Page 112 of Ominous: Part 1
Filthy little…whore? Slut?Shit, I mean, I could have just gone with “girl.” It’s not like I haven’t called girls all of those words before. A guy once, too, at Montford.
But it didn’t feel right with Eden. I want to have nasty fucking sex with her. I want to go to the verge of all the things we said we wanted in our wildest, darkest thoughts. I want toalmostcross the line, but be able to bring her back, because I meant what I said.
I’d miss her if I accidentally went too far.
But maybe it’s the innocence thing. Seeing her as someone different from everyone else, different fromme,but still pure in her own way.
I don’t know. She wants me to slap her. She slappedme.
I’m probably just dreaming up all the rest in my head. She could even be lying about the first kiss. She was a little clumsy at first, I guess, a lot of teeth, but… I liked it. Maybe she does too. Maybe she’s done it dozens of times and she just said I was the first to make me feel good or something. It’s something I would do.
When I turn the blender off, the makeshift piña colada (no coconut cream) thoroughly blended, I realize Eden is standing right behind me. I didn’t hear her get off the stool with the roar of the blender in my ears, and I didn’t see her, because I was too busy imagining bending her over a counter to fuck her while I called her something polite.
My heart picks up speed in my chest with her nearness, which is an interesting feeling for me.
I don’t look at her as I unlock the top to the blender, grab two glasses from the cabinet, and start pouring our drinks. But I do speak, because I know she probably won’t go first.
“Can I help you, Eden Rain?” I use the nasally teacher voice from before because that was the loudest I’d ever heard her laugh at something I said.
This time she just gives the softest of giggles, but I know she’s trying to hold it in. “Filthy littlewhat?”she finally manages to say, choking through her muffled laughter.
I almost slosh the drink over the side of one cup, but I correct myself just in time, finishing pouring both and turning to put the blender in the sink. I pop off the lid, rinse the base and top, and flip them upside down to dry on the rack beside the sink. Shaking out my wet fingers, I turn to face her, finding her hands on her hips and her eyes locked on mine.
She’s drunk. Not completely obliterated, maybe closer to tipsy than actually intoxicated. Some part of me doesn’t want to give her the drink I just made. It’s only five in the afternoon, she lied to her mom and said she was going to Luna’s for the night—she shot me a glare when she typed out the words while I watched over her shoulder to check for typos, and her mom wanted Luna’s address in case something happened; Eden was pissed I knew it—and she could sober up by nine, or ten, when I take her to the entertainment room, and we watch a movie together on the couch.
But I know alcohol lets her loosen up. I just wish she could do that around me without a drink.
“Come here.”
She seems to relax a little with my words, but she doesn’t step closer. Instead, her fingers drift to her hair, tucking the free strands behind her ear, gliding over all of her piercings. I see the black bracelets around her wrist slip down her arm and she drops her hands, clasping her fingers together. She fixed her hair in the bathroom after our argument in the pool, and her crown of braids is straight again.
I want to remove all the pins in her hair, run my fingers through it.
Tonight.It’s a promise I make to myself. If I can’t touch her how I want to because she’s too drunk, I can at least play with her hair.
And just likethat,a memory punches me in the gut.
Mom sittingat the vanity table in her and Dad’s walk-in closet. Her fingers to one side of her head, hair wrapping around one as she pins it back.
I see my reflection in the glass mirror over her vanity. She sees me, too, though I don’t think she wants to.
“I’ll be down soon, Eli. Mommy is busy.”
“I just want to watch.” My voice is hoarse, and I clutch the car in my hand, sleek metal, the real, shiny mirrors. A Trans Am. White. Mom shoved this into my hands a few years back when we went to the store together, and we got separated. I was frantic searching for her, sure someone had hurt her.
A store employee had to help me find her.
She was in the bathroom.
It was by the rear exit of the store.
Sometimes, I wonder how hard she fought herself not to run away.
Mom sighs, her shoulders tightening with tension. She drops her fingers to her lap and meets my gaze in the mirror, her eyes cold. “Go downstairs. I’ll be there soon.”
I bite my teeth together, wanting to tell her I won’t make a sound. She won’t even know I’m here.
But she doesn’t stop staring at me.
