Page 10 of Ominous: Part 1
After several seconds in our standoff, I release my grip on the wound, slapping my palm over the side of his car to keep myself steady, right above the door jamb that just tried to break my finger.
My body locks up, knees stiff so they don’t tremble, and it feels as if there’s sandpaper over my flesh, with both of his hands cupping mine. He has calluses along his fingertips and the edges of his palms, but it isn’t what makes my skin crawl. I don’t know what it is, about being casually touched, but I don’t like it. Not at all.
Or maybe I do know. Maybe I just don’t like to think about it.
I try to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, staving off the impending panic attack which will be far worse than slamming my finger in the door.
Gently, as if he’s caring for a wounded bunny instead of a very tense girl, he coaxes my knuckles out, to straighten, and he runs his thumb very carefully over the underside of my middle finger, pausing at the Band-Aid, frayed at the edges. I imagine even his medical supplies are far superior to mine and I clench my teeth, my pulse erratic.
I just want to run to my front door.
But I can’t move.
He continues running his thumb over the sticky soft feel of the covering, then his eyes lift once more to mine. I can feel my heartbeat in my finger, but I can feel it everywhere, so I’m not sure it really means anything.
“You’re bleeding.” His words are little more than a whisper.
“Good thing I’ve got a Band-Aid,” I say through a locked jaw.
He shakes his head, huffing a sigh of a laugh. It’s enough to make me wonder what the full thing sounds like. But that thought is obliterated as he brings my fingers up, toward his mouth.
My lips part, just like his do, and fire courses through me, telling me to pull away. To snatch my hand back and fucking run.
Don’t let him get this close.
It’s bleating in my brain, firing on all cylinders. I can’t even hear the dinging of his car anymore. The hairs on the back of my neck raise and all I want to do is get away.
But before he does what I thought he was going to do, he stops, my fingertips inches from his mouth.
He looks down at me through his lashes, and he says, “I think this means something, you know.” And without elaborating, he slowly lowers my hand, releases it, and swipes up my bag, slinging it on his shoulder. Casually, as if nothing just happened, as if I’m not trembling everywhere, he turns toward my tiny porch, the three steps leading up to the door, content to ignore the ding of his car. “I’ll walk you up,” he says, not even looking back.
* * *
In the darkness,I close my eyes and sink down under the water, holding my breath as I go. A single candle flickers on the counter, a mere foot from the bathtub, but down here, shower curtain pulled closed and eyelids blocking out any light, I can’t see it.
Down here, everything is calm.
The faucet is off, the water is boiling, my fingertips graze the bottom of the tub.
In my head, I see Eli’s dark green eyes.
Come closer. Come closer. Come closer.
A shiver of fear slips under my spine, my nipples tighten into sharp points, and I think, perhaps, I should come up.
Just a little longer. I can be unafraid.
Sebastian is home, one wall away. If I need anything, I know I can go to him.
Eli’s mouth over mine. His fingers wrapped tight around my throat.
My hand drifts over my low belly, desire coiling inside. Then I think I hear something. The picking of a lock. A man’s footsteps inside the small bathroom.
I shoot up to the surface, gasping for air as I twist around to the ledge of the tub, snatching back the curtain.
I blink in the flickering candlelight. Shadows dance along the wall.
The door is closed.
