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My own gaze betrays me by sliding down the length of his body, pausing on the hard outline of his cock against his jeans. That warmth between my legs pulses with a violent desire, a need only he can extinguish. Except the voice in my head taunts me, taking aim at my insecurity as I’m reminded he just let another woman touch him.
“Who is she?” I demand, dying a little inside as I do.
He smooths his hair back into place and looks off into the distance. “A club fuck. What’s it matter to you?”
“You were going to fuck her in front of me to prove a point.” My voice cracks, and pressure builds behind my eyes, which is far worse than anger because this is agony.
“I don’t owe you any explanations, Bianca,” he answers roughly.
“Stop calling me that!” I fume. “Don’t say that fucking name! I’m not her, okay? I’m not your ghost.”
Frustration rolls through his eyes as he drags a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Why can’t you just admit the truth?”
His voice contains an edge of vulnerability I’ve never heard before and something else that sounds an awful lot like sorrow. But none of it matters because he still doesn’t get it.
“Why can’t you accept that I’m not who you want me to be?” I reply. “Why are you so obsessed with someone who obviously never wanted you?”
He recoils, and for a second, I almost regret the words. But in the next breath, he makes me want to choke on them.
“You wanted me just fine when you were climbing on my dick every chance you had,” he responds coldly. “Are you going to tell me that was a lie, too? Who was it ever real with? Me or him?”
When I don’t reply, he shakes his head in disgust.
“That’s what I thought. You’re fucking twisted. You know that? You’re sick in the goddamn head.”
I know he’s talking about her. To her. But it doesn’t matter because his words pierce right through my armor and spear my fragile heart. I’ve lived with these thoughts for so long, questioning my value in this world. I’ve always felt like I was bad. Unlovable. Worthless. It’s one thing for me to think these things, but it’s another for him to speak them into existence.
“Just let me go then.” I try to shove past him. “Let me walk away if you hate me so much.”
He grabs me by the neck and traps me between his body and the truck, staring down at me like he’s not sure whether to kiss me or murder me.
“Your option to walk away ended the moment I laid eyes on you.”
I swallow audibly, and his eyes drift to the pulse hammering against my neck. Satisfaction flickers in his gaze, followed quickly by irritation. He hates himself for wanting me. He hates me for making him want me. I understand because it’s exactly what I feel too.
I’m torn between provoking that want past the point of no return or making a break for it. But when our gazes clash, deep down, I know I don’t have a choice. He would chase me. He will always chase me. And if I’m being honest, maybe I want him to. Maybe, as fucked up as it is, this is exactly what I’ve needed all along. Someone to want me. Someone so insane they’ll never let me go.
Only I know that’s just a warped fantasy. I can’t pretend to be his ghost, and he can’t pretend I’m anyone else. That acknowledgment douses me in cold reality.
When he makes the decision for both of us by taking a step back and telling me to get into the truck, I do. Long enough for him to close the door and walk around to his side. As he’s climbing in, I open the passenger door and fling myself out.
He mutters a curse behind me and slams his door as I take off running. It isn’t long before I hear his footsteps, and I know this is a losing battle. But it doesn’t stop me from trying, anyway. I don’t even know where I’m going. It’s dark, and the lights around the clubhouse do little to illuminate my path. Regardless, the where doesn’t matter. I have a point to prove. I’m going to make his life as difficult as possible because that’s what he’s done to mine.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he calls after me as I stumble over a rock.
“What do you care?” I yell back. “You hate me, remember?”
He doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t even act like he’s in a hurry to catch me. His strides are twice as long as mine, so he covers more distance in less time. I’m certain he thinks I’ll eventually wear myself out, which is why he’s not making much effort. Still, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself as I consider there’s an actual chance to do something here. If I put enough distance between us, I could slip away, hide, and leave him to wonder where I’ve gone. That thought lasts all of two seconds before my shoe catches on a gnarled root, and I go down hard.
