Page 46 of Follow Her Down
“Come inside me,” I insist on a whisper.“I can’t get pregnant.”
Not with my fresh supply of birth control and negative bloodborne diseases tests.
His thrusts turn erratic, losing their brutal rhythm.A guttural groan tears from him as he buries himself deep one final time, shuddering, his forehead pressed hard against my collarbone.
We collapse against the wall, shaking with exertion and adrenaline, and rain slicks our skin, plastering our hair to our faces.
His breath rasps against my ear, ragged and uneven.He shifts, his arm still locked around my waist, his body a heavy, warm weight against mine in the cold.
“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, the words rough and raw.
A laugh bubbles up from deep in my chest, a feral, cruel one that echoes the wildness still humming in my veins.I tilt my head back, letting the rain hit my face.
“Good,” I breathe.
He traces my slick jaw and then grips it tightly in his strong grasp.“No more bags full of shit.You hear me?If he finds out—and he still could—he’ll come after you himself.There’s no telling what he’ll do then.”
I nod, but not because of the detective.The fiery shit was only the beginning of this psychological war, but that stage has passed.
Eddie presses another rough kiss to my lips.
From inside the house, muffled by the closed door but still chillingly clear, a whisper snakes through: cold, possessive, thick with jealousy and hunger.Mine.
21
Sera
Thefluorescentlightsabovethe gas station counter buzz like insect thoughts.Constant, irritating, but so familiar they’ve become almost comforting.
I’ve been working here for three weeks now.Time enough to learn how the register sticks, how the coffee maker in the corner spits and wheezes before producing something that tastes awesome (courtesy of my thorough scrubbing; how long had it been since a proper cleaning?), and how the locals avoid eye contact when they buy their beer and lottery tickets.
My thoughts drift between the men who have somehow wrapped themselves around my life.
James, my stalker, who drove past my house as I was leaving for work today, with no gifts for me other than his smile.His smile burns too bright when he sees me.Like I’m the sun and he’s been living underground his whole life.Dangerous.Beautiful.Devoted.Utterly mad.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t stop either, but because his van speakers blared “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge, I knew he’d just gotten back from dumping the pieces of Rick’s body.
I grinned right back and blew him a kiss.
Then there’s Eddie, with his detective eyes that strip away my careful facades.Every lie I tell settles between us like a stone, building a wall he easily tears down, but I have no more lies left.He knows everything about me, all my sharp, shadowy corners, and still, he comes to Gas N’ Go multiple times a day for the “best damn coffee in the entire world” and visits my house every night for a wild fuck on my front porch.
And my shadow daddy, my whisper in the dark, a possible construct of my imagination or something dark and corporeal that slipped through the cracks of life and death.His jealousy seeps through the floorboards of my thoughts and my reality, but that’s okay.We belong in the dark together.
I’ve spent so long being alone.Just me and my glowing hatred, keeping each other warm at night.Now I’m surrounded, and seen, and believed, and supported.
I’m not used to it, but now I’m not sure I could give it up.
The bell above the door chimes, dragging me back to reality.A woman enters, sunglasses covering half her face despite the twilight outside.Her movements are careful, deliberate, like someone navigating a room full of broken glass.
When she turns to browse the small medicine aisle, I catch the slight swell along her jawline, the orange-tinted makeup applied unevenly, and the careful way she holds her body.
I know these signs like I know my own reflection.
After it happened five years ago, after I awoke in a muddy alleyway, badly beaten and bleeding, my mind spiraled.I knew exactly what had happened, and I disassociated hard.I couldn’t even say for sure how I got home, and when I finally got there, all I craved was a shower.I wasn’t thinking about evidence.I just wanted the memories and the pain and the suffering to leave me.
Showering was the worst thing I could’ve done, but try to tell that to my scrambled brain at the time.Why should it be up to women to prove who raped them anyway?The man should have to prove hedidn’trape someone.
Afterward, I moved like this woman did, stiffly, hesitantly, with a ton of makeup to hide my misery.
