Page 29 of Her Name in Red
He didn't.
The boy who watched me kill my abuser and didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Just watched, and I felt the relief flow from him, whether he’ll ever admit that or not.
I want a lot of things, Rhodes. Most of them aren't suitable for text message.
My lips curl into a smile as I picture him reading that. Is he alone in his bed? Is he hard already, just from these few messages?
You're the one who approached ME, Maren. Don't pretend this was all my doing.
Details, details. The point is, you can't stop thinking about me. And I know it's driving you crazy.
I stretch out on the couch, arching my back like a cat.
You didn't answer my question.
I smirk. So persistent.
Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd respond. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to know if you've been thinking about me.
There's a long pause before his response comes through.
You already know I have.
It's been difficult to think of much else.
I bite my lower lip, surprised by the heat spreading through my chest. This is exactly what I wanted to hear, so why does it feel like I'm the one being caught off guard?
Good.
I shift on the couch, suddenly restless. The springs creak beneath me as I readjust, pulling my knees up to my chest. The polish on my nails is fully dry now, gleaming like fresh blood in the dim light.
What are you doing right now?
Painting my nails. Watching shitty TV. Thinking about the way you looked at me like you couldn't decide whether to strangle me or beg for more.
And which one did you want me to do?
Both. Neither. I wanted you scared and wanting at the same time. Like holding your hand over a flame just to see how long you can stand it.
I can almost feel him processing this on the other end of the line. Is he alone in his room? Sitting in the dark like me? Or is he lying in bed, sheets twisted around him?
What exactly do you want from me?
There it is again. That same question. As if it's simple. As if I could distill everything churning inside me into a neat little answer that would make sense to him—or to anyone.
Right now? I want you to be a good boy and get some sleep. Don't you have a game in a few hours?
I glance at the time again. Almost two in the morning now. The Jaguars have a home game against St. Andrews tomorrow—no, today—at seven. Not that I've been keeping track or anything.
Since when do you care about my sleep schedule?
I don't. But I'd hate for you to play like shit and blame it on me. Your fragile ego might not recover.
My ego is just fine. And I never play like shit.
I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. Men and their fucking egos.
Sure, superstar. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
