Page 39 of Run Little Killer
I swear a crackle of energy charges the air between us as his dark eyes lock with mine. After a beat, he steps to the side, face impassive as I squeeze past him into the bathroom and turn on the faucet. I cut the tap as soon as the water rises in my cup and take a drink. It's roomtemperature, but still seems to dull the phantom ache of my screams from that night with Shawn.
That's the problem with the nightmares– they aren't just memories my brain randomly plays out to fuck with me. Each moment from that night, every unwelcome touch and violent thrust, are permanently etched into my frontal cortex. As if it wasn’t enough to live through that horrific night once, I get to endure endless replays in my dreams.
I wonder if the nightmares will ever go away?
Therapy at Briarwood helped a little, but they never saw me as a victim. They listened, but refused to actually hear me. I was just another burden from the state to rehabilitate. They studied me like a word problem on the SAT; something that could be solved with the right combination of mood stabilizers and sedatives.
It wasn't my mind that was broken, though. It was my soul. I felt the fissures crack deeper with every doubtful look that was cast my way after it happened– the police officers, the state appointed attorney, my friends… even my own father couldn't look me in the eyes. He was disgusted with me, said he didn't know who I was anymore, refused to listen to me as I tried to plead my side.
"I thought I raised you better,"he once said, fingers toying with the gold cross hanging from his neck."Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk through town now? Members of the church, of MY church, stop and whisper about the whore daughter of Pastor Spencer."
"Little killer?" Nix asks, his rough voice pulling me back from my thoughts.
"Huh?"
"I said, that bar the motel gave us coupons for is still open, do you want something stronger?" he questions, cocking a brow.
"Yeah," I breathe, setting the empty cup on to the counter beside the sink. “I do.”
It'scriminal how fucking attractive a simple pair of grey sweatpants are on a man. Such an understated piece of clothing, really, leaving nothing to the imagination except for the fantasies you create. And as the hem of Nix's shirt rides up, revealing his sweats hanging low across his hips as he holds open the door, my thighs clench.
The potent smell of grease and cigarette smoke invades my nostrils as I step under his outstretched arm and into the bar across the parking lot from the motel. It's late and the place is mostly empty. Only a few people are scattered about, the room filled with low murmurs of conversations and the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Color flashes as a motorcycle race plays out on the TV mounted above the shelves of liquor behind the bar.
Nix's bandaged hand settles at the small of my back, gently directing me to two empty stools at the end of the lacquered bar top.
"You keep being nice to me and I'll expect it all the time," I murmur, darting a glance up at him.
His mouth curves in a lopsided grin as he plops down on a stool. I take a seat beside him, the cracked vinyl seat catching the buttery soft fabric of my leggings as I slide across the surface. I know the playful version of Nix I saw earlier was a rare glimpse behind his mask. And as much as the broody and sexy bad boy thing makes me wet, there's something about seeing that sweet side of him that makes me want to drop to my knees.
I drum my fingers on the counter as a balding man in a black muscle shirt approaches. "What’ll it be?" he asks, slinging a towel over his shoulder.
"Jack and Coke. Make it a double," Nix says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.
"And for the little lady?"
I internally cringe at the pet name– the same one Kurt used today.
"Coke and vanilla rum if you’ve got it," I say, tapping my nails against the counter.
He studies me for a moment and my chest tightens.Fuck, please don’t ask for an ID…
After a beat, he jerks a nod, setting two low ball glasses on a rubber mat as he pulls down the respective liquors. My eyes never leave his hands, meticulously watching as he adds ice and pours Cruzan into one glass and Jack Daniels into the other. He clicks a button on the soda gun, topping off each glass with Coke before placing them down in front of us.
Nix passes him the vouchers and he swipes them up with a nod, stepping away to tend to other customers at the opposite end of the bar.
My fingers curl around the glass as I raise it to my lips. The liquor is sweet and smooth as it slides down my throat and heats my belly. Nix and I casually nurse our drinks, a comfortable silence settling between us.
"Thanks," I say after a few minutes, tilting my head in his direction.
"For?" he drawls.
"For today. You didn't have to–"
"That's where you're wrong," he interrupts, eyes darkening. "He touched what wasn't his."
"Oh yeah?" I laugh, throwing back the last of my drink,glass clinking as it comes to rest on the glossy bar top. "And whose am I?"
"Ours," Nix deadpans without missing a beat.
