Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“My parents called her Mystery Girl, because it was a mystery why I brought her.” His eyes clung to my face, gauging me for a reaction. He wanted me to ask him why.
Over my dead body, boy.
I cleared my throat. “I honestly can’t think of a better match.”
Silence.
“What’s your favorite band?” He changed the subject. He was doing it again—making small talk in the midst of an awkward, violent, insane situation.
I shook my head, plucking out a needle and a thread. I chose green, because I wanted it to stand out. I wanted him to look down at it and remember me in the following weeks. And I didn’t even know why.
“It might leave a scar.” I looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.
He stared at me with a desolate look, dark and feral, but somehow full of hurt and shame, too. There was something behind those arctic icebergs that begged to be thawed, I swear.
“Good. I might remember your insignificant existence in a couple years.”
I faltered. “Pass me your lighter.”
I needed to heat the needle to make sure I wasn’t going to saddle him with a bacterial infection from hell. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
He elevated his groin and fished out his Zippo, throwing it into my hands. I ran the flame along the needle, back and forth.
Vaughn stared at my face with an odd concentration that made me blush, despite my best efforts.
“The Smiths, right?” he asked.
God. What did he want from me?
I put the needle to his skin, taking a deep breath. Even though he’d bled a lot, and probably needed a bottle of water more than he did whiskey, the wound didn’t look too deep upon closer inspection. He was right. I could stitch it, but I wasn’t going to do a bang-up job. My hands were clammy and my fingers shook, but I needed to close his wound.
“Most of your CDs are The Smiths’.” He snatched the bottle of whiskey from the edge of the bathtub and took a swig.
It was the first time I’d seen Vaughn drink—not just alcohol, but at all. Which was bizarre.
I didn’t answer, sliding the needle to the base of his wound. He hissed, but stared directly at what I was doing, our heads touching as we focused on my hand movement. When the needle pierced his skin that first time, coming out of the other side, I let out a ragged exhale of relief. I hadn’t breathed for a few seconds.
Mortal, after all. Flesh and blood and insecurities and secrets.
I moved the needle again, whip-stitching the wound in careful strokes, convincing myself the blood wasn’t real, and the entire moment was a nightmare I was going to wake up from. It helped me keep my cool.
How Vaughn put me in these situations, I had no idea. But I had noticed the pattern. It was always him who came to me. He dropped trouble at my doorstep like dead mice, untamed cat that he was. And, silly girl that I was, I always opened the door and let him in.
Vaughn took another mouthful of whiskey.
“What do you do all day? You don’t have any friends.” He eyed me, his voice more bored than venomous.
Homework. Art.
“You don’t fuck anyone, either. Don’t try to lie to me. I have eyes and ears everywhere. You just drive around by yourself like a failed Uber driver.”
And there it was. The malice.
He groaned when I dug the needle in without my usual gentleness. I didn’t appreciate his line of questions. When he realized I’d hurt him on purpose, he smirked.
“Hold on to that virginity, baby girl. Prince Charming is just a fantasy book and a vibrator away.”
“Fuck you, Vaughn,” I snarled.
“I’m starting to consider it. You’ll be my pro bono case. Not full-on fucking, but feeling your lip ring on my cock no longer makes me want to vomit.”
“Well, it makes me want to vomit, so that’s still firmly off the table.”
I dug the needle harder again, and he laughed, drinking some more and placing the bottle back on the granite surface. It slid and almost slipped from his hand. He caught it at the last minute.
“Wanna know something?” He glanced into the bottom of the whiskey bottle.
No.
“You’re pretty.”
I stilled, the needle hovering in the air over his skin. I wished he hadn’t said that. Because if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have to live with the shame of my heart nearly bursting with sweet, smoky ache. My breath hitched, and I had to swallow and refocus my gaze on his wound.
He’s drunk, and in a tremendous amount of pain. He doesn’t mean it.
“It’s a slow-burn kind of beauty. The more I look at you, the more it sneaks up on me. You remind me of Robin Wright in The Princess Bride—the kind of pure, wide-eyed innocence no amount of black shit and piercings can tarnish. But that’s not why I don’t hate you.” He shook his head, his eyes trained on the side of my face as I stitched him. “Everyone in this town is fucking pathetic—slaves to materialistic bullshit and ticking the predictable boxes of school, college, football, cheerleading, jogging, fucking, falling in love, getting a job, blah blah blah. Money is cheap, dirty, and boring. Everything is a popularity contest, and you’re out of the rat race. I guess…” He threw his head back with a sigh, staring at my ceiling. “You’re real. Maybe that’s why, sometimes, even when you’re not around, it feels like you are.”