Page 50 of Moth
“I bet that hurts,” I rasp.
“Like a bitch.” He runs a hand down the side of his thigh. “We could have picked a better color, though. Pink. That’s gonna leave a mark on my soul, bunny.”
“Don’t tell me Bonnie’s not a fan of the color,” I reply.
He laughs but raises an eyebrow as if he’s not sure why exactly he finds the response funny. “Who the fuck cares?” He sways again, letting his mouth brush the top of my scalp so that his words drip into my skull. “I don’t let her, or anyone, ride my dick longer than it takes to come. But…” I sense him hesitate. “Your boyfriend certainly seems like the clingy type. Five a.m. is a bit early for a wake-up text, bunny. Does the fucker ever sleep?”
My head swivels toward the living room. Even from here, I can hear that telltale ping. Sighing, Rafe lets me go, using the wall for support. As the seconds pass, his strength seems to return, enough that he can limp past me without assistance.
“Thank you,” he grits out, shooting a glance at the eggs still littering the floor. “I owe ya one, rabbit.”
“Wait.” I wring my hands together, unsure of why I just don’t let him go right now. He should. After all, what might happen to him next isn’t any of my concern. I wrestle with that logic, but in the end, it doesn’t make a difference. “Do you… Do you at least want something to eat first?”
Racing to the fridge before he can answer, I grab a pack of cheese from one of the shelves and blindly snatch a loaf of bread from the counter. Within minutes, I have two sloppily made sandwiches. When I finally look over my shoulder, I expect to find the front door swinging on its hinges, and Rafe long gone.
Instead, my gaze meets one of darkness, and I simply blurt out, “Whole or halves?”
He extends a hand streaked with dirt and blood. “Give me a whole one.”
I do, crossing the room on bare feet. He takes a bite while holding my gaze, and to his credit, he doesn’t grimace at the bland taste. I mimic him, and within the space of a minute, we wind up on opposite sides of the room watching each other.
He eats slowly, almost robotically. I can’t seem to take more than a single bite of my sandwich, though, and its remains rest limply in my hand. Rafe is on his last chunk of bread and cheese when I finally find my voice again.
“Who was that guy? G-Gino—”
“A dick,” he says before taking another bite.
“You could have killed him.”
He chuckles. “Could have. But I didn’t, now did I?”
“It seems as though it was personal,” I say softly.
“He’spersonallya dick, but that’s not what you meant, is it? He hates me because I’ve fucked his bitch.” He chews casually, almost as if daring me to react. I certainly don’t disappoint him when I flinch.
“She must be lovely for you to call her that,” I snap.
He grunts, licking his fingers. “She’s a good fuck. A bit clingy for my tastes. Spends my money like a motherfucker, but she’s real about what she wants. There are no games when it comes to her.”
My cheeks flame. I want to be angry, but I sense that every word he’s saying is designed to irritate me. Why? Because a tiny pinging tune keeps sounding every few seconds, drawing his attention to the couch despite my best attempts to ignore it.
“That’s not why you attacked him, though,” I point out, raising my voice over the noise. His mouth flattens into a firm line, and I wonder if I should even broach the topic. I shouldn’t—but I keep seeing that look on his face. That rage. That pain. “He called your mother a—”
Ping! Ping! Ping!My phone is alive, practically vibrating across the floor where I left it.
“You want to answer that?” he wonders, his head cocked, a far different question visible in his gaze.Why aren’t you answering it?
“You should drink something,” I blurt out while heading toward the sink, determined not to let him get to me. “You could be dehydrated—”
“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t ignore the glass I offer him, filled from the tap. After taking a measured sip, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and places the glass on the end table beside him. “You live here alone?”
I don’t like how curious he sounds. “Why?”
“I’m trying to decide if it’s you or your boyfriend who has such shit taste.” He eyes my bare walls with a scoff. “You need flowers or some shit, bunny, to brighten up the place. It looks like a jail cell in here—” He eyes my door, and the series of locks affixed to it. “This neighborhood is shit,” he admits, “but it’s not bad enough for that. Or that.” He nods to my television, namely the small camera perched on top of it. “You don’t strike me as the video making type.”
“Like you’re the expert?” I hiss, only to belatedly realize he might be.
“I just meant that your bed is small, rabbit,” he says. “I don’t see us fucking in it. And as a rule, I don’t bring chicks back to my place. I don’t like my sheets smelling like pussy. Maybe this is a sign?”
