Page 13 of Make Me Pretty
Some things are better left unsaid.
“Nah, man. I barely know him.” Which isn’t technically a lie but feels like a very big one. I wipe sweat from my forehead.
“He seems to think he knows you,” Gabe responds nonchalantly. Like those very words don’t rock my entire, carefully rebuilt foundation.
The air is suffocating,filled with hisscent—whatever it is. Like cheap bar soap, candy, and iron.
Abel has his window rolled down all the way, scrawny, scarred arm waving through the air as I drive through town, where I hit every single red light possible.
Idling at the third one, I card my fingers through my hair, resting my head in my palm with my elbow wedged against the window. The glass is cool against my skin, a nice contrast to the heat blowing through the vents.
Abel taps bruised fingers atop his thigh in beat to an Eminem song, his overfull, cracked lips mouthing the lyrics.
A car honks from behind me, jolting me from my reverie. I glance up at the green light and step on the gas, keeping my gaze fixed between the road and storefront windows embellished with cliché Halloween decorations—spiders, webs, witches cauldrons.
The sight of them takes me back to the years when I felt excited to decorate, the promise of candy in the following weeks almost too much to stand.
Now, it’s tainted with sour memories. Like everything else.
“You can drop me off up here,” Abel says, flicking his fingers toward the thrift shop a block away as he rolls his window up. I pull into a spot directly in front of the door, racks of clothes easily seen through the clear glass.
“My mom gave you more than enough for brand new clothes,” I mutter as I shift the car into park. Abel turns slowly, pinning me with his standard, blank stare. It’s fucking unnerving, not being able to read a single emotion.
The brat is good, I’ll give him that. The way he pokes and prods, even in his silence.
I swallow slowly, fingers flexing on the cracked leather of the steering wheel. Static from my aux fills the small space of the car, causing the microscopic hairs on my ears to stand on end. My eyes flick toward him. He’s turned in the seat, knees pressed against the gear shift, hands curled softly in his lap.
His jeans, at least two sizes too big, are ripped and frayed with a discolored patch placed haphazardly. I can’t see his shoes from here, but I don’t need to see them to know what they look like. Pink, high-top Converse, old and stained, probably mere weeks away from acquiring some holes in the soles.
The strap of his belt—also too big for his scrawny frame—hangs near his crotch with cheap, silver studs, many of which are missing. His shirt is black with some sort of gothic cross plastered on the right side, faded blue lettering peeling off across his other pec.
I follow the frayed, stretched color up his long throat and sharp Adam’s apple and over his chin. His jaw is lopsided, lips too full. Too pink. Bruises mottle his skin, one eye still swollen, the opposite eyebrow split, now forming a scab.
“Getting your fill?” His surprisingly low voice obliterates me. I jerk away, slamming my head into my seat. My fingers are clamped so tightly around the steering wheel, my knuckles are bloodless.
Fuck, why’s he so pretty?
“You haven’t been flirting with me.” It’s not a question, but Abel takes it as such. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.
An indecent and disgusting snort leaves his ugly mouth. “Of course, I have been.”
I leave my eyes closed, forcing breath into my aching chest. “Why?” It comes out choked.
“Why not?” he counters quickly. I pin him with a quick flash of a glare that goes ignored. “I know it pisses you off. How you hate all the attention. The way everyone notices how I can’t keep my eyes off you. They think I want you. They think you want me, too.”
“I don’t!” I snap loudly. My voice echoes around us—deafening. All Abel does is smirk at me. Unperturbed and so goddamn confident. Utterly unafraid of the consequences.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Abel.”
“I usually don’t,” he acquiesces, which makes me snort indignantly.
“I mean with me.” I drag my hand through my hair, pulling it back from my face. “You’re trying to… I don’t fucking know what, honestly. But you’re pushing me too hard. I don’t want to be cruel.”Liar.
Biting back a slew of vomit inching up my throat, I face him. Let him see, just a little. What I can control.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”More lies.“And I think I just might if you don’t stop.” Abel’s eyes sparkle in the sunlight, gray irises appearing molten. “We can be friends if that’s what you want. I—I’ll try. But…”Just say it. You need to.“Please stop whatever game you’re playing.”
It’s come down to this.Begging Abel for a reprieve from his torture.
