Page 19 of Hostile Cravings
He paused, and I held my breath, but he didn’t turn back. Instead, he left the room. Silence engulfed me, along with something I didn’t like—an emptiness that sat too heavy in my chest.
I tried notto think of Tyson as time ticked by. I supposed I should have been thankful that he hadn’t brought the woman back to our room. For some reason, I thought having to watch that would leave me broken in some way. I just couldn’t figure out why. Digging through the trash, I returned my makeup to my bag and took it and my other toiletries into the bathroom. Evening had fallen, and I didn’t expect Tyson to be back anytime soon, if at all. I was starving, having missed lunch, and now dinner was passing by, but I was too tired to ask the men guarding me for food. Deciding to get ready for bed instead, I washed my face,staring at myself in the mirror as I patted it dry. Reaching into my bag, I prepared to paint my face again, to cover the freckles and the birthmark that sat like a brown stain on the edge of my cheek.
Tyson was right. I was hiding. I’d been hiding for years, hating what I saw reflected in the mirror, the reminders of my insecurities and of the pain those freckles brought me every time I saw them. I pushed the bag aside, deciding it didn’t matter tonight. I’d be sleeping here alone, so why bother covering it up? Contacts removed, I pulled my glasses out, something I never did, even at home with Tony and my father. They hadn’t seen me in glasses or without makeup since I was young. No one had.
With my hands poised to release the messy ponytail I’d pulled my hair into, I stared at the version of myself that I avoided, the one I never stopped to look at before I crawled into bed each night or before I put my mask on each morning. I didn’t know why Tyson’s words had hit so hard or why it mattered that he’d said them. But I was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of being someone no one liked, tired of the defenses I’d built, tired of fighting with him.
After leaving the bathroom, I looked through my clothes, hating them all when I looked at them through his eyes. I glanced over at his bag. Pulling my dress off, I put a pair of shorts on, then opened his bag, avoiding the boxers and personal items and pulling out one of his T-shirts. It was dark gray, and when I brought it to my nose, it smelled like him. His smell shouldn’t have been familiar to me, but it was because, as much as we hated each other, he’d been in my life for years. Long enough to recognize the way he smelled, the subtle cologne he wore.
Pulling the shirt over my head, I made my way to the stocked bar and poured myself a glass of wine. My ankle was throbbing, but I didn’t want to go to bed yet. Taking my phone and my wine, I sat on the large balcony. There was a small table with two chairs, and I pulled one over to prop my leg on. I scrolled through my feed, listening to the waves crash below, the sound of musicdrifting through the air along with a few voices. I wondered if Tyson’s was among them, if he was really with the resort manager or if he’d found another woman and was touching her.
It doesn’t matter, stupid.
This was fake and in a few days or weeks, we’d go back to our lives, back to the familiar hatred that rested comfortably between us.
The sound of the door made me jump, and I braced myself, not wanting to watch him bring another woman in for me to see him with. The thought was degrading, and I knew if he did, it would completely obliterate my ability to go through with this sham. I wouldn’t be able to look at him the same. I told myself it was the embarrassment of it, but I knew the truth. That deep down, I didn’t want to see him with another woman because it would hurt.
“Is that my shirt?” he asked.
“So what if it is? Take your slut and find another room,” I said, taking a sip of wine and not looking at him, afraid of what I’d find if I did.
He dropped a bag on the table and snatched the wine from my hand.
“Mixing—” he started, but as I looked up at him, he froze.
Shit, I hadn’t expected him to come in and I was vulnerable. No makeup, no contacts, no mask. Just me. I waited for the insults, the laughter, the jabs, but none came. Instead, he lowered the wine glass and brushed his thumb over my cheek, lingering on the birthmark. I dropped my eyes, fearing his words and hating that I felt so small, so unconfident, so seen.
“Shit, Anj,” he murmured. “Why do you cover that up?”
My sight leaped back to him. The hazel in his eyes was bright with a mix of green and amber, the moonlight illuminating them. There was a softness to them that I recognized from when he’d first noticed my freckles in his room. But where it had disappeared quickly then, it lingered now.
“Don’t joke,” I whispered.
“Who’s joking? You’re fucking beautiful.”
My heart thudded so loud I could have sworn it was loud enough for the entire resort to hear. The air in my lungs fled with a whoosh that forced my mouth open. Words failed to form and as if he realized he’d been sweet, he turned to the bag and began taking out wrapped plates of food.
“Did you work up an appetite with that woman?” I asked, relieved that his attention had turned from me and that no woman had accompanied him into the room. “Why not just eat with her, or was she that bad at taking your cock?” The words came out with an acidity that burned my throat.
“I didn’t sleep with her,” he muttered, removing the cover from my plate. My mouth watered, my stomach rumbling. Fingerling potatoes, fresh green beans, and a piece of chicken that looked delicious filled the plate.
“Why not?” I asked, grabbing a green bean and chomping on it as he uncovered another plate. “Did you find someone else? One with bigger tits and lips?”
He shot me an annoyed look before he picked up my legs and sat, placing my feet in his lap.
“I didn’t fuck anyone,” he grumbled, rubbing his neck.
“But you could have.” My voice was softer than I’d intended, and his eyes grew lighter.
“Nah, wouldn’t look good if I was picking up another woman on my honeymoon, now would it?” The way he said it was sweet, and I couldn’t help but smile.
He looked away quickly and stabbed some potatoes with his fork. Shoving them in his mouth, he rose and moved my feet back to the chair before walking from the balcony.
“Thank you,” I said, not really knowing why I wasn’t making fun of him and throwing jabs at him about not being able to get it up.
“I’d say you can thank me with that mouth of yours, but Idon’t want to risk you biting me,” he replied as he poured himself a glass of liquor.
“With as much of a prick as you are, I’d definitely bite,” I teased, liking the way the banter between us was settling the awkwardness in the air. Even if we weren’t lacing it with the usual vitriol.
