Page 32 of Vicious

There are so many things I want to make that I don’t even know where to start answering his question. I shrug, feeling awkward. I want to make more costumes for people to act out their fantasies in—whether at conventions or in private. I want to make people smile.

Mostly, I just want to create pretty things.

“Clothes to wear down here while I’m stuck with you, first of all,” I say instead.

“Sounds good.” Chase goes to sit down at the bed. “Walk me through it. Show me how it’s all done. I really have no idea how to sew.”

“You really want me to give you a sewing lesson?” I ask him skeptically.

Chase shrugs. “Why not? Unless you’d rather fuck.”

“I’ll show you,” I say hurriedly. I don’t have any patterns, but there are a few things I can make with relative ease. A pillowcase, probably, but it’s not what I want to make. I’m pretty sure I can make a simple set of pajama pants without a pattern, which would be comfortable in one of the soft fabrics he’d gotten me.

Somehow, he manages to at least pretend to pay attention while I go over the basics. While I start out feeling more self-conscious, I find myself getting more and more animated as I explain with hand gestures and by holding up pieces of fabric.

I feel flushed, happy even, by the time I have a basic pair of pajama pants pinned and ready to sew, and I realize I’ve almost forgotten where I am.

I pause before I put the fabric under the sewing machine though, because I don’t know if I trust myself with the machine just yet. I pick out a piece of scrap fabric and lay it under the needle.

“One second,” I say. “I want to see how the machine works.”

Chase nods and doesn’t complain at all as I test out several different settings. I rethread the needle—rather, I let the machine do it, because this one has an automatic threader—and play around some more, until I feel confident that I understand the flow of the thread and how I need to handle the fabric.

“Sorry about that,” I say automatically, as if I have anything to apologize for. Chase doesn’t respond, though, which surprises me. I look over my shoulder, expecting an amused smirk.

Instead, Chase is slumped across the bed, asleep.

It’s strange seeing him this way, so vulnerable and at peace. He’s always quick with a smile or a smirk, but there are no traces of either. His forehead is smooth rather than lined with stress, and his features are more handsome than they usually look when he’s acting all high and mighty.

He looks almost like someone I’d want to know.

I scoff at myself because that’s ridiculous. Chase Vicious is exactly that: vicious and self-absorbed, willing to do the unthinkable to get what he wants. There are reasons I’ve refused to go out with him again and again, and it’s never been his looks that held me back.

I shake myself out of my reverie, choosing not to disturb him. I start work on the pants instead, glad for the machine’s soft hum instead of the loud rattle the one at home makes. They won’t fit perfectly, but they’ll be serviceable enough. They’ll keep me from being completely naked, at any rate, and I can make a shirt in the same fabric later on.

I wonder if he’ll take away those clothes, too, or if this amuses him enough to where he’ll allow me to keep them.

I contemplate the small fabric scissors for a brief moment. They’re incredibly sharp, sharp enough to where I think they might cut flesh as easily as they part fabric. But what would I do? Slit his throat while he sleeps? Even if I managed to disable or kill him, I can’t get out of here.

Sighing, I turn my thoughts back to the pants, only to realize that I’ve sewn the bottoms together instead of hemming them. Well. There’s no sense in waking him up, and now I have to undo the damage I just did.

He sleeps, and I sew, and for just a little while, I feel like things aren’t really so bad.

It’s a nice delusion to have.

CHAPTER 8

May

I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but it’s been an uneasy state of half-rest, half-waking. I’m all too aware that I’m sleeping in a bed with someone else, and I don’t remember ever doing that before. It’s not like I’ve had any one-night-stands, and even when I was growing up, sleepovers were held with sleeping bags, not cozy in each other’s beds.

I’d fallen asleep on the complete opposite end of the bed from Chase, curled up on the very edge of the bed. When I wake up, though, I’m enveloped with warmth that’s not coming from a blanket.

Chase’s arms are around me, and he has me drawn against his chest. Instead of stretching, I remain still, willing him not to wake up before I come up with a plan to get out of this. He’ll never believe that I got into bed with him for any reason other than to cuddle, which is fucking ridiculous because I’d never want that.

But I hadn’t been interested in sleeping on the floor, either, and I’d thought the bed was large enough for us to sleep on opposite ends.

Idiot.

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