Page 10 of Play Dirty
Someone who isn’t her.
“It was good, a little bumpy at landing, but overall well. How was your time with your family?”
Rolling the tension out of my neck, I look down at my beautiful girlfriend, and guilt haunts me. What would she think of me if sheknew the truth? I boop her nose softly, “It went well, played soccer with the little brother, and ate some home-cooked meals.”
She stretches her arms in front of her, showing the Cartier bracelet resting on her delicate wrist. Fuck,she deserves more than I could ever give. “When will I meet them?”
“Eventually, you know how I feel about bringing you there.”
She scrunches her button nose. “You know I don’t mind.”
And I know she doesn’t.
It still doesn’t help that I feel inferior to her. That I don’t want to bring her to my filth, no matter how much she pours into me. I still don’t love myself enough to bring her into my world.
“You’re back early.” I change the subject and try to fight back the urge to ask abouther. But the name is already forming in my head. The frost in my chest tells me it’s too late, and I ask about her best friend and roommate.
Shiloh Johnson.
“Blondie back yet?”
She laughs, covering her mouth. “Stop calling her that. And no.”
Curiosity creeps in like a parasite, gnawing at the edges of my restraint. Going crazy as my mind spirals, wondering what she’s doing.
How’s she been? Is she still with that asshole Asher?
I know. I know. I’m a dick.
But a dick with an obsession I can’t control.
Trust me, this sickness should have been cured that very night, but here we are. I know it’s not love, let's not confuse the feeling or me wanting Blondie. Ihateeverything about Shiloh Johnson, especially those damn fucking icy orbs.
Eyes that strip me bare when I look too long.
So I don’t.
I avoid her like the plague, and yet still she infected me.
Myobsession has nothing to do with love. It’s about destruction. I want to ruin Blondie, just like I’ve been from the moment I laid eyes on her. I clench my fist— opening it and closing it. Reminiscing about the feel of her skin beneath my calloused hand.
I push the thought aside, like I've pushed away Shiloh, and focus on what matters. June.
“Ahh, still vacationing and leaving you to handle the move all by yourself as usual.”
She rolls her eyes and turns away from me. June hates it when I pick on Shiloh — or when I’m just a dickhead towards her bestie. But what can I say? Shiloh brings out something in me I didn’t even know existed. Or maybe it was always there, buried under my bitterness. Who knows?
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I can try to be nicer.” I don’t know if I can manage to be nice, but I’ll always try for June. If she can’t have my heart, the least I can offer is my effort.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she holds out her small hand, three single bands adorn each finger. I gulp hard, a year later, and I still get queasy holding her hand. It just feels foreign to be lovingly touched after all the violations on my body. All it takes is a small warm smile from June before my hand interlocks with hers, holding the soccer ball with my other hand. I let her guide us, a gust of wind slips between us, moving her hair, and that’s when I notice the bruises on her neck.
I stop, my hand darting to the purple and bluish marks. “June, what’s this?”
June tenses, running her hand over the back of her neck. “I was organizing my books and was shocked when I turned.” She slaps the spot, and I catch the wince in her face. Yet she tries to hide it. “They all just fell.”
I quirk a brow. “Theyjust fell?”
“Mmmh, they just fell.” She pulls away. This time, her voice is too calm, even for her. It feels rehearsed. I don’t know what’s been going on with her lately, but she’s grown quieter.
