Page 65 of Jagger
She could’ve loved me.
I suck at the air desperately as she grips my chin, her eyes searching mine. I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now, with this fucking angel helping me through a panic attack that I deserve. I deserve more than this, and she needs to give it to me.
She needs to punish me. Over and over, until I’ve paid my debt. If I can ever repay it. If not, I’ll spend eternity at her feet, begging for…not her forgiveness, no, but that she could forget. That she could forget I ever existed. That any of the men that hurt her existed.
Her thin arms circle me, and she pulls me to her chest. I inhale her scent, knowing it’s the last time she’ll hold me close. I don’t care that she’s doing it because she’s a good person—I’ve got to make this memory last for the rest of my sorry fucking life.
Because I’ve just realized something I’ve been ignoring since the day I met her.
Molly makes me feel, and that’s why I hated her.
My breathing slowly returns to normal, but I don’t move away from her—I can’t. I’m dependent on her right now; it’s sick, it’s not right, but I need her so fucking badly.
The one girl who made me feel I’ve hurt beyond belief.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I tell her, pulling her into my arms.
She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. I have to tell her right now before she leaves—tell her before my next panic attack kills me off.
“You make me feel things I don’t ever want to feel, Molly. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I’m sobbing again, tears of frustration and anger, of regret and disbelief. I push her away, knowing I don’t deserve her.
Something clatters to the floor behind her, and when she twists her body, I see what it is.
A gun.
Realization hits me like a freight train, and I can’t stop the pain blasting from my heart and into every fiber of my being.
Molly came to kill me, and deep down, I know I deserve it.
33
MOLLY
I can’t help but follow his gaze, the gaze of a lost man. His face pales, but he doesn’t back away or look afraid—instead he bows his head, nodding slightly as he accepts his fate.
“It’s only right, Molly,” he states, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. “I thought that if I told you why I did it, that the feeling would go away.”
I reach for the gun and tuck it back into my jeans before staring at Jagger.
He’s the epitome of broken beauty: his eyes are red-rimmed, his skin blotchy and puffy, but he’s still beautiful. His hands tremble as he speaks, like he’s trying to use them to support his heavy words.
“What feeling?” I ask, unable to tear myself away from him. This man raped me. Yes, he thinks his reason justifies it, but it doesn’t. It softens the blow, but it doesn’t prevent it or reverse it.
He still did it.
“Guilt. Regret.” Jagger lifts his knees and rests his arms and head on them, like he’s exhausted. “But it hasn’t worked, so take that gun and kill me, Molly. Because it’s what I deserve. What all those bastards that hurt you deserve.”
My chest expands with warmth and panic, and before I know it, I’m shaking my head.
Shouldn’t I be reaching for my gun?
“I’m not a killer, and I don’t think I’m cut out for prison,” I whisper, wishing I could comfort him.
What is wrong with me? He raped me for fucks sake!
“Then give me the gun.” Jagger lifts his gaze to mine, and something jolts in my chest, something so deep and visceral I can’t breathe.
