Page 98 of Boy of Ruin
I finish my drink, my head spinning, a little loose. The constant memories that threaten to spill into my brain like black oil across a rough sea are tucked back effortlessly now, and I reconsider this whole policy I have about never drinking too much. With Sid…I’m reconsidering every fucking thing.
But I think, too, about grabbing the backpack from my room and rolling a joint.
Because my free hand is resting on my thigh, but it seems the alcohol has made my tremor worse. I have to consciously press my palm against my thigh to keep it from shaking. Luckily, Sid’s eyes haven’t left mine.
She’s still staring at me, a slight smile on her lips.
I think about her beneath me. How she let me cut her.
How she let me own her.
Was that a one-time thing? Can we do it again so soon?
Does she really love me? Will she run back to him?
I lean over, set my cup on the coffee table at her back. Her eyes trail over my body, that pale pink flush on her cheeks again. She bites her lip as I lean back, resting both hands on my thighs.
“Come here,” I tell her, jerking my head toward my lap. “Come sit with your brother.”
That pink flush turns a deeper red and she drops her hands from her hips, her fingers flexing and curling at her sides. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, and I know she’s fighting back.
But we both know now, now that I have her, she only has me to run to. She might as well make it a habit.
She lifts up her hand, her eyes tracking over her palm.
I tense, knowing what she sees.
My throat feels dry as her eyes finally shift up to mine again, the dim light of the living room enough to see the confusion warring in the silver pools of her gaze.
I tamp down on my rage. Refuse to look at that gun in the kitchen. At the knife on the island, still bloody.
“You thinking about him?” I demand.
Her throat bobs, but fire flashes in her eyes. “Jeremiah, don’t start—”
“Where’s your ring, baby?” I ask her, my voice hoarse.
Her palm is still up, but now she curls her fingers into a fist, her jaw clenched. I know what she’s thinking.
She’s pissed.
I enjoy it.
I sit up straighter, elbows on my knees, my eyes locked on hers. “Where’s your fucking ring? You tasted his blood,” my skin crawls with those words, my ribcage too tight, but I keep talking anyway, keep barreling past the pain, “he got yours.” Just like I did, now, fucker. “Where’s your goddamn ring?”
She swallows, drops her hand, her eyes narrowing. “I didn’t want a ring,” she whispers, her words a hiss, full of venom, but I think she’s lying.
I tell her just that. “You’re a fucking liar, baby. You’ve always been a liar. A runner too.” I glance toward the door, over her shoulder. “But you’re not running now. After I just ate you alive. Why is that?”
She sinks her teeth into her full bottom lip, holding my gaze as she does, wrapping her arms around herself, blocking my view of her tits.
“You wanna know what he did to me, baby?” I ask her, my voice as low as hers. As full of venom. “Before you start regretting what I just did to you,” I dip my eyes to her belly, covered by her shirt, “you wanna know what he fucking did?”
She stiffens, a muscle in her jaw jumping, her eyes wide as she stares at me.
Yeah. She hasn’t wanted to think about that shit.
Neither have I, for that matter, but with the alcohol in my veins, the way my hand is trembling noticeably against my thigh—although she’s too busy making sure she only stares at my face to notice —I figure tonight is the night we go down that fucking dark and dirty road. We can’t just fuck it out.
