Page 124 of Unorthodox
Just as the sound bubbles up my throat, I close my mouth, forcing it down.
Max is in the hallway, his legs to his chest, wrists over his knees, his head tilted back against the wall, lips slightly parted.
His eyes are closed.
I stare at his chest, and I hate that I’m relieved to see a steady rise and fall beneath his fitted white t-shirt.
He’s in black jogging pants, just as he was when I last saw him.
And his gun…his gun is on his hip.
Beside him, on the floor, there’s something that looks like a crumpled foil wrapper and I realize with a spark of amusement that it’s...chocolate. A chocolate wrapper.
A small smile pulls up on the corners of my mouth, but I look to the gun again, and the smile fades.
I think of his hands on me the last time I saw him.
My limbs start to shake.
I sweep my gaze down the hallway. No one else is here. No guard.
Just Max.
I think about going back to bed.
I think about running, but I know there will be guards outside the doors. I know there’s an alarm system.
I won’t be able to escape.
I rake my hands through my hair, then wrap my arms around myself, deciding to go back into my room and leave Max to his uncomfortable sleep.
But just as I step toward the door, my chest tightening at the sight of his exhausted body in the hallway, he darts an arm out, circles his fingers around my ankle and draws his gun.
I bite back my scream, keep my arms wrapped tight around myself as I stare into his blue-grey eyes, bleary with exhaustion.
And something else.
There’s something else by his eye.
A wound that’s angry and red and I seestitches.
My gut churns as he tightens his hold on my ankle, the gun still pointed up at me.
“It’s me, Max.”
He lowers the weapon immediately, but he doesn’t let go of me. Instead, he runs his thumb over my ankle, and I shiver beneath his touch as I stare at him on the floor. There’s another bruise, along his jaw, and his lip looks…swollen.
Someone beat him.
I feel two conflicting emotions at once. Both vengeance and horror. Thinking he deserves it, followed by an eerie question: What kind of person could hurtMax?
I don’t ask about it. Instead, I say, “I’m going back to bed. I was just….” I trail off, my throat tight. I try not to imagine the last time I saw him. I try not to think how it felt afterward, lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling like I sometimes did underneath my father.
I try not to feel the numbness.
That’s what Max wanted me to have.
I won’t give him that.
