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I spend a decent amount of time cleaning up after myself, wiping over everything I touched, including the knife from the block that I leave beside his body. I trash the place up a bit, taking some valuables, and then I leave Donald Fistler to rot.
It’s getting late when I cross the bridge. There’s no one in sight. So I dump Donald’s Mac air, the Rolex watch, and the rest of his valuables over the edge, watching it sink before I hop back on my bike and set off for home.
I head straight into my cabin, knowing Lydia will still be at Squealer and Alex’s place, but when I notice the porch light shining over my cabin door, it places warm contentment in my heart that’s got no business being there.
I shouldn’t hope that she will be inside waiting for me. I don’t deserve her to be, but as I open the door and step over the threshold, my eyes don't have to seek her out because they are immediately struck with hers. It feels like a punch to the guts, and I realize I’m nowhere near prepared for this.
She looks tired and broken, just like she did the day I brought her here. It clenches at my chest like an iron fist, especially when her eyes take me in, and she sees Donald fucking Fistler’s blood decorated all over me.
I swallow thickly, preparing for what’s about to come. Regardless of my intentions, I’ve treated her badly, and now she’s staring head-on at the real me. The brutal, barbaric man she saw as her savior in all his glory. A man who kills for his own cause and relies on blood and pain to feed his tortured soul.
The last thing I expect is for her to smile and race toward me, her arms wrapping around my waist and her cheek pressing into my chest. The way she clings to me suggests she’s afraid I’ll leave again.
“You came home,” she whispers in between her sobs. “I was worried something had happened to you.”
Her affection warms a part of me I forgot existed, but I don’t respond, mainly out of shock. When she pulls back, she makes a horrified gasp as she tugs at my blood-stained shirt.
It’s tainted, and I don’t want her touching it, so I force her hand away. I realize I’ve been too rough when she takes a step back, looking like I’ve made her sad again.
I don’t want to hurt this girl, but I don’t want her seeing me like this either. Resisting the urge to comfort her, I march straight to the shower to wash the molesting fucker's blood off me.
I spend far longer than I need to in the shower, knowing that Lydia deserves an explanation. I just wish I knew where to start trying to explain what’s going on in my head. Seeing her again has only reminded me of the constant battle going on between my heart and my conscience.
Eventually, I face the unavoidable, stepping out into the living area with a towel wrapped around my waist and my body still dripping wet.
I don’t make eye contact as I move through to my bedroom to throw on some sweatpants. I’m far too hot to wear a T-shirt, my blood is still on fire, and my muscles burn with tension despite the cold shower I just took. I plan on going out on the deck for a smoke. I can’t hash this out with her now, not while I still feel so much anger. But when I step out of my bedroom door, I don’t have that option because Lydia blocks my path, and she doesn’t look sad. She looks angry.
“Why do you keep rejecting me, Screwy?” I ask because I’m drowning in too many emotions. Anger, frustration, pain, and relief. I need an explanation.
Screwy takes a steady breath, one that suggests he’s tired and doesn’t want to have this conversation. The fact that this irritates me gives me the major confidence boost I need to push him for more.
“You tell me you don't regret taking me, you make me think you care about me, and then you leave for that run.” My lips start to shake as fresh tears build in my eyes.
I don’t want to cry. I want to be strong, like Rogue.
Screwy’s exhausted expression changes like I just flicked a switch, and now he’s mad. Really mad.
His jaw is tight, and his nostrils flare as they pull in air, and I gasp when his huge hand reaches between us and his fingers clasp my jaw.
He’s rough, unforgiving, and the way his eyes pull at mine gives me every reason to fear him. And yet I still don’t.
“You think I left for that run because I don’t care about you?” A deep crease forms along his forehead and the cruel laugh he fakes as his face moves closer to mine is out of character.
“I left because I care about you.” His eyes drop from mine onto my mouth, and his teeth scrape his bottom lip. “Because just lately, you are all I seem to fucking care about.” He makes the words sound like a curse. “I left here because every second of every day, I’m fighting a helpless battle and trying to stop myself from wanting you. I left because I needed to fucking breathe, Lydia.” His confession knocks all the air out of my lungs, and suddenly I have no idea how to respond to him. Turns out I don’t need to because I’ve opened up the floodgates, and he’s not finished yet.
“What you asked me to do before I left really fucked with my head.” His grip on my face slowly loosens into a caress.
“Why?” I stare back at him, blinking through my tears and trying to make sense of all this. “You just said you wanted me.”
“You are all I fucking want.” His lips draw up into a painful smile. “I want to take you into that room, lay you out on that bed, and make sure your first time is a memory you’ll never want to forget. But I don’t deserve it, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you. And when you’ve lived a little, seen the world beyond all this, you’ll understand that.”
“But—”
“I don’t want you to regret me,” he interrupts, his voice weak and his own eyes filling with tears as his palm slides up my cheek.
“Why do you hate yourself?” I lean into his touch. My heart breaks for this man.
Screwy doesn’t answer me. He just looks down between our bodies like he’s ashamed of something.
