Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

“Is what true?”

“What they say about you.” I don’t need to spell it out, but he’s making me. “That you killed a kid at your last school.”

His eyes are dark. “People talk too much.”

My heart lurches. “So it’s true.”

He shrugs, which shifts his large body underneath mine. He’s cradling me, one hand on my back, the other on my ass. We’re nestled in the attic, hidden away. I feel completely safe—the exact opposite of how I should with what he’s just admitted.

I’m scared too. I don’t know what he’s capable of or why. I don’t know what will set him off. For now he seems to like me. And for now, that’s enough.

“Is your name really Blue?”

He makes a face. “Really?”

I like this lighter side of him, the one that isn’t so serious. The one who isn’t about death. The one who isn’t dangerous. “I just want to know something about you. Something real.”

“Then tell me something real about you, Hannah. That’s my price.”

“Okay.” I play with the bristles on his chin, distracting myself. “My mom killed herself.”

Surprise registers in his eyes. “That’s heavy.”

I look away. So much for keeping things light. “Yeah, well, it’s real. Now you tell me something.”

“Eugene,” he mutters.

My gaze snaps back to him. “What?”

“My name is Eugene Blue.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s dangerous to laugh at a boy like this, one who’s killed, one who admits it without even looking guilty. But the corner of his lip turns up.

“Can I call you that?” I tease him.

He tries to look stern. “Not if you want me to answer.”

It’s a little piece of him, his name, something only for me. I nuzzle his chest, and he lifts my chin. His eyes are serious. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

I swallow hard. “Thanks.”

He leans forward, and his lips touch mine. He doesn’t move them or push his tongue inside. We stay like that, lips against lips, breath mingling.

When I pull back, he touches his forehead to mine.

“Why did you do it?” I whisper.

This time he doesn’t make me spell it out.

“Because he called me Eugene,” he says with a straight face.

It’s wrong, but I laugh. He is the only boy who makes me laugh. “For real though.”

His expression gets hard. “It’s real simple. The people outside—the judge and the jury. They don’t know what it’s like. It’s kill or be killed, and fuck if I’m going to let anyone touch me.”

My breath catches in my throat. I wish I had that kind of conviction.

I wish I had that kind of strength.