Page 9 of Crow

I crank the shower on and step under the spray, letting the rushing water cover the sound of my sobs.

I’ve been angry before. What kid doesn’t grow up at odds with their parents at some point, but this is different. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m living a life that’s not really even mine. Everything I do is about keeping up appearances. It’s like my dad is a powerful mage and my mom and I have to bend, scrape, and freaking bow to his every whim.

I’m so fucking tired of it.

Yes, that’s right.

I scream that foul word in my mind because I would never dare to say it out loud.

Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you!

I don’t feel the least bit better.

I need to leave.

I throw a hand against the wall to keep myself from falling over.

It’s true. I do need to get out of here. Not out of Hart, but just, this house. If I’m ever going to have a chance to be happy or even figure out what it means to beme, I need to stop cowering and bowing to my dad. I need to be able to make my own decisions. I want to choose what to have for breakfast and dinner. I want to decide how to spend my time. I want to work where I’m happy and do something with my future that I actually want to do.

My dad wanted me to be a doctor so I could minister to a person’s body like he does to the soul. He’s literally said that before. It’s just some grand delusion in his mind. I know that other parents have lofty goals and dreams for their children, but good fucking god.

I freeze, the blasphemy rattling through me.

And then, cautiously, I repeat it under my breath.

“Good. Fucking. God.”

I can just see my mom breaking out into hysterics, wringing her hands, fretting to my dad that I’m entering my rebellious era.

Well, better late than never.

I have money saved. My parents have always paid for pretty much everything. I have zero expenses. I’ve saved every cent from every job I’ve ever had. I worked for two years at the church before I went into college, since I wanted to take some time off and be sure that’s what I truly wanted to do with my life before I got into it. I worked during every summer, also at the church. I never made more than minimum wage, but it addedup. I still have the thousand dollars my mom’s parents gave me when I graduated high school.

I let myself dream for half a second about a place that’s entirely mine, about going to hair school, about getting my own car.

It spirals from there. The car rapidly transforms into a motorcycle. Not something huge or flashy like Satan’s Angels ride, but small and vintage with nice square lines. My dad would hate that so much. My mom would probably have a legitimate meltdown.

I imagine myself telling them to get fucked.

It’s such a delicious word that I repeat it in my head, over and over. I know it’s juvenile, but I do it anyway.

Get fucked, get fucked, get fucked.

Iwant to get fucked. I immediately think about Crow. What would he look like right now if he could see me, naked and soaking wet? What would he have thought last night if he knew how hot he made my body? How shivery and wet he made me in delightfully sinful spots.

I slowly bring my hand up, gliding it along my wet skin. I flatten my palm against my smooth belly. I don’t have one of those banging bodies like the popular girls did in school. I was no cheerleader or athlete. I’m barely coordinated. I could never have been a dancer, even if my parents wouldn’t have been appalled at the idea. I was the nerdy, brainy, quiet kid. I’ve been that kid all my life, hoping to go unseen.

Crow saw me last night.

I cup my breast, imagining his gaze lingering there, darkening with desire. I brush my thumb over my nipple, gasping at the sensation.

I’m twenty-four years old and not only has a man never touched me, I have never touched my own body.

I’ve allowed myself one sinful pleasure. The first time I did it, at fourteen, it was an accident, and I was certain I was destined for hell. I couldn’t stop myself after that, no matter how I tried. Once a month, sometimes more, I’d indulge for those few minutes of pleasure, trying to push away the guilt that would often linger for days.

It took years, but eventually I just stopped caring. The pleasure felt nice. If I was bound to be cursed and end up in hell with the devil claiming my soul. then surely, I would have been struck down and cursed already.

I pinch my nipple, the breath leaving my lungs at the sensation. In my head, it’s no longer my hands touching my breast, but a determined, inked set. His hands would be calloused, but not overly. He’d work on his bike, but they’re also the hands of an artist. Someone who makes wonderful images on living canvases. He’d be both tender and rough at the same time. He’d respect my boundaries, but push me past them.

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