Page 36 of Getting It Twisted

“George?” Daniel sends a sharp glare into the living room, where George is reuniting with his friends.

“He doesn’t like me very much,” I say dryly.

Daniel’s thoughtful gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, and is it really the blood he’s looking at now? The grip on my face tightens, the callused edge of his thumb catching on my lower lip . . .

He’s drunk as hell. Would he even remember it tomorrow if I leaned in and brushed my lips to his? My eyes flutter shut, and I lean unconsciously closer.

The next moment, his hand is gone.

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll fix that window.”

I lick my lips. “Okay.”

“And I’ll tell George to chill the fuck out. It’s not okay, what he did.”

“Whatever.” I slip through the door and out into the pitch-black yard.

Maybe me getting punched is the best thing that happened tonight. Now I’ve got something to hold over Daniel’s head where George is concerned. The newfound tightness in my chest when Daniel looks at me or touches me, however? That’s the worst.

I slam the driver-side door shut with enough force the sound must carry a mile away. Shit, if this is what happens after he jerks me off, what’s going to happen after he fucks me?

When all else fails and frustration takes hold, I need to break stuff.

I gather up every empty beer, vodka, and whiskey bottle I can find. Some are strewn across the yard. Some are in my mother’s room, which I never venture into unless I’m desperate.

I throw them all into a cracked washing basin and carry them into the woods behind the house. There’s a brick foundation of an old, burned-down cabin here. I used to hide behind it when I was little—huddle into the charred remains, curled up like an animal.

I fling one of the glass bottles into the brick wall. It shatters with this satisfying, ear-splitting sound that makes birds flee from the trees. The act calms me down but only somewhat.

Last night is stuck in my brain, replaying again and again how Daniel pinned me down, kissed me, shoved his hands into my pants, and jerked me off with ruthless efficiency. Even though it didn’t happen the way I wanted it to, the more I think about it, the hotter the memory becomes. The thought of his hard-on pressing against my thigh, his viselike grip on my wrists and my cock, gets me all hot and tense. I can’t wait until he lets me blow him, or better yet, until he fucks me.

I bet he can take me the way I want. I bet he can pull my hair and slap my ass and feed me his come until I’m dripping in it. I bet he can be ruthless about it.

Men tend to fuck me better if they hate me, as if their anger is some fucking aphrodisiac.

But that’s the issue. I want Daniel to like me, and at the same time, there’s that sick thrill I get when he flares up at me—when his eyes narrow and his hands ball into fists.

Another issue is my jokes don’t seem to work on him anymore. I’ve been gone for so long I’ve forgotten how to make him laugh, or maybe he just hates me too much.

I’m tired of thinking of all the ways I can get him to like me again. He can hate me for all I care. It would only be fitting.

After all, I’m used to not giving a flying fuck about the people I have sex with. They’re a means to an end—bags of flesh for me to play with and get off on. Sometimes, I even hate them. I hate them for fucking me, for wanting me. I hate them for hurting me, even when I order them to.

I don’t hate Daniel. Far from it. He frustrates the hell out of me though.

Another shattered bottle. Another explosion of glass. I lose track of time and space and fail to hear the approaching footsteps before they’re too close.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Daniel. Of course. I all but repressed he’d come over today.

Without turning around, I grab another bottle. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

After sending another bottle to its death, I spin around to glare at him. He’s wearing his faded jean jacket and brown leather boots. His hair is styled, swept to the side with some kind of wax. He looks good. Too good.

I’m starting to get used to the shorter length of his hair, though I’m not yet sure which I prefer. He looks more proper and boring with his hair short. More like his father and cousin. And uncle. But his dirty-blond hair, baby-blue eyes, and freckles are all different from them. They’re not from his asshole father or his bastard cousin. They’re all Daniel.

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