Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter as I step out into the cold, pulling my jacket closed.

There’s nobody I can talk to, nobody who has any faith left in me, not even Gigi.

Especially not Gigi.

And if there was one person I’d have spilled my guts to, explained why I do the things I do and asked for forgiveness, for understanding, it’d have been her.

Always her.

So it makes perfect fucking sense that she’s not the one offering to listen, and that she doesn’t give a shit about my story.

Chapter Nineteen

Gigi

It’s Saturday afternoon. Sydney has been calling me, but I’m ignoring her.

The house smells of sugar and apples as Mom is baking downstairs in her kitchen, the aroma drifting all the way up to my room. She’s probably talking on the phone at the same time to her sweetheart, or one of her friends, and has the TV on.

Mom likes noise. She likes human contact. I’m usually like her, but today I’m perfectly content to lie on top of my bed and listen to music, while my mind spins and spins in endless circles. I don’t want to talk to people right now.

People are complicated, and I’m tired of trying to figure them out.

“I want you to want me.”

What did he mean?

The way he pushed into me so carefully. The way he moved inside me, holding back, making sure I came first.

That sheen in his eyes when he sat down on the couch and asked me if I thought that low of him. If I really thought he’d helped me in exchange for sex. A sheen like tears.

All those things that fled my mind when later he told me to go, so coldly, callously.

So what does that mean? Why did he have sex with me? Was I just convenient, or… or is there something more? Am I imagining it? Is it all in my mind?

He’s slowly driving me mad, tearing me between desire and doubt, anger and sadness and hope.

I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, and touching him, and having sex with him.

Can’t stop thinking about him, period.

So much I wanted to ask him that night last week. Who his real parents were. Where he came from. Why he always looked ready for a fight. Why he got his tattoos and what they mean.

Why he limps. Why he smokes. Why he went and joined a gang, for God’s sake, in a town choke-full of gangs and violence. I thought…

I thought he fought because he felt he had no choice, but joining a gang, staying in a gang is a choice. He made it.

He’s sticking to it.

How can I still want a person like that? He’s a criminal. He hurts others for his own gain. And eventually…

Eventually, he’ll be thrown behind bars, or get killed. Gunned down, or stabbed.

God. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up, or scream. Smash my fists against the wall. As if that could make a difference.

Sticking my buds into my ears, I close my eyes and hum along to the opening bars of “Lose Yourself” by Eminem, lifting a hand to jab at the air to the rhythm.

That’s what I want today. I want to lose myself. I want to vanish for a while, and not have to think, and doubt, and wonder. I’m fed up with second-guessing myself and then wallowing in misery. Maybe I should go out—but that would mean calling Sydney back and… no.