Page 89 of Play Dirty
After signing the papers, Mr. Bad Cop warns me to make sure I’m available for the investigation and leads me down another hall. Uncertainty washes over me. I’m not sure how I feel about going back to a world that thinks I’m a monster. A world where the girl I love turned me in. It’s only been two days, but it feels like a lifetime. The cuffs might be off, but freedom doesn’t feel like freedom when you’re walking through the exit of a jail in dirty clothes back to the prison that is Villalargos.
Thiago doesn’t say a word as he steps out of the passenger seat; Zayden’s behind the wheel. His knuckles are bruised and still bloody, his eyes avoiding mine.
No one says anything.
What is there to say?
Nice to see you. How was jail? What’s the point?
I’m free now. Is it over? Who fucking knows.
All I know is that she turned me in… and now I’m free.
The drive back is silent, everyone is lost inside their own minds…
Zayden’s grip on the wheel is tight as Thiago stares out the window, his knees bouncing like he’s waiting for the next war. Not even music dares to fill the air.
I stare down at my hands.
They’re dirty, scarred, and bruised. Yet somehow, they have managed to remain clean. But it didn’t matter to her.
We pull into campus, and I don’t wait. As soon as we park outside the dorm, I swing open the door and step out before either of them can say anything. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want apologies.
I want air.
I want to be alone.
Most importantly, I want Shiloh.
My feet guide me inside. After some food and a nice hot shower, I’m finally ready to go where my heart guides me next. I don’t even realize where I’m going until I’m cutting the corner and see light spill from inside. Quiet music is playing as I push the door open, and the scent of clay and lavender hits me like a ghost.
There she is.
Hair in a messy knot above her head, sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in clay like she’s trying to mold her guilt into something pretty. Ariana Grande's soft voice spills from her speaker. The song “Ghosting” plays quietly in the background as I watch the woman who owns my heart, like a stalker; she’s so concentrated that she hasn’t noticed— I’m here.
Right behind her.
Her fingers tremble as the wheels spin and the shape wobbles under her pressure. She doesn’t hear me as I step closer.
Quiet and careful.
The way you approach something that has never been yours and might disappear if you touch it too soon. I stop behind her. Just inches away. I see it in her body the moment she senses me. How she stiffens, her breath catches in her throat, and her hands falter.
Still, she doesn’t turn.
I place my hands over hers.
Slow.
Gentle.
Sure.
She gasps, but doesn’t pull away. “You’re pressing too hard,” I whisper. Her shoulders collapse— like she’s been holding her breath for days and finally lets it go. I guide her hand back to the center of the clay. We move together, breathing in sync as our palms slide together, steadying the shape between us.
“I didn’t know.” She says softly. “I thought– God. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I swallow the ache rising in my throat. My chest is tight. Rage, hurt, grief, and want all blend into one unique flavor, colliding and conflicting.
