Punk 57

I gasp, tossing the knife up to the front and twist around, yanking the handle of the other door.

It opens, but he grabs it and pulls it closed again, pushing down the lock.

The truck is dark again.

His arms come around me, and I gasp as he hauls me back against him, holding me as I struggle.

“Get off me!” I yell, trying to get free.

“Were you jealous?” he growls in my ear, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Were you mad you could be so easily replaced? Is that why you’re in here, trying to do some shit to my car?”

I jerk, trying to twist out of his hold.

“Get over it,” he says. “A pussy is a pussy, after all, and if I don’t get it from you, I can get someone else with a lot less hassle.”

Dickhead. Of course I’m no one to him. I’m not even surprised.

I struggle loose, but he pulls me tight again, taunting, “If it doesn’t bother you, then you shouldn’t want to run away.”

I breathe hard, a cool sweat breaking out on my neck. I stop struggling and calm my breathing, forcing my tone even. “Let me go now.”

His arms relax around me, and I slide away from him, reaching for the handle.

But he reaches out and grips the door, holding it closed. “I didn’t think about you at all when I was in bed with her last night,” he tells me. “She was hot, she turned me on, she liked my hands on her, and I liked how she felt…” His breath falls across my hair, his words cruel and unforgiving. “She wasn’t average or boring or stuck-up. She excited me.”

My bottom lip shakes and tears fill my eyes. But I tense every muscle in my body, trying not to let him see. Stuck-up. Average.

Boring.

“Tell me you’re jealous,” he demands.

“If it doesn’t bother me, why would I be jealous?”

He leans closer, and I can feel his body at my back and his lips next to my ear. “Tell me you’re trying not to think about how much I loved fucking her. Tell me something true, and I’ll let you leave.”

Something true? Tell him what? What does he want to hear? That this hurts? That I loved kissing him the last time we were in here and every time after that? That I don’t want anyone touching him? Screw him. I’m not saying any of that shit.

“You can’t, can you?” His voice is quiet and almost sad. “You can’t talk to me.”

And then I watch through blurry eyes as he leans up and exhales on the window in front of me, fogging it up to draw a word with his finger.

FEAR.

I shake my head.

Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear… What is he doing? What does that mean? A tear spills over, and I growl out a breath, wiping the word off the window.

“You’re a prick. Just stay away from me.”

I go to open the door, but he grabs my hand.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

I freeze, turning my head just an inch. What?

“I lied,” he tells me. “I asked her out for food yesterday to make you jealous, and today, when she insinuated shit that didn’t happen, I let her. But I didn’t touch her.”

The heat of his breath hits my neck, and I can tell his head is bent to my hair.