Scarlett Limerence

by K. A Knight

  My heart is racing and I’m not sure why, and as he walks upstairs, I can’t help but stare at his wide back, which is stretching the t-shirt he’s wearing to its limits. I want to snoop, but I can’t seem to look away from him. He really is perfect, and I have to let him teach me self-defence for the next couple of hours.

  Torture and heaven all at the same time. Oh my God, what if he goes shirtless?

  I wipe my mouth to check for drool, remembering Josh’s words, and gulp when Max stops inside his bedroom and points at the door next to his bed. “There, I’ll wait downstairs,” he tells me, and then seems to race from the room. I watch him go. Is he nervous? My eyes scan his room and I realise he has a photograph on his bedside table, the only decoration in here. Everything is even perfectly placed, including his bed, which is made so tightly you could bounce coins off the surface. I have the strange desire to mess it up, but I don’t want to risk him catching me, so I peek at the photograph.

  Two guys in army fatigues are standing side by side, smiling wide at the camera. To the left is a younger version of Max, he even has buzzed hair and no beard. He looks so innocent and his smile is so wide, his eyes sparkling with happiness, nothing like the Max I know now. What happened? To his right is a man who looks around the same age with short blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a cheeky smile. He’s smaller than Max but more built. The friendship leaps from the photo and I wonder if his friend is still around. I’ve never seen him.

  Oh, Max, what happened to make you stop smiling like that?

  Chapter Eleven

  Maximus

  Pacing at the bottom of the stairs, I chew on my bottom lip, wanting to go back up and check on her, but I know she’s changing. It feels strange having her in my house, not bad, but strange, like she can see everything now—all of me, and is judging me for it even though I know Scarlett wouldn’t. I change in the living room, slipping on some joggers and a loose tank top, going barefoot, and then wait some more. Please don’t let her have tiny shorts on again. This lesson will be hard enough without those, and I mean hard in every way imaginable.

  The time we’re spending together recently is driving me crazy and turning me on. It’s the simple things like watching her and eating with her, and smelling her perfume in my house and seeing her bag in my kitchen. It has me thinking thoughts I shouldn’t be, like what it would be like for her to be here more...or forever. Shaking my head, I start pacing again. That boy from earlier flashes in my mind, the way he had smiled at her…is he an ex? Or is he someone who likes her? Not that I blame him, she’s so easy to love, doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill him though.

  I freeze and then lift my head, ignoring my dangerous thoughts when I hear her slight, almost silent footsteps padding down my hall and then the stairs. I move away, not wanting to look like I didn’t trust leaving her upstairs. I play with my phone as I lean back against the wall, lifting my head with what I hope is a friendly smile when she steps down on the bottom rung. Milo bounds over to her and she crouches, giving him love before straightening and looking at me.

  “Ready?” she calls, and I swallow, pocketing my phone.

  Give me fucking strength, maybe the tiny shorts would have been better. I turn and head to the stairs, rearranging myself as I go. The image of her in tight leggings and a loose workout top is burned into my brain forever now. Milo stops at the top and I pat him as I pass, making my way downstairs.

  “Is his leg why he doesn’t come down here?” she asks from behind me.

  “Sort of, plus this is my workout zone, I don’t want him getting hurt,” I explain, as I step out at the bottom and let her in.

  This feels like a whole new level of our relationship. I’m showing her something private, something no one else has ever seen—my sanctuary. Her scent and personality are filling it up, making me realise how lonely and empty it was before. She wanders around the room, snooping as I watch. “What’s this?” she inquires, noticing the almost tiny crack in the wall—of course she would notice that.

  “A safe room.” It’s sort of the truth.

  She looks back then with an eyebrow arched. “Why would you need a safe room?”

  “Why would you need to learn how to fight?” I fire back and she laughs.

  “Touché, okay, so where do we start?” she asks, now standing in the middle of the room, watching me.

  “Okay, first of all, I need to see what we’re working with. You’re smaller than most men, skinnier and less powerful, we need to use that against them,” I start, stepping up to her, and her eyes light up.

  “Show me how,” she demands.

  “Again,” I order, getting up from the mat.

  She’s a natural. She knows how to use her body and she can copy nearly everything I do. She’s a good student, but I’m a bad teacher. With every twist of her body, every brush of skin, all I can think about as I teach is throwing her to the mat and making her mine. I resist, but it’s hard, and I don’t just mean my cock.

  She grabs my head like I showed her and flips me, using my own weight against me. I end up sprawled on the mat as she laughs and claps.

  “Again,” I say gruffly, getting to my feet. “Once you have perfected this, we’re working on close quarters, what to do if someone grabs you.” The thought makes me furious, but at least she’ll know how to defend herself if it ever happens and I’m not there.

  We run through the flip again and again until she stops hesitating and gets it perfect, and then I show her how to break away from different kinds of grabs and attacks. She’s sweating and panting hard, but determined. Even when she gets it wrong, she asks how to improve and I show her, guiding her until she gets it right. Hours pass, her body growing weary, but still she pushes on and I notice something. The more I show her, the more she knows, the more confident she becomes. It’s like a weight has been lifted and now that she has some basic skills, she feels better. That, more than anything, determines that I’ll keep teaching her—if she wants to keep up our lessons. Maybe I can even teach her how to use a weapon or get her to workout with me and build her core and her strength.

  She flops back on the mat, panting hard, with sweat glistening on her body. “Just give me a minute,” she calls.

  Smirking, I grab a water bottle from the side and pass it to her as I sit down next to her and stretch out my legs. “We’re done for today. I don’t want to push it too hard. You need to get these moves into your muscle memory so they will become fluid, but you need to build up your strength as well,” I admit.

  “Hey, I’m strong,” she defends, and lifts up her arm, flexing it slightly. “Look at that muscle,” she teases with a grin.

  “Terrifying,” I retort, and she mock pouts before reaching over and pushing me, I don’t even move, just glance down at her with my eyebrow raised.

  “Not my fault you’re like concrete,” she scoffs then laughs. She sits up, groaning as she does, and sips at the water, peering at me.

  “What?” I ask gruffly, leaning back to put more space between us.

  “Tell me something about you,” she requests, copying my stance.

  “Why?” I counter, watching her darkly.

  She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Because I want to know you, Max, and because I asked.”

  I remain silent, trying to think of something I can tell her that won’t scare her away. She obviously thinks I won’t answer and tries a different tactic.

  “Who’s the guy in the photograph upstairs with you?” she queries, the question innocent enough. She would have seen it when passing through, it’s hard to miss since it’s the only photograph in the whole house, but my entire body freezes, my soul raging at me as dark memories try to surface, and only her eyes on me keep me from letting them take over.

  Letting the darkness inside consume me, I struggle silently, not wanting to scare her or show her that part of me, and she watches me as I battle my demons. Finally, I rein them in and give myself an extra second by sipping my water and leaning farther back
. “A friend,” I admit.

  “What was his name?” she asks softly, obviously seeing or sensing my pain. She always does see too much, but it’s like she has dragged it forward now, called that pain and it pours from me, wanting her, needing her to know. Or maybe I just want her to keep looking at me like that.

  “Milo, his name was Milo. He’s dead,” I offer, and then jump to my feet, unable to take it anymore. “Come on, you need to get home and rest, it’s getting late. You can shower and change here if you want.” I reach down and offer my hand to her.

  She looks from it to me, obviously seeing some of what I’m not telling her. She places her soft hand in mine and squeezes. I pull her to her feet, and she stumbles into my chest, her hands splaying there to stop her fall. Swallowing hard, I look down at her and she stares up at me. I go silent, unable to even think, never mind talk with her this close. She fits so perfectly against me, like she should always be right there, shielded by me.

  “When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here. You shouldn’t bottle it up, but I’ll let you for now,” she whispers, and then she turns and heads upstairs, leaving my mouth hanging open and my eyes automatically locking on her arse.

  What just happened?

  I follow after her and stop behind her, she’s crouched at the top of the stairs giving Milo loves, who’s eating it up. He looks at me as if to say, ha, she wants me more. She gets up and looks at me with a soft smile. “I’ll go get showered, thank you.” She reaches up on her tiptoes and lays a gentle kiss on my scruffy cheek, lingering there for a moment before turning and heading upstairs. I look at Milo with a smug smile, but he just turns and follows after her.

  Lucky bastard.

  Heading to the kitchen, I clean up as I wait for her to come back down. The house is silent, so silent I hear the shower come on from down here, and I have to lean against the counter, gripping it with white knuckles to stop myself from going up there. Closing my eyes, I visualize Scarlett in my shower, with the water dripping down those perfect breasts as she washes herself. Groaning, I lean my head on the counter. This was such a bad fucking idea.

  The next ten minutes are a test in restraint and control, and I swear there is a dent in the counter when I hear her stepping downstairs. I let go and straighten quickly, and move to the kitchen doorway. She hops off the bottom step, all fresh-faced, wet-haired, and beautiful. My breath actually catches. Fuck, she’s so perfect. Just then, her scent smacks me in the face and I almost stumble back.

  She smells like me. Fuck.

  “Thanks for today, can we do it again?”

  I nod, I would agree to anything right now. “Sure,” I reply darkly.

  She grins, oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. “I better get back, see you in the morning?” she asks.

  I nod again, like a puppet, and the smile dims a bit, so I force words from my choked throat. “Sleep well.”

  Sleep well? Fucking hell, Max.

  She smiles wider though. “You too.” She looks at Milo then. “Bye, baby.” She kisses him goodbye and I see her out.

  Gripping the door hard, I watch her the whole way back to her house, and then I shut the door and lean my forehead against it.

  I need a cold fucking shower.

  Chapter Twelve

  Scarlett

  The house is dark when I get back. My mum is already passed out on the sofa, the only light from the glare of the TV stuck on some late-night movie. Her arm is hanging from the couch with a needle still in it. Grimacing, I force myself closer. I watch her for a minute, seeing the rise and fall of her chest. It relaxes me slightly. It wouldn’t be the first time she had OD’d on me and I had to call an ambulance for her. After each time, she claims she will get better, she will get straight.

  It never lasts, just long enough for her to get money from me for her next hit. Grabbing a ratty blanket from the back of the sofa, I cover her up anyway and move her sweaty, greasy blonde locks back from her face, which is pale, sweat lined, and gaunt. When was the last time she ate?

  She has dark circles under her eyes, her lips are broken and stained, and her cheeks are hollow. She looks like a stranger now, not my mother. She’s lost weight again, her bones sticking through her paper-thin skin covered in proof of her usage. I look around again and shake my head. I tidy up, tossing the empty vodka and beer cans. Luckily, there aren’t any more needles, because no way am I touching any. I turn off the TV and sneak upstairs, not wanting to wake her while she’s sleeping. She snores, flips over on the sofa, and kicks off the blanket I just put there as I get to the top, but I leave her to it. She’s an adult, not my responsibly. It took me a long time to realise that.

  You can’t save people who don’t want to be saved. She doesn’t, she loves her life, so the best I can do is pay my way, clean up her vomit, and get her to a hospital when she overdoses. I might be hardened to her, but even I won’t let her die for her mistakes. Even if her choices hurt me, even if I wish she could be someone she will never be, that’s not my choice. I just have to accept hers, even when it hurts. I can’t change her, only she can, and she never will. Sighing, I head to my room, frowning when I notice the door is open a crack. Didn’t I close it? Doesn’t seem like I would leave it open.

  My heart races as I push the door ajar and look inside. I expect the place to be ransacked—probably my mum looking for money. It’s dark, but everything seems like it’s in its place, so I head straight for my hiding place to check on the money, but something stops me. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and the air smells wrong, like sweat and man. My heart bangs against my ribs. I didn’t see her boyfriend downstairs, I figured he had left for a bit, but I was wrong.

  I turn slowly, like looking for the monster in the cupboard, knowing he’ll be there but hoping I’m wrong. All I can see is his silhouette behind the door before he steps out, pressing the door shut as he goes. It slams and I jump as he laughs, the sound disturbing and scary. I don’t back away to the wall though, remembering Max’s lesson, knowing I need room to manoeuvre, but I do keep my back close so it’s protected. He grins at me.

  “And where have you been, hmm? Your mother couldn’t find you. I told her I bet you were off sucking that guy’s cock from next door.” He laughs and steps forward again, the light from my bedroom window hitting him.

  His pupils are blown wide, he’s clearly high or drunk or both. A sheen of sweat and grime covers his body from not washing, and he has on a dirty, stained tank top and jeans with the button open, showing me his protruding belly. I crinkle my nose, I can smell him from here, like stale cigarettes, sweat, and alcohol. The smell is overpowering, and I want to gag, but I don’t take my eyes off him, knowing he’s in here for a reason.

  He knows my mum is out, he was waiting for me. I’m not stupid, I know what he’s going to try. He’s not the first and won’t be the last. No, plenty of her shitty men have done this, again and again. The first was when I was just six years old, barely old enough to know why I was crying with his hand down my top, caressing my undeveloped chest. My mum had stumbled in and found us, she had screamed and thrown things at him then kicked him out. It was the only good thing she ever did. But she didn’t stay to comfort me, no, she slammed my door and marched downstairs to drown her sorrows in a bottle while I lay curled up, crying by myself, begging a God I didn’t know if I believed in to bring my daddy back and to make my mum better.

  To make her love me, but she never did and never will.

  The next day, she blamed me for ruining her life. She screamed at me, told me vile stories about why my dad left, why everyone left, and that she was stuck with a brat for a daughter. She had thrown a glass that day and I went to school with blood down my arm from the cuts. I never told anyone what happened, but they cleaned me up at school. The police turned up at my house that night, the one time my mother was sober, and she made some excuse about my falling on the way to school.

  No, people see what they want to see. They don’t want the ugly
, painful truth, because that would mean they would have to intervene, they would have to face it. They would have to do something, and they don’t want to, they want to live in blissful ignorance. “Well, was he good? Did you swallow?” he asks and I cringe, brought back to the here and now from my depressing thoughts.

  “Get out,” I demand, my voice shaking. I’m scared. I really am. I know what’s going to happen, and I have no one here to help me. Maybe I was getting used to Max saving me, because I’ve faced this time and time again alone, but now all I wish is that he was here with me. He would fight the demons and the dark with me, protect me when I can’t.

  “I don’t think so,” he snaps, moving closer, his feet almost dragging on the floor. Does he even know what he’s doing right now? Does he even see me?

  “Please, just leave,” I say, trying again. The air is tense, electric almost, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for what’s to come.

  “Make it easy on yourself, girl, take the pants off, you’ll be begging for this cock soon, just like your mummy down there. I see the way you watch me, the way you tease me, you fucking want me. Show me your cunt, let’s see what has that bastard so pussy whipped,” he snarls, his eyes flashing dangerously. Maybe I dismissed him too easily, because even without whatever he’s drunk or high on, he seems to swell and his words are clear. He’s in charge, and he knows what he’s doing and what he wants. He doesn’t plan to leave this time, this isn’t teasing.

  He’s going to attack me.

  I tell it to myself, accepting it. I tighten my hold on my bag, getting ready to use it as weapon. It has books in it, so it’s heavy and might help. No one is going to save me, I have to save myself like always. I’ve survived this before, I will survive this again.

  “No? Guess we do this the hard way then,” he growls, rushing towards me. I wait, letting him think I’m frozen, and at the last minute, as he reaches me, I swing my bag. It hits him in the side, winding him long enough for me to stomp on his foot and bring my knee up into his balls. He howls and falls back, clutching his precious junk. I don’t waste time letting him recover, I grab onto his ears and bring his face down onto my knee. He falls back, his nose busted and blood pouring from it. I look around hastily, panic clawing at me. Grabbing the scissors from my desk, I press them to his throat, my hand shaking.