“You’re showing your age,” I inform her.
I must have pissed her off by embarrassing her because now even despite our circumstances, she delivers a solid glare. “Everyone needs love. Everyone. I’m not showing my age, you’re just showing your cynicism. I think you’re more afraid than I am.”
She’s just flinging angry words now, trying to see if she can get a rise out of me. All it does is drag an amused smile out of me. “I’m not afraid. What would I have to be afraid of?”
“You’re afraid of letting people close,” she states. “I tried to be your friend and it spooked you, so you hurt me to push me away.”
“Don’t do that,” I tell her, losing my smile. “Don’t try to make this something it’s not.”
I don’t know why I even say that. It doesn’t benefit me to warn her; let her make what she will of the experience. It doesn’t matter. But for whatever reason, it does make me uncomfortable and I don’t want her doing it. I didn’t feel the need to control her reaction before, but in this moment, it bugs me.
“Then tell me what it is,” she implores, faintly shrugging her shoulders. My gaze drops straight to her distracting breasts that jiggle slightly with the movement. She grabs the blanket, yanking it up to cover herself, but she waits like she still wants to hear my answer.
“I already did,” I enunciate carefully. “I already told you exactly why I’m doing this—because I want to. It’s really that simple.”
She’s as dissatisfied with my reasoning now as she was the first time I said it. I can practically feel her needing to be right.
“Why is it so important to you I have a reason?” I ask, watching her. “Would a good reason make it feel better? Would that make it hurt less? Would it undo any of the damage I’ve already done? That I’ll continue to do?” Indicating my bedroom door, I ask, “When you see me walk through that door each night, will you feel less dread? When I push my cock inside you, will believing I have a good reason make it more tolerable? Why does it matter?”
“It’s not about—” Shaking her head, annoyed, she says, “I don’t want to be right for me. I want it for you. I want this to be a mistake you’re making. You already said you haven’t done it before, so it’s not like… maybe you’re not this person. Maybe this is just—”
Jesus Christ. I almost want to leave the bed, she’s being so ridiculous. “No. Stop.” It’s almost infuriating that she remains unconvinced. For Christ’s sake, what does a person have to do to convince this girl they’re bad, murder a litter of puppies in front of her? How are multiple rapes and threats of murder insufficient proof? “You are dangerously optimistic,” I inform her.
“I just don’t buy it. I’m not saying you’re not all dangerous and intimidating, but you’re allowed to be human, too. You’re allowed to be lonely. If you were just an asshole who took what you wanted on sight, why wait until now to do this? Why not grab me out of Vince’s room the first night you found me sexually attractive? You didn’t do that. You waited until literally the first night I tried to get closer to you. You waited until the night I insisted you had good in you and told you I’d be your friend to start demolishing my life—and even then you didn’t barge in boldly and announce yourself; you were sneaky. You made this confusing and you didn’t have to. If you wanted to hurt me, why not that first day in your study? You already had me on my knees with a gun to my head; you were halfway there.”
“I’m not some misguided hero, Mia. I’m not.” I shake my head, as astounded by her refusal to accept reality as I am attracted to it. From a young age, I’ve had to accept the ugliness of reality—far younger than most people. When I was half this girl’s age, I was twenty times more realistic. It’s mind-boggling. She hasn’t had an easy, sheltered life, so how is she like this?
I watch her continue to reject the already-proven assertion. “My explanation makes more sense than yours,” she states.
“Your explanation?” I let the corners of my mouth curve up, showcasing my amusement. “Your hypothesis is, what, that I like you? That this is how I show it? You know I’m still planning to kill you after all this, right?”
Her gaze lowers. At least I understand her not wanting to believe that one. Particularly with her impossible streak of believing in goodness that doesn’t exist, she won’t be able to see her death coming. She won’t be able to accept the finality, even in her last moments. This girl will expect to be saved; she will expect her executioner to have a change of heart, and the only fleeting moment of real betrayal and disillusionment she will ever know will be the fraction of a second between hearing the gun fire and then nothingness. Eternal blackness.