Georgie’s complete and utter submission.
Yeah, I’d get it from her.
I lived by instinct. It drove me, protected me and it was going to be my breaking point. Because Georgie standing there, sober, beautiful and … Jesus, she looked innocent and sweet and sassy and stubborn.
“Or we can do your cock instead. My mouth—”
“Stop.” I needed her to stop before I tossed her on the bed and fucked her.
Trying to cover up her vulnerability wasn’t going to work anymore. I was an expert at getting the truth from people. I knew the tactics, and I was going to use them against her. I’d let her stir. Feel uneasy. Uncertain as to when I’d pounce. And I would pounce and it would be hard. “It’s in the freezer.”HE HAD MY strawberry ice cream? Deck didn’t eat ice cream, but he had my favorite in his freezer. Two possibilities came to mind: either Deck bought it knowing I loved strawberry ice cream or he was a closet strawberry ice cream eater.I opened the freezer and there it was. It was like opening a present on Christmas morning for two reasons. One, it was my favorite and two, because Deck had my favorite in his freezer. I found an ice cream scoop in the second drawer down, and I placed it and the container on the counter just as Deck walked into the kitchen. He was wearing his jeans low on his hips and a plain, black t-shirt that showed off every contour and accentuated his tatts. He came in close … real close, then reached past me into the cupboard and pulled out a bowl. Then I heard the scattering of utensils and the drawer banged shut.
The spoon clanged in the bottom of the bowl as he set it down in front of me.
“You have my favorite ice cream.” It was a statement more to me than him. It was a revelation that this one small truth about me—Deck knew about.
He picked up the container, took off the lid, ripped the plastic from the top then grabbed the scoop and started dishing ice cream into the bowl. Swirls of vanilla and strawberry lay in the bottom in three large balls. He pushed the bowl toward me.
“I’m making pasta. Eat your ice cream.”
I stared at him then the ice cream for several seconds then slid it to the other side of the counter and sat down on a bar stool.
I kept my head down while I ate, not sure why this was hitting me so hard. So what? Deck had known me for years, so he must have known. It wasn’t a big deal. The thing was—it was a big deal to me. Because not only did he know, but he made sure it was here for me after the shit went down. He knew it was my comfort food, and I needed comfort because what Deck was doing … keeping me on edge … not confronting me … trying to throw me off balance … It was working.
Deck’s bare feet padded across the ceramic tiles as he moved through the kitchen, completely at ease while I was silently freaking out. He told me I could never be Chaos when I was with Deck. I was the girl who fell in love with him. I was the woman who still loved him and one day it would be my destruction. Of course, he’d say that. The guy was guarded, mistrustful and his morals were questionable, but not once had he harmed me. Even the cutting he did once a year had been something he had refused to do at first. That was until he found out Tanner had done it to me that first time and the cuts had been pretty bad. After that, every year he met me on that day.
Deck’s voice cut into my thoughts. “You came home from school one day, dress stained with what looked like ketchup, and you had a French fry in your hair.” My spoon clinked into the bowl and I stared up at him, but he wasn’t looking at me; he was cutting up mushrooms and peppers on a cutting board with his back to me. “The pins from your hair had fallen out and it was all windblown and knotted.”
I used to be teased for being perfect all the time. Clothes always tidy and neat, hair tied back. I was the teacher’s pet, the girl who was quiet in class and always got an A. But, often, I’d come home crying because the bullies had done something to me.
I remembered the day Deck was talking about. A group of boys in my class waited for me to come out of the side door of the school. I always used the side door to avoid them, but they figured it out. As soon as the door opened and I saw them all standing watching me with big grins on their faces—I knew. It was too late, though. The bucket of slop came down on me from a window above. It was the cafeteria garbage, and I was covered in the remnants of the entire school’s leftover lunch. I took off crying, their laughter ringing in my ears as they chanted ‘Trashy Georgie’. It became my new nickname for the rest of the year. Even worse was that some people thought I was called that for another reason and so I was considered a slut, too.