Page 116 of Ominous: Part 1
“Arianna,” she once told me before. “It means holy one.” She had laughed, and I didn’t know why. But then she added, “And Eli…” She smiled, lifting up the bucket to rinse my hair in the tub. “Eli means defender of man.” It seemed like a joke to me. Something I could never be.
Now, in the doorway, she just stares at Dad for several seconds.
Then she walks off.
I look down as Dad gazes after her, and I pretend to keep listening to music that isn’t playing. Dad gives me one last glance before he pulls my door to, but I see his shadow beneath the crack under it.
He doesn’t walk away for a long time.
I clear my throat,the memories too, and I say, “You don’t sound like you were born in a fucking toolshed.” I’m trying really hard not to smile, and it doesn’t help she is, too, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, cherry red blanching white. “I love your voice.” She blushes, glancing down again at her empty cup, and I add, for her benefit, “My mom was from Greece.” My mouth goes dry, just saying those words, and I have to turn away from her to look up at the screen, even though I’m not really seeing anything of the movie. I tighten my hold on my beer, digging my fingers into my scalp with my other hand, pulling my hair. “My dad taught himself to speak without an accent, something my grandpa passed on to him and my uncle.”
Eden says nothing, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Mom. I feel raw, just imagining what’s going through her head, and yet… I’m grateful she doesn’t ask questions.
“Uncle Edison, he owns an autobody shop, and trust me,” I glance at her, “his drawl is worse than yours.” I imagine my uncle wiping his hands on a faded blue rag, oil and grease smearing over both him and it, talking to one of his customers about“that rattlin’ noise under the hood.”
Dad and my uncle are worlds apart. Dad took my grandfather’s ambition and abuse to heart, growing up to try and conquer the world, which in his mind meant accumulating as much money as he could. Uncle Edison… he hated suits and lawyers and most people.
We get along great, and we don’t say more words than necessary to each other when we’re together.
“Worse?” Eden feigns offense. “See!” She points a finger at me, over the console as she sets her empty drink in the cupholder. “You think my accent is awful!”
I take another pull from my beer, place it beside her cup, and snatch her fingers, yanking on her arm so she’s leaned against the console.
Her body goes rigid, an automatic reflex I want to know more about, but I know I can’t ask her directly. No one likes to suddenly unearth all the pain they’ve spent a lifetime burying. For all I know, maybe she was just born with a dislike of touch. I know I was born wrong. Sometimes there’s not a reason why.
Still, I don’t let go of her fingers, laced now through mine, as I move closer to her, only the console between us as my eyes lock on hers. “I don’t think it’s awful. I think it’s sexy as fuck.”
She doesn’t laugh, or shy away, or smile. She just stares at me, and the scene goes dark from the movie, dimming the light in the room.
Her breaths come in quick pants as she holds my gaze, her lips parted.
“Yeah?” she asks quietly.
I feel my entire body growing with heat. “Yeah. Everything about you…” I flick my gaze down what I can see of her body. “It’s insane.”
For long seconds, she doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
I feel like I’m on the edge of something. She’s going to push me away, ignoring my compliments, or she’s going to come closer, and fucking devour me.
Another second passes.
Another.
Then she’s reaching for me with her free hand, pushing on my shoulder. She shifts onto her knees, then crawls across the console to straddle me, her knees on either side of my hips. Her hands rest on my shoulders, and she looks a little unsure of what to do from here.
I don’t know what she’s thinking, but the weight of her, solid and real in my lap, is making it very hard for me to think with anything other than my dick.
She shifts her hips and I have to bite my lip to stop from groaning as I stare up at her.
“Touch me,” she says, her voice a whisper. “Help me.” Her eyes are searching mine, and I don’t move my hands from my sides.
I close my eyes a second, my heart racing in my chest. In my head, I can still see her. Her bangs around her eyes, a few strands free from her braids. I feel her fat fucking ass on my thighs, the heat from her body in my lap, and her slender fingers on my shoulders, I could easily overpower her. Manipulate her. Push her back on the couch and fuck her.
But I calculate how many drinks she’s had in my head.
At least six, probably more.
