Page 32 of Sweet Punk
His wicked laugh makes my blood run cold. “Try telling that to someone who will believe those pretty lies.” His hot breath wafts over my face as he maneuvers me to my back on the ground. He straddles me, clamping both of my wrists in one wickedly strong hand over my chest, and somehow still holding the matchbook in the same hand pinched tightly between his forefinger and thumb. I try to buck him off me, but it’s no use. He knows it, and I know it. “You’re only going to wear yourself out doing that.”
I watch as he pulls a match from the book and passes it over the striker, so close to my chest I’m afraid he’s going to catch my shirt on fire. A tiny flame flares to life. He smirks, staring at it, and watches until it gets down to his fingertips before finally blowing it out. My chest stutters as I hold back a sob. “Please, Milo. Stop. Whatever you’re doing.”
He flicks the burned-up match remnant on the floor next to my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. The low rumble of his voice results in another sob from me. “This is fun. Will I drop it on you or not?” Another match strikes to life.
The acrid burning smell fills my nostrils. I open my eyes just in time to see him flick the lit match away from him. It lands on the floor near my shoulder. Thank God, it goes out instead of catching the carpet on fire.
He does this over and over again, and the craziest fucking part is that the fire has him so entranced, he’s hardly paying attention to me. Sucking in a breath, the second he strikes another match to life, I wrench free and ram two fisted hands into his groin as hard as I can, then punch him square in the jaw. His head snaps to the side and he gasps, both in surprise and pain, so I use the moment to my advantage. Twisting hard to one side, I dislodge him from above me using every ounce of strength I have. The sicko flops to the side when I push my way free, cupping his dick with both hands and groaning like he’s dying. His face is etched with agony—an agony he totally deserves. Fuckingasshole.
Never has my heart thundered so hard in my entire life. I waste no time scrambling to my feet. Milo makes a grab for me, but I pull free, then bolt toward the door, not giving two shits that he’s still moaning and acting like he’s dying. He bellows his displeasure at my escape. I doubt he’s going anywhere fast because I was vicious with that blow to his man parts. I take off, knowing if I can get far enough away, there are plenty of places I can hide. With my heart racing, I dart down the stairs where there are witnesses lounging on the couches in the lobby, should I need them.Go, go, go!
I burst through the main door, not bothering to waste time looking over my shoulder. I have to assume he’s got his eyes on me. I tear down the steps and only pick up speed from there. I feel an overwhelming need to run. To hide. Somewhere he can’t see me. Somewhere he’ll never think to go.
SEVENTEEN
KELLAN
For the last two hours of my art studio time, my hand has flown effortlessly over the canvas, sweeping the paintbrush where it needs to go, my chest tight. It’s almost as if my head knows what I’m painting, and my hand is simply the vehicle holding the brush. I’m hardly watching what I’m doing, just reloading with the appropriate paint colors and go. It may be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And the most significant. Because this is me, on a canvas. The churning gut, the tortured soul, and the unfathomable pain that had resulted in my behavior toward Star that first night in my bedroom, and the shame that washed over me as I pushed her away, knowing I wanted her, and unable to come to terms with what it could mean. That’s what I’m expressing on this canvas.
When I first sketched out what I wanted to do for this piece, I’d been deep in my head, attempting to untwist all the torment and anguish inside me. I want to be normal for once. I want to be able to give Star what she needs from me.
Somewhere along the way, this girl has sunk into my skin and soothed the fractured pieces inside me. I pause for a moment, sharply drawing in a breath as I set my supplies down to take a break.
“Phew.Lustis coming along very well.” Ryleigh laughs, fanning a hand in front of her face. “Are you doing okay over there?” she asks, slipping over to my station from hers. She plops onto a chair, and when I don’t immediately respond, she cocks her head to the side. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. You know, quiet for Kellan, not for other people. So,superquiet.”
I gesture to the canvas. “I think so.” My head drops back on my shoulders, and I stare up at the ceiling for a few moments while she studies my work. I never have liked being around when people are observing something I’m in the process of working on. Hell, I don’t like showing it when I’m done half the time either. I’ve had to get over it and grow a thicker skin, though, because part of the process with these more advanced art classes is that we’re always looking at everyone else’s work. It’s fuckin’ agonizing.
“It’s stunning, Kellan. Powerful. Moving. I hate it as much as I did the first one.”
What the fuck?I blink, scowling as I force my gaze to hers.
She laughs, shaking her head and grinning. “Calm down. I meant that when I looked at your first painting in the series, I had a very visceral reaction to it. An overwhelming sense of fear just poured from every brushstroke. I can’t even explain why or how I knew what you were doing. Because it’s abstract. You wouldn’t think it would reach out and punch you in the gut like that, but it did. It blatantly screamedfear. I immediately got it.”
A sheepish look crosses my face. I should have known better than to think Ryleigh would mean she disliked my work, though I do think she’d tell me if I were on the wrong track. She’s helpful like that. And brutally honest.
She winks at me, then allows her gaze to drift back to the piece I’ve been consumed by. “This one, though… It’s like it’s clawing at my heart. I’m trying hard to come up with what I think this means to you, but I’m—” She hesitates, shaking her head. “It’s not that I’m not getting it.” She chews hard on her lip, a deeper line forming on her forehead the longer she stares. “I think it’s more that I’ve never experienced something like this, never felt quite this way. It's a complexly layered emotion. Just completely raw. Anguish, almost. When I look at it, I feel this soul-deep conflict. Whatever this is.” She turns a bit on her seat to face me, her brows pinching together. “So… what is this, Kellan?”
I blink rapidly, then mash the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing hard before tearing them away to meet her questioning gaze. “It’s the way I felt about myself after—”
Her brows draw together, and then she glances around. “It’s okay, we don’t have to discuss it here if you’d rather not.”
I run my hand through my hair, wondering what she’ll make of this. “No, it’s not that.” I don’t think anyone’s paying us any attention anyway. “Um, so Star and I—”
Her brows shoot up on her forehead so far they’re above the rims of her glasses. “Wait, are you telling me all three of you guys are dating all three of the girls in the suite across the hall?” She gives me a look; it’s amused but disbelieving.
“Yeah. That’s probably one of the reasons this can’t possibly work. And I had actually wondered if maybe we’d just naturally gravitated toward each other because of hanging out together so much, but… no. I definitely have a thing for her.” I try to clear my throat, finding a huge lump caught there the longer I talk. I grit my teeth and run my hand over my jaw. I can tell by the look on her face that she’s curious but also concerned. Probably because I’m acting like a freaking weirdo. “Fuck. I’m just going to say it.”
“Yep, spit it out. You’ll probably feel better.” Her lips twitch a bit.
“The first time Star and I fooled around, I acted like I didn’t want her like that. Like she meant nothing to me.” I swallow. “I made her feel like shit.” I breathe out a hard exhale.
“Kellan—”
I hold my hand up, shaking my head. “It was my choice to handle it like that. And we’ve come a long way since then. At least I think so. But that,”—I point at the painting—“is supposed to be shame and the intense feeling of disappointment in myself.”
“Oh, shit.” Ryleigh remains unmoving, simply watching me.
“Yeah. Combine that with an unhealthy dose of hellacious upbringing and abuse, and you’ve got yourself a winner.” I shake my head. “Anyway. I like her. A lot. But I don’t know how to navigate an actual relationship with anyone when my past keeps getting in my way. I’ve got a couple hang-ups from when I was younger that have come right along with me into adulthood. I’m—” I run my hand over my mouth. “I’m scared because I’ve never felt this close to anyone before and am afraid I’m going to fuck it all up. She understands that I have very intense issues surrounding physical touch and”—I grimace—“intimacy, I guess. But it seems like she’s okay taking it slow. I worry I’m going to get attached to her and she’ll leave. Fuck. I alreadyama little obsessed.”
