Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“What, Ignacia?”
There’s a part of me that wants to scream at him not to call me that, but it’s just the—I’m dying a slow, slow, untouched death here—frustrated part.
“It’s been a really long ten months. A long, lonely ten months. I know you’re the one paying for the other side of my bed, but I’m here on this side. I’m lonely, too. I’m hurting, too. If I’m going to be honest, I’m half broken. Will you…will you hold my hand?”
“That’s against the contract,” he mumbles with a sigh.
“Fuck the contract!” I snap back.
At least his eyes sweep over in the dark to look at me. My heart pounds up into my throat. I’m one aching ball of adrenaline now.
“I can’t,” he says rationally. Even before I said anything, I knew he was going to say that. I’m going to die here. It’s going to happen, and when it does, I hope he feels at least a little bit bad about the waste of my life. “It would be physically impossible because it’s electronic.”
Oh. Oh, wow. He just made a dirty joke, but instead of laughing like a normal person, I have to go ahead and blurt out something disastrously embarrassing. “That never stopped most people from cybersexing.” Yeah, I Y2K the hell out of that term and go there.
“I can’t,” he says again.
Gah! “Are you seriously joking right now? I’m super sad, and I feel shitty, and you’re just—you’re…you’re horrible. You know what? You can have this side of the bed, too. I’m taking the couch.”
His hand shoots out and lands on my arm before I can even move. He’s more serious now, graver and darker than I’ve ever seen him. “No. don’t do that.” It’s coming. I can see his lips shaping the words, working up to them. I can’t believe it. “I’m sorry.”
There it is. I’m not buying it. He’s not sorry. He refuses to feel anything, and I think it means he can’t feel remorse. He just won’t let it in. And I still want him. I still fucking want him anyway. “Are you though?” I snap. “From what I can tell, you don’t care what other people think or feel. You’re just here to do a job, ruled by your stupid contract, and that’s that. The colder you can be, the better. It’s safer that way, isn’t it?”
“No. No, no, no.” He lets out a sharp chuckle. It’s the sound people make when they can’t believe you just went there, and it hurts. It hurts like a knife sinking in despite all the armor. “You’re going to use what I told you against me? About how I truly was hurt, how I lost people I loved, and how I truly think I’m cursed? You’re going to throw that at me?”
I gulp. I can’t do the angry thing. I can’t take someone looking at me like I’ve just drawn blood. I’m not someone who fights dirty or uses thorns. “I’m not throwing it at you. I’m not. I…that was insensitive. I’m not. But you actually do that, don’t you? You block out feelings because you don’t want to feel that shitty again? Haven’t you ever wanted someone to comfort you? Someone to be there? Someone to feel less shitty with, at the very least?”
I hear his intake of breath. He’s not unaffected. He’s not even pretending right now. We’re both in this bed, wearing too many clothes, but just about stripped down anyway.
“No, because it always comes with strings,” he finally responds, but I hear the hitch in his voice. It’s not going off without a hitch.
We’re now looking at each other, and I’m going to put it out there while I’m staring him down. While his eyes are burning straight through me, and while neither of us can look away. “If you’re such a fan of contracts, and I’m obsessed with asses, maybe we could combine our two favorite things.”
Okay, that was me just putting the proposition of a sort of sex contract out there. I’m not serious. At least I don’t think I’m serious.
“No.” He puts an arm in front of himself and shoots way the hell back on the bed.
I, on the other hand, shoot way the hell forward, scooting closer and closer to the invisible line that divides the mattress. My side, his side. My always side, his once-a-week side. My free side, his paying side. My this-is-my-house side, his contracted side.
This was never supposed to be real. This was never supposed to be about sex.
“Straight up no?” he reiterates. But why does it sound like a question?
Why doesn’t he pull back when I reach for him? I fling myself across the bed, but I’m on my side, so it’s more like a caterpillar wriggle. He keeps backing up until he has nowhere else to go. That’s a lie. Even when he’s on the edge of the bed, he can just get out. He can tell me to stop being a ninny head and to get myself in line, stat.