Page 6 of Dark Wishes

Angling the nozzle of the faucet he rinses my hair. “You’re very blonde now.”

“Well, good,” I mumble. “The pink was just a stain, it should wash away clean.”

Jamison fists the middle of my hair, winding it, turning my head to one side. I can see him now; his intense eyes, his stiff jaw. I didn’t think my heart could pound harder. I was wrong. “It should help,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” I angle a brave smile. “Can’t recognize me anymore?”

His hand tightens in my hair. “It would be hard to forget your face.”

A droplet of water rolls down my cheek. More of them follow, tickling as they go. I taste the tang of bleach on my tongue when I lick. I should say something but... I can’t think. “The bleach is making me woozy,” I say.

“You’re sure it’s the bleach?”

“What else would it be?” This angle is awkward; I want to stand, but his fistful of my wet hair is holding me in the sink. “Let me up, Jamison.”

He stares into the depths of my eyes. It’s like he’s counting the flecks of color in my irises, cataloging them for some purpose I can’t grasp. His lips lie in a gentle swoop, the tension in his jaw nowhere to be found.

“Jamison,” I repeat in a hush.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

He blinks, breaking eye contact and standing. I can’t see his expression now, just the length of his muscular forearm. “You’ll drip water everywhere. Let me get that towel.”

His fingers leave my neck. My skin feels cold and tingly, more vulnerable than ever. Jamison’s hand was like a comfortable blanket, and with it gone, I shiver.Get a hold of yourself. You’re acting insane.

He cranks the faucet off, the metal scraping, knobs about to snap.

I don’t hear him leave.

I don’t hear him return.

The heavy silence permeates the kitchen, my breathing extra loud in the deep metal basin. The towel was right near us, what’s the delay?

“Jamison?”

Only my echo responds.

Chapter Two

Jamison

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It’s not too late to pour the bleach into my eyes.

Or maybe it is. Because even if I destroyed my eyesight, my treacherous brain would conjure up this picture of Selena for years to come. She’s bent over my kitchen sink, the tan skirt pulling tight across her ass. The hem brushes the naked skin behind her knees, and when she shifts nervously, it rises like the sea, taunting me with secret treasures.

She was getting excited when I washed her hair, rubbing her thighs together like it could relieve the ache. How wet is she? Finding out would be easy. I could do it right now.

This is a bad idea.

The entire situation is. Helping bleach her hair? What the hell was I thinking? My fingers in her silky tresses, feeling her pulse flutter under my thumb... I didn’t need to do any of that. Yes, bleach spots on my floor would be suspicious if the police investigate my house, but what I want to do to this woman is the real concern. At this rate, I won’t have to worry about hypothetical problems.

I’m about to create a real one.

"Jamison?”

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