Page 40 of The Misfits
I nod without thinking, the promise in his eyes deserving a decisive response.
My scalp stops screaming in pain when Dexter releases it from his grip to shove me backward. I land on the wall with a thud, the pain barely noticeable since my focus is locked on his looming frame. The veins weaving through his thick biceps pulsate as his glassy eyes scan my body. His watchful glance sends a fiery sensation shooting through me. This one is welcomed since it is minus the truckload of confusion it generally arrives with.
Only now am I realizing why I had an instant connection with him. We’re one in the same—two misunderstood people shrouded by darkness. He doesn’t care about the immorality in my eyes because he has no intention of dousing it. He wants to nurture it, to see it reach its full fruition.
The thought is both terrifying and exciting. For years, I was told to ignore the voices in my head. I won’t have to do that with Dexter. I can explore why it feels good to stand a little jagged and separate from the crowd. I’m not different. I am unique. Those are two entirely different things.
“When was the last time you were medicated, Megan?” Dexter raises his eyes to mine before counting down. He starts at mere minutes before extending to hours, then days.
“Three days?” he confirms when I nod.
I nod again.
His lips twist as he contemplates. I don’t know what he’s pondering, but he reaches his deliberation quickly. It isn’t just the fire in his eyes bringing me to this conclusion. It is the growth between his legs that even a sturdy pair of jeans can’t hide.
“Fifteen is old enough to bleed.” My pupils widen to saucers when he adds, “I’m not going to cut you today. We’ll work up to that, but I will lick your greedy pussy. Tease your clit. Maybe bite it a little. Then once you shatter like glass, I’ll teach you how to please me.”
I shudder at the thought. It isn’t a scared tremor. The confidence in his tone assures me this will be a lot of fun.
“Then you’ll stroke me with your hand, your mouth, and your pussy.” He tugs my hands away from my erratically panting chest to expose my breasts to his hungry gaze. “I might even fuck these.”
My nipples stiffen into hardened buds.
“Then, once you’ve mastered my lessons, you can test them out on Nick, be one of the many hoes he fucks while on tour. Is that what you want, Megan? Do you want me to show you how to pleasehim?”
Just the mention of Nick’s name has my feet scampering backward. Not because I’m filled with remorse at how horny Dexter’s words make me feel, but because of the hate in Dexter’s eyes. He isn’t looking at me with love and admiration. He’s glaring at me like he despises me. Like he wants to use and abuse me like every other man in my life.
I thought he was above the manipulation and underhanded tactics men like my father used.
Clearly, I was wrong.
“Ugh!” I grunt when the back of Dexter’s hand grazes my erect nipple. He chews on his lower lip, loving how it buds even more firmly under his touch but blinded to my growing anger.
I slap his hand two more times before ducking low and skirting past him. It is virtually impossible with how imposing his body is, but I manage—barely!
My feet nearly slip out from underneath me when I enter the slimy shower stall at the speed of a rocket. With a grunt, I close the soap-scum-covered door before raising my eyes to Dexter. He’s watching me as fervently as he was earlier, except this time, his eyes aren’t blazing with lust. He is fuming mad.
He isn’t the only one. My fists are balled so firmly, the razor in my hand sends droplets of blood dripping down my palm. The ghastly scent is even more rampant because of the steamy conditions, but it has nothing on the undisclosed scent lingering in the air. If I weren’t stuck in mind-debilitating confusion, I would say it was angry lust, but since I can’t contend with more confusion, I’ll say it’s unexplainable.
Dexter steps closer to me, his strides as wobbly as the sneer on his face. “He told the world you were scum, yet you still want to be with him?”
I shake my head, but even with him staring straight at me, he doesn’t see my reply. He’s too deep into his psychosis to see or hear anything.
The harsh lines between his brows deepen when I adjust my grip on the razor so it sits between us. Dexter smiles as if amused by my attempts to protect myself. He shouldn’t be so quick to judge. If I didn’t know how to defend myself, Bryce’s death would be the only one on my scoreboard.
“You wanted to play, Cleo, so let’s play.”
I don’t know who Cleo is, but I don’t have time to ask questions. Dexter is storming for me. His eyes are as dark as death, his lips hard and straight.
When he throws open the shower door, I slice my blade through the air twice. The first sliver of the blade misses its target—intentionally. The second hits exactly where I intend. The thin trail of red from Dexter’s ear to his Adam’s apple is barely a scratch but more than adequate as a warning.
If you come any closer, I’ll slice you ear to ear.
My plans go to shit when Dexter knocks the razor from my hand before his other hand shoots up to my throat. He pins me to the slimy tiles, his hold so firm, my feet dangle midair.
His disgust at my attempt to maim him floods his face as he glares into my bulging eyes.
As my body panics over the lack of oxygen in my veins, I dig my nails into his hand. I was so surprised by his attack my lungs didn’t have a chance to increase their capacity. I’m on the verge of collapse within seconds. My throat is burning as fiercely as my eyes teem with moisture.
