“It’s because you showed me how to be this way,” he yells, as I get further in. “Just call her. You know you want to. You haven’t been with anyone else, maybe she will be good for you.”
“Love and relationships are never good for anyone,” I yell back at Blaze.
I look up and see him step through the door, just a fraction, so he can see me better. He wipes at his forehead and thins his lips—I know just coming in here this far is killing him.
“I’ll go see her, tell her how much of an ass you’ve been.”
“You’ll do no such thing, and if you do…” I close the door to the fire, “… I’ll put your ass in here and watch you fucking burn.”
Blaze waves off my threat and walks out. Pulling off my gloves and mask, I go straight out after him, but he’s already on the back of his bike with helmet in hand.
“At least fuck someone else. You’re a moody cunt.” He pulls the helmet on over his head.
“Who says I haven’t.”
Blaze starts the bike and revs it loud. It’s pitch black, close to midnight, and no one is around.
“You haven’t. I know you haven’t.” Then he pulls away.
I hate that he knows me so well. That he’s the only person on this earth who knows my fucked-up ways and still stays around.
They say love is something that suffocates you. That love is a permanent weight that will never lift you up, and forever hold you down, in that one spot you don’t wish to stay in. People are blinded by love and lose themselves in it. Some will take a fist to the face, a knife to the throat, and call it love.
My mother had a love like that. She was stuck in a state where she couldn’t escape, and I watched her time and time again trying to escape from such a love.
But love is like a tornado. No matter how many times you try to get away, it will spin you back right where you started.
I watch from my truck as Rochelle walks out of her work, her skirt is extra short today. Shorter than yesterday’s skirt, anyway. She smiles at a man as he walks up to her car, but I can tell it’s forced. Rochelle is someone who’s sweet, and far too pretty. She’s too good for the ugly that lurks just around the corner.
The only form of death she has known is the most recent one of her grandparents.
Someone like Rochelle doesn’t know what death is really like, only the outside of it.
She doesn’t know what pain is like—only the emotional kind.
A part of me despises Rochelle. I want to not want her. Actually, I want to hate her. But as I sit here watching her back away slowly from a man, I see I also want to protect her, and hold her, and most of all, fuck her.
She’s becoming my second addiction.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
How I feel about wanting her so much when she’s so good.
Pretty girl isn’t right for me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want her.
And I usually get what I want.
Chapter Eighteen
Rochelle
I met Marcus over four months ago, slept with him twice, and haven’t seen him for two months. But as he stands out the front of my house leaning on his truck, I wonder why I stayed away. My hands start sweating, and my stomach lifts, full of butterflies. This man is attractive, and I hate the fact that something inside of me calls for him with a need I can’t fully comprehend. Taking the steps one at a time, I walk to him, keeping distance between us. It’s safer that way.
“Marcus.” His name falls from my lips. His stupid sunglasses cover his eyes, as usual, and as he stands there, he has his hands in pockets. His posture is relaxed as he watches me. “What can I do for you?” I rub my hands up and down my arms.
“How was your Christmas?” he asks, as casually as asking someone for a coffee.
Honestly?
What the fuck?
“How was my Christmas? Is that really what you came here to ask?” I look back over my shoulder and then back to him.
“Is someone in there?” he asks, nodding to the door of my house.
“None of your business.” I wave my hand around at him. “Now, I ask again, what do you want?”
“You.”
“You’ve had that. Now try again.”
He pushes himself off the truck and stands to his full height, his hands clasp behind his back. “I want you.”
“I am not something you can have when you please.”
“But you want me too,” he says with some authority in his voice.
He’s right, he knows I want him.
There is no denying that.
I don’t need to air it to him, though.