Page 91 of Choke

“Adrian, what the hell?”

Frayed. Raw. What the fuck does he want from me?

“No pants. Find a dress or a skirt.”

I want to argue with him and scream at him, but he seems so frenzied, like a live wire, sparking and ready to burn the world. I bitemy tongue, steady my breath, and turn back to the closet, spotting the black dress Rosie gave me. Pulling it out, I expect him to deny it; it’s so short. So revealing.

Instead, he steps away, crosses the room, resumes his stance, and watches me. I slip the dress on, adjust the thin straps, and turn to the mirror. It hugs my curves and displays so much of my body, of the tattoos I cover myself with.

Naked. I feel naked.

“Great. Let’s go.” His tone is pointed and sharp.

My eyes fly to his.

“Adrian, I need to put on makeup and do my hair… I can’t go out like this.” I hold my arms out. My hair is everywhere; there are black streaks from my mascara running.

He lets out a huff and offers me a dismissive wave. The movement is so disrespectful, and I glare at him as I walk past him toward the bathroom.

Such a jerk.

I lean into the counter, focusing on deep breathing. My head spins, and I can feel a panic attack coming on. I turn on the cold water, plug the drain, and let the sink fill before I submerge my face.

Feel the cold.

Feel the strain, the slow burn in my chest.

Feel the weightlessness of those few seconds where nothing exists but water and silence.

Feel.

Feel the heat of him standing behind me.

I pull my head up, and he’s right there. His expression is somehow gentler and more curious.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

Tears prickle my eyes, and I won’t cry for him, instead reaching for the hand towel and drying my face.

“Can you give me 10 minutes to finish up here?” I won’t give him a ‘please.’

He walks away without a word, and I gently close and lock the door. My desire to slam it is tampered only by the need to avoid a fight.

This is so fucked up.

I get to work, twisting my hair into a loose braid and pulling pieces out to frame my face. Given his pressure to hurry, I skip a full face of makeup and opt for a strip of fake lashes and lipstick. When I finish, I look at myself in the mirror, and I look effortless.

Guess this’ll have to do.

Opening the door, I see him. For a second—barely a blink—he looks wrecked. Hollow. His shoulders slump, and his jaw clenches. My breath catches because I’ve never seen him like this.

Then, like a snapped rubber band, the mask slides back into place. His face hardens, and his exhaustion vanishes.

He stands, cold and sharp again. “Let’s go.”

His tone is so flat and free from emotion; all I can do is follow him. The elevator is silent and thick with tension. He storms out of the building, letting the doors slam into me. I urge myself not to fall apart as I watch him step into the driver’s seat of his big black truck.

I look down the street and consider running for it, but where would I go so he wouldn’t find me? I’m wearing heels, and he’s bigger and faster even if I was in runners. He would catch me. Resigned, I round the truck and climb into the passenger seat, gently shutting the door and sealing my fate.

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