Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
It’s unbelievable, but I can’t ignore what seems so obvious now. His voice, his touch, his eyes… “Nix?” I whisper in disbelief.
And just like that, he lets me go, pulling his hand away like my skin burns him, yet holding my gaze for another heartbeat before ducking out of the alley and disappearing.
It couldn’t be. Nix is dead. He died in the explosion.
So why did this guy run away like that? All he had to do was say no, but he didn’t. No, that can’t be. I’m only telling myself what I need to believe, clinging to a tiny shred of hope that would make all of this a little less horrifying.
For now, the best thing to do is get the hell out of here and get back home on shaking, pained legs. After tonight, I might not ever leave.
9
NIX
Motherfucker.
What was that all about? Why the hell did I do it?
All these months, I’ve been telling myself to stay away for her sake. Forcing myself to stay away. It’s for the best; she doesn’t need me in her life. It’s time for her to heal, to forget, to move on.
She doesn’t need the threat of me hurting her, so what did I do? I hurt her worse than ever. I threatened and degraded her, assaulted and humiliated her. I forced her on her knees in that filthy, disgusting alley. She deserves so much better than that. How could I do it?
That’s an easy one. Because I wanted to. Because it felt good, and I knew it would feel good, because there has never been a pleasure deeper and more complete than the pleasure I get from forcing her to submit to my will. To fulfill every dark, ugly fantasy that’s ever entered my mind. The temptation was too much to resist. I’ve spent months fighting it, sweating my way through sleepless nights, gripping the pillow with both hands, jerking off so much I was afraid I would chafe.
And all the time, I was thinking of her. Dreaming of her. There was only so much resistance I could put up.
Even now, cursing myself as I stalk through the dark, quiet streets, I can’t help but relish the memory of her whimpers. The way she tried to scream against my hand, the way I silenced her so easily. I can still smell her on me, a sort of sweetness and freshness I haven’t smelled in months. I can feel the warmth of her soft skin against my palm where I covered her mouth.
Oh, god, her mouth.
Sick fuck. I can’t do this. I was only supposed to be teaching her a lesson, making sure she doesn’t take risks like the one she did tonight. What the hell did she think she was doing, walking alone? And around here, of all places? She’s supposed to be smart.
Is she trying to hurt herself? Did we push her that far? There are a million questions running through my head as I take the route back to my apartment. I had to stop her when I did, knowing the further she walked, the worse her surroundings would get. If I hadn’t stopped her, someone else would have.
And they wouldn’t have stopped where I did. Hell, she would’ve considered a forced blowjob in a dirty alley a gift compared to what some of these other fuckers would’ve done to her.
Something tells me she wouldn’t feel so grateful if I explained things that way.
Did she really think it was me? I’m sure she’ll talk herself out of it. I’ve watched her at my grave, leaving flowers, talking to my headstone. Colt has said more than once in his emails that she doesn’t believe him when he says I’m alive. Maybe she was so overwhelmed, she saw what she wanted to see. Maybe her overwhelmed brain wanted to believe she was with me and not some diseased stranger.
It really doesn’t make a difference, does it? That will never happen again. I scared her badly enough and gave her a memory she’ll never escape from. I don’t have to worry about her now.
I have to worry about myself.
“Hey, buddy, you got a few bucks?”
With my hood pulled up and the ski mask still pulled over my face, I have to turn my head to find the source of the voice. A bum in a doorway, covered in newspapers meant to keep out the cool night air. He smells like a backed-up toilet, and his face is red from exposure and maybe illness. In the glow from a nearby streetlamp, I see the desperation in his eyes.
There might’ve been a time he was like me, living a normal life—or at least one that looked normal on the surface. If there’s one thing these months on my own have taught me, it’s how quickly and completely life can change. People have stories we can’t see on the surface. I never had much sympathy for others in the past. I would’ve needed to actually think about them in order to feel sorry for them or empathize or whatever.