. “Goodbye, Tatum.”
She walks in the opposite direction.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask as she sits in the recliner and looks out the window.
She doesn’t answer. She just sits there and stares out the dingy fucking thing.
“I asked you to leave. Now leave!” I yell.
She looks at me fearlessly. “Not without my book.”
“I told you—”
“I spent three days looking at your case. Three days of trying to find a reason you didn’t tell them you were trying to protect yourself, protect her. Three days of trying to understand why the hell you never took the stand in your own defense.” She looks down and shakes her head. “Why didn’t anyone help you?”
I drop the book on the counter, walk over, grab her elbows, and lift her up to standing. “I said leave.” I am not going back there, not with her, not with anyone.
“I’m not afraid of you. I want to help—”
“No. No, you don’t,” I tell her, leading her toward the door. “It’s done. It’s over. I killed him, and I should have—”
“You should have done it when they started dating? You should have killed him then? That’s what you have been quoted as saying.” Her words come out rushed as I release her arm.
“Why the fuck are you doing this? A story? A fucking story?”
“No... Yes... No.” She shakes her head. “I believe you. I believe in you.”
“You don’t know me,” I growl. “Now get—” I stop mid-sentence when she starts to take off her shirt. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Rage, anger, hate—I understand all of those feelings. But this... this confusion is not something I feel. It’s black or white, right or wrong, good or bad, not this.
She turns her back to me, and I see what appears to be a bullet wound in the middle of her back.
“I tried to save him.” She looks over her shoulder, tears filling her eyes. “I tried to save him.” Then she turns around and fucking hugs me. “I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry no one fought for you.”
My body trembles as I try to step back, but she doesn’t let go. She holds tighter. Then she cries, and I hate it. I want it to stop.
“Stop crying,” I tell her as she grabs my arms and wraps them around her. “Please stop crying,” I repeat.
She does, but she doesn’t let go, and now I’m hugging her back.
“No, no,” I tell myself as I force myself back. I can’t do this. I won’t do this.
“You didn’t deserve what you got. You didn’t any more than what they said about you, about Maria, and—”
