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My ass hits the edge of the table, the cool metal seeping through the thin material of my shorts.
“What is that?” His voice is low, menacing. His eyes are still on my wrist, which,stupidly,is still held in the air.
“Ben, I—” I try to drop it, but he wraps his fingers around it.
If you’d have asked, I would have thought he’d snatch it, grab it.
But the hold . . .
It’s soft. Gentle. He takes a step closer, less than a foot in between us.
His skin is on mine.
Flames are licking me from where he’s touching me, moving down my arm, heat pooling in me.
“What is this?” he asks again, his voice a bit gruffer, angrier.
“Ben, it’s nothing, I—”
He closes the gap, pressing his hips to mine, pressing his belly into my hand pinned between us.
“Who did this to you?”he says, his voice louder now in the small space, angry and frustrated.
“Ben, you’re scaring me,” I say, a shiver in my voice.
With my words, his eyes soften.
His grip loosens.
He doesn’t move away, though.
Instead, he moves closer and uses his free hand to move the little hairs that always fall from my braids around my ear.
“No. No, Lola. You never have to be scared of me, sweet girl. Ever.”
“I have a lot of things to be scared of, Ben.” I don’t know what makes me say it. It’s like when I’m in his presence, my filter melts, common sense goes blank, and I say what’s on my mind instead of what I should.
The words I was trained to say.
“Everything is fine.”
“I’m happy.”
“Our thoughts and prayers . . .”
“My dad is a great man.”
Instead, when I’m with Ben, I find myself telling him what I really feel.
Whether it's that he’s a total fucking dick or . . . something else.
And that? That’s dangerous.
Because underneath my perfect mask is a person who I’ve never shown anyone. Not completely.
She’s a person who would disappoint my dad. That betrays the promise I made my mom. She’s a person who isn’t perfect and sunshine and rainbows every day.
“What do you have to be scared of, sweet girl?” he asks, that hand now resting on my neck, gripping it, reassuring.
