Page 2 of Unwanted

Weak.

Too weak for me to feel the frustration in his touch. Too weak for me to hear the anger in his voice.

I stand still and determined, using my own anger and frustration to my advantage. When it finally registers that I’m not moving, he throws his body at me, his arms around my neck, his legs practically climbing me, his mouth aggressively pressing against mine.

“Kiss me,” he says through a muffled sob. “Kiss me.”

Tears land on my lips, and the salty taste of his pain pours over me, like blistering, hot water being poured over ice. My heart cracks, in just enough places to shatter.

To melt.

He kisses me harder, desperate for a reaction, and I give it to him.

Imelt.

Stupidly, foolishly, selfishly, I melt.

Hooking my hands underneath his thighs, I take his weight and carry him. I turn us both and push him up against the car, allowing his legs to wrap around me.

He’s always been bigger than me. Despite how I eventually filled out my lanky teenage frame, he was always taller and wider and stronger. But in my arms, his once built and sculpted body is nothing more than a bag of bones.

My hold on him may be weary and gentle, but my mouth no longer has any restraint.

I succumb to the kiss.

Our teeth clash, our tongues lashing out in anger and pain and dominance. Our mouths move against one another; talking, fighting, feeling.

Arlo whimpers and my cock thickens against him. His body doesn’t respond. It can’t, not after the way he’s treated it, but I feel his need all the same.

Fueled by hate and hurt, we ravage each other, our tongues dueling, like we’re both trying to get in the last word.

“Please, baby,” he murmurs against my mouth. Arlo begins shaking in my arms, and I feel the fear finally settling in. “Please don’t leave me here.”

“I have to,” I whisper. “I can’t keep doing this with you anymore.”

“I’ll be better,” he promises. “I love you. I’ll do anything you want me to.”

“This,” I say forcefully, rearing my head back. “This is what I want you to do. Get better. Be better.”

Unsure where he finds the strength, Arlo begins to frantically pound at my chest. “Fuck you. Fuck you. They can’t keep me here.”

Carefully, I loosen my hold on him and force him to stand on his own, but the hits keep coming. My chest. My shoulders. My face. And I don’t stop him.

“Fuck you,” he seethes. “Fuck you!”

He screams the words at me. On repeat. Over and over.

His anger rises. And rises. And rises, till there’s nowhere left for it to go. And that’s when it happens. The adrenaline is nowhere to be found, and Arlo’s body loses the fight. He’s all tears and saliva and desolation.

He sways on his feet, and I stretch my arms out for him. Even bruised and bleeding, I catch him when he falls.

I hold his rattling body against me, my own tears finally starting to fall.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper through tears and pain, into his hair. “I promise you’re going to be okay.”

FRANKIE

FOUR YEARS LATER

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