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“Let me explain it more clearly since you don't seem to be getting it,” she spat, blushing so deep it was like I was being yelled at by my very own Tinkerbell.
I smirked.
That's right, Tink, get angry. See if I give a pixie-dust-coated fuck.
Newsflash, I don't.
“I. Do. Not. Have. The. Journal.” She spelled the words out for me like I had shit for brains and accidentally mistook the location of a woman’s clit for that of her asshole.
My hands moved to her leotard.
“Please, Kaleb.” Her hair chose that moment to break out of her bun. The strands hanging dangerously around her shoulders.
I paused.
The broken tights dangled between us. A shredded flag of surrender.
“I don't have it.”
Her ocean eyes were pleading with me. Sucking me in with their endless depths.
But I saw her.
The guys showed me the video. I remember them pulling me aside shortly after I left her in my room back at the mansion. The black and white security footage clearly showed me what my brain at the time had refused to acknowledge. I had seen her. My very own Blondie with her grubby little paws all over what was mine.
Quite the little liar this one. Looks like it's time to change tactics.
“So, you like to dance?” My fingers threaded under the straps of her black leotard. Stretching the fabric under my thumbs.
Her eyes blinked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Why? Why do you dance?” The question came out as a soft whisper, a caress. My fingers edged the strap off her shoulder.
I kissed her there. On her bare shoulder.
She sucked in a breath.
For some reason beyond me, I just couldn’t resist touching the girl. Making her squirm. She was like a burning flame, and I was the fucked-up moth.
“It distracts me,” she finally admitted. “Takes my mind off things I would rather forget.” I grunt, trailing my fingertips along her collarbone. I knew all about wanting to forget. Too bad it was only a pretty theory for guys like me. Forgetting is a little harder when you have blood on your hands.
“And what if it was taken from you? The ability to dance. What if it was stolen from you by none other than a lowly stranger?” Her eyes crinkled in annoyance.
“What would you do then, my little dancer? To be able to dance again?” She growled, the sound vibrating across my chest.
It was clear she wasn't going to answer me, but she didn’t need to. It was in her eyes. The defiance, the anger, she would do anything. Just as I would do anything to retrieve what belonged to me. And that journal sure as fuck belonged to me and me alone. The only question was what was keeping her from giving it back to me?
“I don’t know why you’re lying to me, Blondie. But I would be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t curious.” Stepping away from her, I made my way across her apartment, taking in the unfinished works. Blue paint was scattered across the canvas in front of me. A pair of dark eyelids outlined in black sharpie. Another depicted a crying woman, her tears a violent waterfall of purple watercolor.
So, the silly little girl had talent. Unfortunately for Blondie, I was fresh out of fucks to give. But even a monster like myself couldn't deny that the doll was intriguing. In the way all broken, damaged things drew you in. Making you believe you wanted to know more.
Ignoring the flutter of intrigue flapping in my chest, I invaded the artist's little world. Running my hands along her jars of paint brushes, staining my fingers blue, black, and red.
I laughed. Oh, would you look at that my hands are dirty again. In other fascinating news, the sun rose this morning.
“Stop doing that,” Rose grumbled, grabbing the paintbrush out of my hand.
