Doll Parts (The Game 4)

As soon as I leaned back against the closed door, I realized my heart was pounding furiously. I blinked and flicked on the light, and I scanned my surroundings.

I saw KC everywhere.

One might think I was some neat person—when I was the opposite—but I just didn’t own many things. What I did own, though, KC had given me. I saw him helping me cram my bed into the alcove in the back of the only real room, a bed he had given me when I moved in. Same with the cushy, giant La-Z-Boy in the corner. A gift from him. Built-in speakers, cupholder, and heating pad. Because he knew I got cold easily at night. TV, another gift from him. He’d put up shelves and painted the walls dark red. He’d even gotten me a stack of soft blankets. Who the fuck did that? He’d randomly stopped by one day right after I got out of class, and he’d brought those blankets, some gift cards for takeout, and tokens for the laundromat the next street over.

A wave of crushing grief rolled over me just as KC pulled at the door handle behind me.

I still had all those tokens. I hadn’t learned to do my own laundry, and I didn’t wanna tell him that I took all my laundry to a dry cleaning and alterations place.

“Open the door, Noa.”

It was open. And my façade was gone. I stepped away from the door and lowered my gaze, and he came inside.

I swallowed hard.

Even his scent lingered in my apartment because we used the same body wash and deodorant. Mom had been quick to stock my kitchenette, but it was KC who felt the need to make sure I didn’t live on ramen. If he didn’t stop by with a bag of groceries—including body wash and deodorant—he had it delivered.

“I don’t want to end things this way, freckles.”

“I don’t wanna end things at all, but it’s not up to me,” I mumbled. I kicked off my shoes and tossed my phone onto the dresser next to the door.

“I mean tonight, Noa,” he sighed. “I hate arguing with you.”

“But you need time away from me—a break.” The word tasted like OJ after you’d just brushed your teeth.

Emotions welled up again, too fast for me to be able to hide them, and KC made it worse by pulling me in for a tight hug.

“It’s not you,” he implored quietly. “I wish you’d see this wasn’t about you at all. I’m the sinking ship—and I need to go ashore and fix what’s broken.”

That hurt even more. KC was perfect. He wasn’t broken. He was everything. Unable to help myself, I locked my arms around his neck and refused to let go. I found a switch in my brain that I knew I had to flip, but I couldn’t. I knew once I flipped it, I’d see another side of things—his perspective—and I wasn’t ready. Because then I would have to admit that this was one of those occasions he had to put himself first and remove himself from a toxic environment.

I screwed my eyes shut and all but clung to him, only my toes touching the floor.

“This isn’t goodbye, sweet boy,” he murmured.

Sweet boy.

He’d called me that once or twice when I was a kid. This was different. It hit differently in my body. New images assaulted me. The porn he’d watched, my fantasies that’d followed, questions I had about his fetishes. How Daddy-like he was with me sometimes—and how much I loved that.

I drew an unsteady breath and felt something tightening in my stomach. Maybe it wasn’t a goodbye, but a part of me was breaking. So many memories he’d given me; they were slowly slithering back into a remote corner of my mind for safekeeping, as if preparing me for darker times ahead.

It was his damn laughter I heard echoing in my skull. I was gonna miss that the most. Like from the times we tried to cook dinner together and ended up burning everything. Or when he taught me to drive and I almost backed into Mom’s car. Or the triumph when he’d taught me how to swim and he threw me into the pool—I’d laughed so hard when my stomach flipped. So much laughter.

Feeling his strong arms around me, I exhaled and pressed my forehead to the curve of his neck.

Didn’t he know…? I could be perfect for him too. I could be the boy in the videos he watched. I would’ve given him everything.

The desperation festered within me as the seconds ticked by.

The hug had stopped being…normal.

What if he…

No. Wishful thinking.

But…what if.

Heat bled across my skin, and the urge to push surged back tenfold. Nothing ventured, nothing gained? I wasn’t thinking straight; my thoughts felt muddled and blurry. But it didn’t stop me, even as I sensed how fucked up this was. I knew I was running on impulsiveness and stupid hope. I imagined a tiny version of myself, shouting at me to stop, watching in horror when I did anything but. In a complete haze, I heard myself murmur that I could be everything he needed, the good boy, the listless doll, the submissive…