Page 51 of Overcast

My brain kicks into high gear. If he thought of me as so revolting, he wouldn’t be able to be so close to me. I wouldn’t smell his cedar-smelling cologne that’s mixed with weed and the fact that he contemplates my womanly features from time to time.

He wouldn’t of told me that he wished I was the woman that he was having sex with. His thick cock wouldn’t be erect if I turned him off.

Women manipulate men every day to gain something.

I want my life.

If I would’ve thought of this sooner, Johnny, the young man in the hotel with me, might’ve helped me. He stole glances at me, his cheeks blazed pink when our eyes caught, clearly embarrassed. While I was too busy dreading what was next.

He appeared to be my age, working for a bunch of dudes that—what, go around saving damsels in distress. The burly fellow who carried me because my leg throbbed so much told Johnny to shut up and leave me alone.

He did, although it didn’t stop him from buying me a bottle of Sprite from the vending machine and some Cheez-its.

Johnny was a skinny, young man with a chatty mouth. His accomplices, on several occasions, demanded that he keep his mouth shut.

Emric, on the other hand, is a monster with a thickset of shoulders, black tattoos that I’m afraid to stare at for too long with a laundry list of bad intentions.

My limited experience with men of his kind has me wanting to analyze and do a field study on what a normal moment with him would be like.

It’d probably consist of him being an asshole with a bad temper.

There would never be a juncture where him and I would ever meet unless he stops at CVS for something random. Other than that, I don’t see him shopping at a thrift store or stopping at a college library for kicks.

“Now you’re bleeding again,” he professes. “Pull up your shirt.” My eyes expand as I watch him still studying what’s in his First Aid box. When I don’t do what he says, he peers up at me. “Did you need me to help you?”

No.

“Can’t you just—”

“No, to whatever dumbass thing you’re going to say,” he snaps. “Utter another word, and I’m going to gag you next.”

Rising to stand, he pivots and strides towards a small kitchen. Quickly scoping the room, it’s like a studio apartment, everything bunched in a generous space. Except for the dark hallway that screams creepy. A large TV hangs off the wall, surrounded by two bookshelves with barely any books. Two twin-sized beds lie in the far corner with a modest dining set on the opposite side. The room is painted in hunter green, barely decorated, and the lighting is dull.

With the time I have, I touch my side, the pads of my fingers immediately greeted by blood that has soaked through a shirt that Johnny found for me.

Emric re-enters too soon and rolls his eyes when he finds me exactly how he left me. I don’t wait for him to chastise, gathering up the hem, and delicately begin to pull it over my abdomen.

When I get close to my breasts, he seizes out, “That’s far enough.” He shifts his weight, concentration now on my naked flesh. “How good are my odds of getting you to lie still this time?”

“I’ll try,” I mutter.

He frowns but lowers himself again, peeling off the sticky bandage glued to my skin.

“How bad is it?” He flicks his attention to me, irritated at my need to speak apparently.

“It grazed—” His finger brushes near the wound. “—but it took a nice chunk out of you—”

“What?!” I move, but his hand lands on my chest again, and, this time, he gently pushes me back.

“It’s not that serious, chill out.”

“But you just said—”

“Wrong choice of words. You won’t bleed to death.”

“But—”

“Just lie there, is it seriously that fucking hard to do?” His remark is harsh, but his voice is more relaxed.

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