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I squirm.
I squirm because I am wet. Wet from my dreams, wet from wanting Cam. Does Rudy know? Can he tell? Am I failing at hiding my true feelings?
Am I just... failing?
Titters and guffaws greet Rudy’s words. “Oh, you,” Val says, slapping her knee. Her drink sloshes, the nice cocktail on the porch just at the beginning of the ritual. They drink every single night like this.
They must need the escape. I pity them.
I give a tight smile, working hard to make it earnest. Infractions need to be reported. Rudy is too loose. Too friendly.
Too possessive.
That hand touches my skin, squeezes my flesh as if he has the right to do so.
His touch is a death sentence.
His.
Not mine.
Why now? Why take the chance? What makes Rudy violate the sacred rules now? Is it because he knows how I felt yesterday, meeting Cam, being blinded by lust?
Am I that transparent? Is his behavior my fault? Did I trigger some desire in Rudy that he cannot help but feel? The Mother told me that I must be modest. That men cannot help themselves. That they are depraved creatures who are both powerful and weak.
And that I cannot be the cause of their weakness in sin.
But if Rudy is inherently weak, then am I truly to blame? My mind turns to a fog at the thought.
Val holds her glass up, jiggling the drink so that ice cubes tinkle against the sides of the glass tumbler. “Join us?” she asks, more focused on Rudy than on me.
The empty, hollow lives of people living in this suburb intrigue me. I’ve been told not to ask too many questions, so I don’t. I observe. It’s impossible not to.
Calibrating my outer appearance to the norms set for me means that my inner life is quite vacant. I fill it by watching other people, even as I’m so meticulously watched.
I want to be watched by Cam.
And no one else.
He makes me want to run away, escape and be with him, lie in his arms and exist simply for him.
As the rain threatens, a breeze touches my skin, making each hair follicle stand on end. The warmth of Rudy’s hand on my hip is horrifying. His smile as he turns to me, looking down, has a shadow I don’t like.
Something has really changed.
Rudy’s hands aren’t just transgressing. They’re bold and intense, like a man who is searching for limits. Crossing the line that leads to death is bad enough, but he seems to revel in it.
And push harder with each touch.
My heart begins to pump in my chest, banging hard against the ribs. I worry that Val can see it, a steady lift of my shirt obvious, right? How can blood pump so fast through my veins and arteries and not be seen by another?
“No, thank you,” I interrupt, overriding whatever Rudy was about to say.
His eyebrow goes up, his smile fading. His fingertips slide one inch up out of the danger zone, as if he can undo time.
The transgression has happened.
The transgression has been recorded.
