Page 33 of Fearless

I hate a lot of people. Ford. Sarah. Cole, sometimes. My second-year English teacher. But hate is not a feeling. Hate is just a category I put people into.

Sometimes I think there must have been some fuck up in the uterus where we got one person’s allowance of everything between us. So Cole got all the feelings, while I got nothing.

I should be angry. Annoyed. Instead I’m just numb.

Drugs used to make me feel things. It’s impossible not to feel anything when you’re as high as a kite on ecstasy. But I don’t do that anymore. Booze? Just makes me depressed. I’d rather have no feelings than suicidal ones.

I’m not doing either of those things.

The third poison of choice—fucking.

I pull out my phone and open up Snapchat, but I close it down as soon as I see all the blue speech bubbles. That’s never made me feel anything either, because it’s never about me. I bet every single one of them sent a photo of their tits to my brother at the same time. You could stand us both side by side, and they’d flip a coin. They’d sing, “eeny, meeny, miny, mo.” Or the ones that wanted more than just a fuck would choose Cole, because at least he knows how to have a good time.

What good is fucking when the second it’s over you go back to feeling nothing again?

It took me a long time to learn that all three of life’s poisons only make you feel worse in the end.

I wish I could go back and tell myself that, and spend more time trying to work out what the fuck actually makes me feel something.

CHAPTER TEN

MEISIE

It feels like an eternity passes before Cillian returns. It’s been a good few hours at least.

As soon as I hear the metal door’s handle turn, I flop onto my side on the bed and close my eyes. My back’s turned to the closet, and I twist my legs just enough so that (a) it looks like a natural sleeping position and (b) my sleeping shirt is showing off the curve of my ass to the room at large.

Honestly, he’s only got himself to blame. He’s the one who didn’t provide underwear with the outfit. And judging from how he reacted the last time he was in the room, my ass is something he wouldn’t mind seeing more of.

I force my breath to become slow and deep.

Nothing to see here. Just a helpless, innocent girl fast asleep on your cum-encrusted play bed. Okay, the sheets are actually fucking pristine, but I wouldn’t run a UV light over this mattress if you paid me good money.

He thumps down the stairs and it’s weird because, with my eyes closed, it sounds ten times louder than the last time he came down here.

His shoes hit the concrete, then he stops.

Slow and deep, Meisie. You’re dreaming about kitties and rainbows. Maybe I should twitch a little. Move my eyelids. REM and all that shit.

No, just slow and deep breaths. Ball’s in his court now.

He stands at the far side of the room for a few seconds, and then thumps over to the bed like he’s about to belt out, “Fee, fi, fo, fum,” and hit me over the head with a tree trunk.

Pretty damn difficult to pretend to be sleeping through all of that, but this little girl’s all tuckered out, okay?

I feel him standing over me, looking at me, and when he stays quiet, when he just keeps looking, I start doubting myself like nobody’s fucking business.

Why doesn’t he do something? Say something?

Fabric rustles.

That same giant rams his hand through my chest and squeezes my heart.

Forget slow and deep. I can’t even breathe right now.

This wasn’t the plan. If he’s busy taking off his fucking pants or unleashing that fucking cock of his—

There’s the metallic flick of a lighter, the pop-sizzle of a cigarette being lit, then another rustle of fabric.

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