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Norman isn’t a chatty type.
We spent the ride in silence, until he started making me uncomfortable with all the texting and driving and missing not one, but three of the turns I asked him to take. Logic tells me he’s just not paying much attention at all and has better things to do than drive some random girl around, but it didn’t make me any more comfortable with him knowing where I am.
He didn’t argue too much when I asked him to let me out. Asked if I wassurethis was right, watched me walk to the door of a random apartment complex, and left.
My feet hurt.
My entire body hurts, actually. I’ve been walking for three miles behind buildings and convoluted backroads, and have about half a mile left to go. The sandals were the most affordable in the set, but they aren’t walking shoes by any means, and even if they were, I haven’t gotten this much physical activity in years. Every vein is racing under my skin, my bones and joints grinding against each other like chalk. I can’t catch my breath, my vision is beginning to blur, and I’m sweating like nothing else.
It’s only making the crisp scent of Ghost’s soap fade more.
I guess that’s a good thing. Makes it harder to think about what I’m leaving behind.
It’s pitch black out by the time I’m nearing the driveway of Chuck’s place—my old home. My current home, I guess, if I can stomach it. It’s not much more than a little shack of an apartment complex, mostly abandoned and falling to pieces and surrounded by stray cats. But it’s better than sleeping on the side streets, I guess.
The door is cracked, with the knob nearly fallen off, and I let out a sigh at the sight. Don’t know if someone broke in or Chuck snapped it when he slammed the door on our way out, but my body couldn’t care less at the moment. Anywhere soft and private to fall down dead is passable to me.
Nothing has changed here, which is good news, I guess. Beer bottles still on the table, cans crushed on the floor with dirty, crinkled playing cards. Endless tracks of dirty footprints, questionable stains on every bit of the carpet. The overwhelming scent of…
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. All I can smell, even through the rotting moldy walls and blood and piss and liquor, is Ghost. Cool apple under the musky cologne and lingering kiss of paint and plaster.
I need to get out of my own skin.
I close the door as carefully as possible, leaving it cracked to air out the horrendous stench of nicotine and stale alcohol and every other godforsaken smell that lingers in this place, and make my way to the bathroom. I let the water warm up and fill the tub, perching on the edge and peeling the shoes off my feet. Blisters and sweat and pus and blood melt off my skin as the sting ricochets up my legs, tears stinging my dry eyes.
“Shit,” I hiss through my teeth, holding my own legs down by my knees. Sweat breaks out over my collarbone, my lungs clenching at every soft ripple of the water on my skin.
I drain the tub and refill it, tugging the T-shirt and leggings off and sinking down on the rough porcelain. If I thought I could stand, I would shower, just to avoid marinating in my filth. But whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I close my eyes and sink down, letting the water rush over my face and soothe my core. It sticks to my skin, heavy, uncomfortable. Grounding. Somehow, it’s easier to focus on the feeling of drowning than…
No. Nope. Don’t think anymore. Not about that. Not about him.
I scrub his soap off my neck, behind my ears, ramming my fingers through my dirty hair. I sit up and gasp in a breath, dropping my head back on the edge of the tub and rubbing the grimy water out of my eyes. It’s still there. His smell. Faint, but persistent.
How long will it be before I forget him? Will I ever… Do I want to?
No. No, I definitely don’t. I don’t think I ever could, but… I would love for my heart to not ache like it does right now at the thought of his face. Of the smile never meant for me, and the way his lip curled as he stormed away.
I don’t know how long I wallow in the tub, my skin swelling and wrinkling in the cold water that I can’t bring myself to get out of.
Under the bed, I’ve been stashing a couple bucks here and there for a year. I had to keep it small, lest I get caught, so it’s maybe enough to pay for these stupid leggings—but it’s a start. Chuck loses money all over the place, so I’m sure I can scrape up enough to get Ghost his funds back.
God, this sucks.
“Let it all out, dollface.” The floor creaks under silent feet, the words little more than a purr. “You’re so much prettier when you’re crying.”
I whirl around so fast my body cracks back against the wall, water sloshing up over the edge of the tub.
One of Chuck’s closest friends grins down at me with malice from his place in the doorway. He’s in a T-shirt and jeans, a casual blazer over that, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Cleaned up, like he hasn’t been home from work yet, hasn’t had his three beers to curb the sadism coursing through his bloodstream.
This is the man who took me first, the man who wanted to kill Chuck over a poker game, and bred a friendship just to have access to me.
Damian.
11
GHOST
