Page 63 of Grift

Heat is starting in my chest that means tears will follow. Damnit, I’d promised myself I’d stop crying.

It’s a small space, with a side by side washer and dryer. I slam up the lid on the washer, stuff my clothes in and drop the top, throwing the dials and listening it whir to life while I wish away these complicated feelings.

“Hey,” there’s a soft voice behind me.

I spin around. “What?” My voice is all defiance.

“There’s no problem, Jess,” his voice is quiet, soft. But it’s not doing anything to cover the hard, raw edges that are turning his handsome face into a mask of despair.

“Then why are you treating me like this?” The tears do fall then, and for a second, he looks alarmed. Then it happens again: he seems to wrestle for control and his face goes back to neutral, distant, in charge.

For the first time in my life, I want to hit someone. He summons that mask and I watch in horror as it slides into place, obscuring any view of the real Patrick.

His eyes narrow. “Treating you like what? Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Everything feels like it’s spinning out of control. I don’t want to tell him what he’s doing wrong. I don’t want to say what I’m thinking, or let loose the feelings that are flooding my chest and making it too tight to breathe. I’d sacrifice anything to stop the hot, shameful tears from rolling slow tracts down my cheeks.

“Stop treating me like you’re an automaton,” I spit. “Like a robot. Like you’re some fucking sociopath with no feelings.”

That’s the thing about Patrick: he’s all impulse, all passion, all action. This version of him that’s so devoid of anything feels like he’s another man entirely.

It’s the most hateful, hurtful thing I can think of to say. Take the most private admission that he’s ever given me and twist it around, use it against him.

But I need to know. Need the see if there’s still anything there.

Is the Patrick that I’ve come to know, come to care about, maybe even come to love – oh God, please no – even there? Or did I just imagine him, superimpose him over someone who told me who he was and I ignored it, because I needed something to believe in.

“Is that what you think this is about?” His voice is low and threatening. “You think I’m doing this because I don’t care about you.”

He laughs but there’s no humor in it. It’s all darkness and chill. “You have no fucking idea how much I wish you were right.”

Patrick takes a step toward me, a desire so intense in his eyes that they could burn holes through my skin.

My hand flies up, to keep distance between us. “No, I don’t want you.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t? Because you’re calling me a psychopath because I’m not showing you my feelings and now, you’re telling me you don’t want me, and to keep my feelings to myself. Which is it, darling?”

Something dark overtakes me. I’m so tired of men letting me down. I’m so tired of being disposable. I’m so tired of life taking swings out of left field and knocking me down, right when I think I might be finding my footing in this awful, hard world. That’s all I can think, and when he takes another step toward me, I shove hard at his chest.

There’s more violence in the intention than in the actual act. Patrick’s larger than me by far, a full head taller and easily outweighs me by a hundred pounds. Even the full impact of my body trying to shove at him barely moves him back a step. But the intention of it? That detonates in the tiny space like a bomb.

Huge hands grab my wrists in an iron grasp, pulling them up over my head. I’m backed up to the washer which is shaking and rattling behind me.

“Do you want me to be a little rough with you, Jessica?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” I’m about to sob, choking around the hard lump in my throat.

He takes another step toward me. There’s nowhere left for me to go.

“Then why is your pussy so wet?”

His rock-hard cock is pressed up against me and my own fucking body is betraying me. Wetness pools and I can feel the magnetic pull to him, like always. Christ, he can feel it through my damned pants. That’s how much I want him.

“I don’t want you.” There’s no conviction in it.

“Then tell me to stop.”

He’s in my space, as aggressively as he’s ever been. But when I look up at him, I don’t see the distant, disassociated man of the past weeks. I see concern in his eyes that he’s not even trying to mask anymore.

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