by A. Zavarelli
“Rory.”
She’s kissing me now, all over my throat and my face. Distracting me with sex the way she always does.
“Take me back to your place,” she pleads.
“Not until you give me at least one name.”
She groans out her frustration.
“Just give me a day,” she says. “One day, Rory. I’m trying. I am. But I’m not ready.”
I nod, because it’s the best I’m going to get from her.
25
SCARLETT
AS THESE AFFAIRS typically end when faced with the evil queen, it’s off with his head.
While the world spins round and evolution takes place bit by tedious bit, there are some things that never change.
Trip’s family summer house outside of New Haven is one of them. It is a mummification of memories. The tomb of nightmares and final resting place for my childhood.
And I was a child, then.
Still innocent and wide-eyed and naïve.
I left here a different person.
I crawled my way out of that shallow grave, and I left all those childish notions- along with my heart- to die the death they deserved. I emerged with an armor that wasn’t there before. A hard-outer shell embraced me and I was reborn.
That shell has served me well.
But it doesn’t make my stroll down memory lane any easier.
The soil feels the same beneath my feet- bare- because I want to be in the right mindset. I want to relive those memories and change the way I feel about them.
The air is cool, the forest still.
This place is a dead zone. Nothing around for miles.
There is a man-made lake behind the house where Trip used to hold ragers throughout the school year.
I never made it to any of those parties.
The only party I’d been invited to was private. On the night of the initiation.
Trip still comes here often, or so the report I have tells me. He spends entire weeks binging on cocaine and cheap vodka, even though his father’s liquor cabinet is stocked with the finest whiskeys that money can buy.
It would lead almost anyone to the same conclusion. That Trip is as sick in the head as Alexander. I wonder if he fantasizes about that night too while he fucks his paid whores. If he comes up here just to relive it.
As I wait in the darkness of the lounge room, I wonder if we’re really all that different. For years, I’ve done nothing but fantasize of my revenge. I’ve watched them stumble over every hurdle I’ve thrown their way while they went about their lives as if that night never happened.
Rory wants me to believe that there is something in me worth saving. That if I cross this boundary, I will regret it.
But he’s wrong.
Because when I snuck out of his bed in the middle of the night, glancing over my shoulder at his sleeping face, nothing had ever been so clear to me.
There are some boundaries even I am not willing to cross.
And bringing him into this, using him as a soldier for my cause, is one of them. The moral dilemma of taking a human life falls by the wayside when you are at war. It’s a matter of action and reaction.
I will never be free until they are gone.
This is my battle. And mine alone.
I will be the one to live with the consequences.
A key rattles in the front door, and I grow still.
Someone stumbles into the darkness and bumps the side table in the entryway, muttering a curse. Keys fall into the key bowl, and the footsteps move to the kitchen.
A refrigerator door opens. And then he returns.
Trip doesn’t bother with the lights. He collapses onto the sofa across from me and drinks straight from the bottle of vodka. Liquor soaked sweat suffocates the space around him, and this is what he has become.
It takes him a few minutes to settle in, and he is not at all aware of his surroundings. That comfortable sense of security and peace is only afforded to someone who believes their victim is dead.
His head falls back onto the sofa, and he scrubs a hand over his face. It remains there for a few short moments, quiet, almost meditative. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees as he tinkers with his little black case on the coffee table.
This is the moment he realizes he is not alone. Even the most drug-addled brains are capable of sixth senses. Or perhaps it is the drugs that makes him see monsters lurking around every corner. Today, though, he sees a ghost.
And that ghost is me.
I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking right now, mouth slack and face pale.
He doesn’t speak. His hands are still half frozen with the task of preparing his next fix.
Only, it isn’t coke in that case. It’s heroin. Even in the dim light, it is easy to see he is a long-time user.
His face is gaunt and sunken in, lips tinged with blue. There is no vitality left in his body. He can barely lift his arm. Everything about him is slow. His thoughts, his reactions, his words.
This place has changed him too.
“I knew you would come,” he says finally.
“How?” I ask.
I am dead to him. Was dead to him. There is no way he could know that unless Alexander already told him.
Trip shakes his head. “Alexander told us he came back up here and moved your body,” Trip explains. “But that was a lie. Because I came back up here first.”
“Why?” I ask, and it doesn’t matter. His remorse won’t save him, but I am curious.
He’s quiet, tapping the needle against his fingers while his foot keeps the same rhythm on the floor.
“I really liked you, Ten. But I wasn’t the one your mother picked. She would never pick me over Alex.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t know. His crush was obvious, but just like him, I had no say in the matter.
“So, you just took what you wanted, anyway.”
Trip’s quiet again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did. I took it. And I wanted to murder every one of those motherfuckers for touching you too.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
“I know it doesn’t matter,” he says. “But it fucked me up, Ten. It fucked me up so bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering where you were. Wondering if you were alright. I knew you weren’t dead, but they didn’t. And I always thought you’d come back for us.”
“Well, here I am. Sorry to be so predictable.”
“You want to hurt me,” he says. “I get it. And I don’t blame you.”
“Hurt implies short term suffering. I’m sorry to say that you’re wrong.”
He nods, and there isn’t even an ounce of fight in him when he looks up at me.
“I was the one who filled up the bottle that second time. The water. I just wanted you to pass out so you wouldn’t remember. But I gave you too much.”
“Water under the bridge,” I say. “I didn’t come here to rehash what you did or didn’t do. I know. I know everything. And I remember it too. I don’t need you to tell me how it went down.”
He nods.
Neither of us moves. Until he waves the needle in his hand in question.
“Do you mind? One last time.”
I don’t know him at all.
How did we become these people?
This addict who accepts death without question, his only request to have one last bump. And me, the society princess turned cold and calculating bitch sitting across from him.
I nod at him to go ahead.
I didn’t come here with a plan, really.
There was a part of me that knew Trip wouldn’t fight.
He’s always been a coward at heart. Too soft to go against what the other boys wanted. Too afraid to tell me he liked me all those years ago.
He searches for a vein in his arm with his fingers but never takes his eyes off me.
“You’re really beautiful,” he says. “Even more than I remember.”
“Looks can be deceivin
g,” I tell him. “All of my ugly is on the inside.”
He pushes the needle into his arm with a sigh and leans back into the couch, stretching out his legs as he stares up at the ceiling.
“I don’t believe that,” he says. “You were always too good for us.”
The needle hangs out of his arm, his words already slurring together.
“For what it’s worth. I really am sorry, Ten.”
He depresses the needle again, this time injecting the entire contents of the murky liquid into his vein.
I am not stupid. And Trip isn’t either.
It’s a lethal dose.
“Trip?”
I move over next to him, and his eyes flicker open just for a brief moment.
“Always was a coward.”
His head lulls to the side, his face gray and clammy when he slips into unconsciousness. There is a gurgling sound in his throat and then choking.
I reach for him, and I don’t know if I can watch this.
But it’s over as quickly as it began.
His body falls into stillness, and he is gone.
I fall back into the couch beside him and stay there for a long time.
And I grieve.
I grieve what we both became. I grieve the unfairness of life and the hard choices.
When it’s all done, I wipe my eyes.
And I leave.
26
SCARLETT
TERROR MADE me cruel- Emily Brontë
I bump into Whiskey on the way back to the apartment. He’s being his usual self, carrying on about something that’s upset him.
“I get it,” I tell him. “I didn’t listen to you, and I should have. You tried to warn me.”
He swishes his tail and spins in a circle, and I have no idea what that means.
But when I bend down to give him a pat on the head, there is blood matted into his fur. I swallow and scratch between his ears while I search his feline eyes for clues.
He trots a few steps ahead of me and then turns back to see if I’m following.
I retrieve my knife and follow him to Mrs. Rogers door. It’s cracked, and there’s a distinct metallic smell permeating into the hall.
And this is that part you see in every horror movie.
Mrs. Rogers can’t be dead. She’s just an old lady, and she doesn’t hate anybody. Except for maybe me because sometimes I steal her cat.
I shoo Whiskey away and push open the door with my foot.
There is blood spattered across the kitchen floor.
And there, in her recliner as usual, is Mrs. Rogers. With a steak knife lodged into her throat.
Hot tears spill over my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound.
He came here.
I know it in my bones. Alexander came here after my apartment and did this.
There’s a first aid kit torn apart on the counter. Cut strips of cloth and towels and blood everywhere.
I’m trying to make sense of it when the door clicks shut behind me. And when I turn, there is a man I don’t know, giving me an equally bewildered and annoyed expression.
He brings a phone to his ear with a leather-gloved hand and speaks.
“Small problem. There’s a woman here.”
I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but it could only be one person.
The man in front of me rakes his eyes over my body and describes me in a clinical way. A nonhuman way. People do this when they need to disconnect from a situation. When they see the person in front of them as a potential threat.
The knife is still in my hand, clutched at my side, and he doesn’t know I have it.
The person on the other line speaks, and the guy listens.
He’s a foot soldier. And he has his instructions now.
He hangs up and moves to pocket the phone. His next move will be for the gun tucked into his side, maybe. Either that, or he will try to strangle me. The more likely scenario since it’s quieter and not as messy.
But he won’t do either if he doesn’t get the opportunity.
I launch myself at him and plunge the knife into his gut.
He grunts and stumbles back, and we are both reaching for his gun. He’s in shock, and I’m faster.
In the seconds it takes him to comprehend his loss, I have it pressed to his temple. And what do you know, it’s a fucking Glock, and thank you, Rory Brodrick for imparting your knowledge.
“On the couch,” I say. “Now.”
He doesn’t argue. And I’m not here to dick around. I don’t know this guy, and technically he hasn’t done anything to me. So the minute he falls onto the couch, I scramble out the front door and make a beeline down the hallway.
When I spot Whiskey, I scoop him up into my arms as well.
He cries, and I nod.
“I know. Rory’s going to kill me.”
“Scarlett.”
Rory finds me in his bed, wrapped up inside of his blankets burrito style.
He sits down beside me, but doesn’t touch me.
Whiskey chooses this precise moment to let himself be heard with a faint meow next to my pillow.
“What the bleeding hell is that?” Rory asks.
“I brought you a present.”
He’s quiet, so I reach out to touch his hand. It’s warm and strong and solid… and tense. I ran out on him last night and I’m certain a part of him would just like to be done with this whole mess already.
The only way I know to get what I want is manipulation.
It isn’t fair to him.
So maybe for once, I’ll try honesty instead.
“I did it,” I whisper. “I tarnished my soul.”
“Scarlett.”
He doesn’t want to believe it. He’s shaking his head, and he doesn’t want me to be bad, but I am. And still, he climbs in beside me and I let him into my blanket fort and he holds me.
He has too many clothes on, and I want the thing only Rory can give me. I yank on his zipper and tug at his hem.
“No.”
He stills my hands, and he doesn’t get it. My chest is full of TNT. I’m about to blow.
“I need to feel you,” I insist. “I just need to feel your skin against mine.”
Rory can’t say no to me. Even when he tries, it’s only delaying the inevitable.
He pulls his shirt over his head and wraps his fortress of a body around mine. Our legs tangle together, and I want him inside of me.
Inside of the place that nobody else has ever reached before.
“I know you’re tired of me,” I tell him. “But don’t give up on me.”
“Tell me why,” he says. “Give me a reason, Scarlett.”
“Because I need you here for me,” I admit. “For when I finish the rest.”
It’s selfish, but honest. And Rory doesn’t try to talk me out of it. It’s a red flag if I ever saw one, because even if Rory is soft to me… he isn’t weak.
“I don’t want you involved,” I explain. “And I know it isn’t fair to ask this of you, but you need to trust that this is for the best. That I know what I’m doing.”
“Tell me what happened, Scarlett.”
“I did it,” I repeat, because he still doesn’t believe me. “I killed someone. And that’s all you need to know.”
His lips find my throat, and then my ear. His fingers drag down my back to squeeze my ass and pull me against him, his heart beating in tandem next to mine.
“Let me take care of you,” he says. “Let someone else do the hard things, baby doll. You aren’t alone anymore.”
He doesn’t get it.
He’s already given me more than I could ask for. A soft place in my hard world. Rory is the only thing that reminds me I’m alive, sometimes. The only thing that feels real.
“I’m trying to be patient,” he murmurs into my neck. “But don’t hate me when that patience runs out.”
I pull on his biceps and drag him on top of me.
Rory wants control.
&nbs
p; He will get it. Right now.
He settles between my legs, and he is heavy, but it doesn’t feel suffocating.
My fingers move over his back, solid and muscular and warm.
My body is completely open to him. Relaxed and his to take from at his leisure. He rocks his hips forward and grinds himself against my panties, testing me.
“Are ye sure about this?”
I drag my fingers up his neck and pull his face to mine.
“Fuck me like you love me,” I whisper. “Just for tonight.”
Rory stills above me, and there are words on his lips. Words I am afraid to hear. Rejection, confession… either way I won’t handle it well. I stop them from spilling out by smashing my lips onto his.
He’s on me then.
His tongue sweeping into my mouth with a groan while he tastes me. His hand cupping the back of my head and holding me in place while his other hand delves into my panties.
His fingers move inside of me.
He sets the pace slow, and it remains that way until I come. There’s some shuffling on the bed as he removes his jeans and my underthings, and then it’s our naked bodies, pressed together in the darkness.
His mouth is on me when he pushes inside. He is reverent, full of worship, kissing me everywhere. It’s slow, at first.
And we try it like that.
But Rory knows me.
He knows that if I were ever going to be loved, it would need to be hard.
He loves me hard right now.
When my fingers dig into his back, his teeth graze my throat and he slides my leg up to wrap it around his waist.
His next thrust is deeper. Harder.
I reach down and squeeze his ass and arch into him.
He whispers in my ear.
“Ye’re the only woman I’ve ever fucked this way.”
“What way?”
“Raw,” he groans.
And I growl in response. We are animals, consumed by this primal heat between us. Instinct takes over.
Hands grope and squeeze and clutch while our lips and teeth clash against each other. We can’t get enough. The frenzy is all that exists. To get closer. Deeper. Harder.