Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“Long story.”
“I want to know.”
“You haven’t guessed thanks to my mother?”
“How could I guess?”
He shrugged, rubbing his jaw, the rasp of his five o’ clock shadow on his fingers gave me goosebumps. The more time I spent with him, the more aware I was of him as a man rather than a terrifying entity. He was beautiful, and not because of correctly proportioned features or a body that’d been honed and trained into perfection, but because he truly was a different species to the monsters I’d lived with.
He had a soul. And it was a vibrant, throbbing thing visible, not just in his eyes, but in every nuance, kiss, and motion.
His legs spread as he pressed his hands together between them, staring at the floor. If he truly didn’t want me there, he could’ve stood and left by now.
But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t thrown me out.
Hadn’t tossed me over his shoulder.
I took comfort in that and stayed where I was, giving him time if time was what he needed.
Finally, he murmured, “How can you sit beside me? How can you kiss me after hearing I’m responsible for my father and brother’s death?”
I forced myself not to flinch as his eyes locked on mine, trapping me in his questions. “How, Pim?”
“Because I’ve made my own opinions about you, and I won’t let other’s change them.”
He sighed again, shaking his head as if I was woefully naïve. “We’re not talking about liking dogs over cats or hating vegetarians. We’re talking about murder.”
“I know.”
“Then stop being so young and romantic.”
My spine tensed. “I’m not. I haven’t felt young in decades, and I stopped being romantic the day I was strangled only to be brought back to life.” I crossed my arms. “Instead of putting words in my mouth and telling me how I should feel, tell me. I’ll form my own opinions without the manipulation of others.”
He chuckled sadly. “And have you hate me, too? I don’t think so.” His eyes lingered on my lips before tearing away and focusing on the carpet again. “Go to bed, Pim.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I cocked my chin. “Talk to me. Then I’ll do whatever you want.”
His eyes darkened slowly, threateningly. “Anything?”
My heart shook its head wildly, reminding me that that look meant sex and all things I wanted to run from. But if my body was the price for Elder’s secrets, then so be it. I was stronger now. I could gift him that. After all, I’d been willing to barter a blowjob for his protection.
Was this any different?
Weren’t all relationships based on reciprocal giving and taking? We gave out of love and took out of selfishness. It was symbiotic.
“Yes, anything.” I held his stare, falling deeper and deeper into their black depths.
I waited for him to kiss me, scold me, tell me I wasn’t ready and order me to leave.
Instead, his lips quirked with a sinister glint. “So be it.” Climbing off the bed, he moved toward the desk where scrolls of blueprints and pencils littered the surface. Pulling out the office chair, he wheeled it closer to the bed then sat with his legs spread and fingers steepled between them.
I didn’t let the fact he had to face me rather than sit beside me bother me. If that made it easier for him, I was glad.
I waited for him to say something. I shifted on his bed, wondering if I should be the one to start whatever confession he’d air.
The space between us thickened until it moved like fog, painting his elegant bedroom in so many unknown, clouded things.
Finally, he said, “I’m OCD. Always have been; always will be.”
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
A condition I’d done studies on in my classes for my degree. Symptoms and solutions labelled textbook cruel rather than personally discussed. Elder was many things, but OCD?
I couldn’t diagnose it.
Back in high school, I’d known a boy with it. He’d been dosed on pharmaceutical medicine that turned him into a zombie and didn’t participate in class, or, if he didn’t take the tablets designed to make his life easier, he would wash his hands until they were raw. He’d leap up after the teacher had finished writing an assignment on the whiteboard and copy it word for word seven times over.
Every week, some new tale circulated about him: he’d gone through each classroom and stacked workbooks in colour coordination. He’d painted the jungle gym in the playground bright green because he said the sun faded browns weren’t right. He couldn’t stand people eating from mismatched lunch boxes and avoided the school cafeteria at all costs.
He suffered.
Yet I hadn’t seen Elder do any of those things. I hadn’t seen him lock and relock a door countless times. I hadn’t seen him count under his breath or do a task repetitively because the coding in his brain skipped occasionally.
He had no flaws, only sheer focus on perfectionism. His yacht, his cello, himself.