Page 82 of Under the Lies

“I don’t pay attention to you, so you decide to throw a party?” He speaks in a hushed tone that’s like a caress on my skin. “Think I’d come running back for the little girl wanting attention?”

Each question feels like a dart hitting the board, each sting more bitter than the last.

“You invite that little fuck here in an attempt to make me jealous?”

My eyes narrow in a glare he can’t see. I hate how he can always read me, knowing my motives even when I’m unsure of them myself.

“It worked, didn’t it?” I challenge. “You’re here and you’re jealous.”

“I’m here, all right.” He chuckles. “Gabe sent me a picture of all the fun I was missing. But I wouldn’t hold my breath on the jealous part.”

“Right. Because I beat up people all the time just for the hell of it.” I don’t mean to, but my voice gets louder the longer I speak.

We might be trapped in darkness, making his face hidden, but that doesn’t change how tense the air is around us, crackling in vexation.

“He was in the way,” is all he says, tone neutral.

“You had him up against a wall!” I point out.

“He was in the way to get to you.”

He doesn’t say it in the way that speaks of butterflies swelling in my stomach, but more like a tornado ready to destroy me from the inside out.

Being in the dark, everything feels heightened. More intense than when we were in the closet at Heathen’s Hell, even more so than at the art gallery. Each had some, if little light.

Not like here. Where I only have my touch to guide me. Where I can only feel.

And he feels so strong, so sure between my legs I can’t focus on anything else as he shifts closer, eating the little distance between us.

My breath catches when I feel a stiffness brush against my thigh. His palm cups my cheek, finding my bottom lip. He traces it. “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Lost in the feel of his touch, the fight inside me morphing to something else.

“Have this party?”

“Because I wanted you to notice me.”

Maybe it’s the room, the lack of light that makes things feel more alive, or maybe it’s the wine I drank earlier that has me opening up in a piece of raw honesty, though by now the alcohol has left my system.

So maybe I’m tired of playing games and even though I started one to get him here, I want Noah to know what’s been eating me.

“I notice you,” his voice rough.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“You’re a weakness.”

“I’m not weak.” Indignation fills me. So does hurt. “Sure I’m not the most physically active or fit but—”

His mouth covers mine, promptly shutting me up. “You’re not weak, Sayer.” His nose traces my jaw, my lips parting as I’m robbed of air. “But you make me weak.” His nose leads him on a path to my ear where his teeth graze the lobe, pulling at it. “In the eyes of the world, you’re my weakness.”

His words pierce my chest, but not as much as the emotion behind them do. Raw and real, honesty bleeds through them. An arrow piercing my chest, a bullseye to my heart.

I reach up, grabbing the ends of his hair. “Show me,” I dare, pulling him back to my lips.

But before we can touch, something crashes outside the door, sounding like it shattered into unfixable pieces.

With a sound of frustration, Noah pulls away and storms out of the room. Leaving me flushed on a dryer.

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