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She just kept staring, as if blinded by a light.
I felt like a first-rate shithead. That was my fucking doing. I shouldn’t have yelled at her over those images.
Women did that shit all the time with their boyfriends. She’d sent me an image or two, which I’d loved, of course.
But Crisp?
I sat on the floor and placed my arm around her as a friend would.
“I’m sorry. I’m pretty fucked up.” Her voice cracked.
“So am I,” I responded without thinking. I had done things I wasn’t exactly proud of. After my father died in that car accident, I’d gone crazy there for a while, picking fights with anyone and everyone.
“Come on.” I helped her up.
I dampened a face wash and washed her leg as she leaned against the wall.
I passed her the cloth. “Here, press that onto the wound, and I’ll look for the first aid kit.”
After bandaging her cut, I wiped the bathroom floor, then poured her a drink from the bar fridge and helped myself to a beer.
“I’m sorry for blowing up at you,” I said at last.
She drank in silence, staring into space.
“You need to see someone about—”
“Why do you care, anyway? You hate me. You think I’m a fucking slut.”
“I didn’t say that.” I rose.
“So, you’re going to storm off again, are you?” Looking haunted, her eyes were wide and almost black.
“Let’s not do this.” Hypervigilant, I went to the balcony, which had become a habit since arriving.
All I saw were people going about their normal lives.
I wanted to be one of them. I wanted normal—away from drug deals gone bad or sleazy billionaires with filthy images of the woman I thought I loved. A woman I suddenly found I couldn’t trust, even though leaving her seemed just as difficult.
Her eyes burned into me, and we had one of those staring contests we were good at. Funny, before Manon, I didn’t do that, but she had a magnetic pull on me.
The more dramatic her life, the more beautiful she looked, as though the dark shit inside of her brought out an alluring quality.
Or was that me signing up for a dose of masochism?
Why some men were drawn to women struggling with issues was something that used to puzzle me. I’d seen it often enough with my mates. Though complex and still difficult to understand, I suddenly found myself sympathising because of my own inexplicable and overwhelming need to protect Manon, like I was driven by some primal urge, which went beyond the sexual. Even after seeing those sickening images, a part of me screamed to run, but I couldn’t help but return. And there I found her in a pool of blood, crying to be saved.
But how could I when she kept pressing buttons that triggered all kinds of fiery responses in me?
We were on a rollercoaster, for sure.
One minute, she looked like she wanted to devour me, then she would switch into that lost child in need of rescuing. I also wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any woman. And though I hated her choices, I also wanted to hold her, fuck her, make love to her, and everything in between.
Was there a dictionary for feelings? Because to make sense of my emotions, I needed to learn a whole new language.
“Do you want to get a meal?” I asked.
“I don’t feel like eating. But knock yourself out.”
