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“It doesn’t matter if I see the front or your back, Rubi. You’re beautiful. It doesn’t matter which side I see first.”
Tears well up in my eyes that I refuse to let fall. Maybe this is his way to mess with me, because nothing about the scars on my back are beautiful.
I turn around and lift my shirt so I can put on my bra. I hear the intake of his breath, and a single tear slides down my cheek. If he wanted me to pay for defying him, he just did. He can tell me I look beautiful all he wants, but that is a lie. There is nothing beautiful about something so broken and ugly.
I might as well get used to that reaction.
I lower my head, letting my damp hair fall forward once I put my bra on. Another tear falls, and I let out a slow breath to keep from sniffling as the hot tears fall to the wood floor like fat rain drops. My pride is hanging by a thread. The only thing I can think of is to be alone so I can wallow in self-pity.
“I think it’s best if you go now,” I manage to say on a shaky breath. My voice so low it is almost a whisper.
I know I did this to myself, but it’s better this way. To remind him that I’m not worth the trouble, and I’m not much to look at.
“I’m not here to pity you, Rubi. Put your shirt and jeans on. Let’s go.”
I turn around and he can see that I’ve been crying. A normal guy would come and hold me. A normal guy would do anything to comfort me, or even tell me that it is okay. But Ky is not a normal guy. He is cold, distant, and crazy. In a way, I prefer him to act this way than lie. What is better than a lie but the truth? They say the truth will set you free. I have learned to accept my truths.
No one loves me.
I’m damaged.
I’m broken.
I’m ugly.
Even to Ky.
Rubi
I’M IN THEcar with Ky, and he hasn’t said a word since we left the house. He made sure the window was left in a way that was easy to get back inside. I guess that is how he has been able to get in and out of my room. The cabin of the car is quiet, and it feels like the silence is going to strangle me, but when I look at the screen of the dash, there are so many buttons, I’m not sure what to press to play some music.
I pull out my phone so it can give me something to do while he drives to who knows where. I’m about to scroll through my social media when he presses the screen and “Angels Fall” by Breaking Benjamin begins to play. He reaches behind to the back seat without swerving and hands me a bag.
“I got this for you.” I open the bag and I notice there is a jean skater skirt. I glance at him, and he says, “Put it on.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to play a game.”
“What if I don’t want to play? What does playing a game have anything to do with wearing a skirt?”
I look up and notice we are back at the fair. The lights shining bright from the rides moving, swinging people around. The parking lot is still full of cars. You can hear the screams of people from a distance. There are lines of people in the front buying tickets.
He turns his head with a hard glint in his eyes. “A game I want to play with you, Rubi. It is part of the game. Like a uniform. Since you have such a hard time listening to what I tell you to do. This is the way I will make you understand. I brought you back here because we are going to play a game called twenty-two rides.”
Twenty-two rides? I have never heard of it, but there are many things I haven’t heard of and I’m curious. What does that game have to do with the fair and wearing a jean skirt?
“I have never heard of that game?”
He leans close and looks down at my thighs, slowly trailing up until he reaches my mouth. “Put the skirt on, Rubi.”
I sigh and look around but remember that his windows are tinted pitch black. I unbutton my jeans and lift my ass to slide them off. He doesn’t move, watching me fumble with the bag and the skirt. I slide the skirt over my thighs, and notice it is a tad short, but I think that was his intention.
“You have pretty thighs, Rubi. I’m going to love dirtying them.”
I suck in a breath when his lips are an inch from mine. His hand slides up my thighs until they are in the center of my panties under the skirt. The tip of his finger ghosting the fabric where my clit is throbbing to be touched.
“Ky,” I whisper, the movement causing my lip to brush delicately against his.
