Page 27 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
I pace my living room, restless, until, in the end, the devil on my shoulder wins.
I snatch up my phone, slide my key card into my pocket, and stalk out the door.
The path to the girls’ block is brief, the lane silvered with moonlight.
Inside, silence reigns. I take the stairs two at a time, each step reverberating against the walls, until I halt before the door marked in gilt numerals.
1114.
I lift my hand and rap once with my knuckles, then wait, listening.
Nothing.
No sound, no stir within.
I knock again, harder this time. Still nothing. The silence on the other side is absolute.
Fucking hell. I do not give a shit, she could be lying dead this very second…
Still, that does not stop me from driving my shoulder into the door. Once. Then again. On the third blow the lock gives way and the door bursts open as I force my way inside.
I look around. Nothing is lit, the place is drowned in shadow, with only the spill of moonlight through the window and the dull glow of the path lamps outside.
I glance back as I push the door with my foot, but it refuses to catch.
Fuck, I’ve broken it.
I turn, intending to make my way toward her bedroom, when something cracks against the back of my head.
“Fuck.” My hand flies to the spot as I spin. A small figure lunges, she swings again, but I catch her wrists.
“Let me go, you lunatic,” she hisses.
I can’t see her clearly in the dark, but the faint silhouette of her frame is enough.
“Stop,” I say, and at the sound of my voice the fight drains out of her.
“Arlo…” she whispers, my name on her soft lips, and it does something to me, something I do not like one bloody bit.
She tries to pull her hands free, to step back, but I don’t release her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps. “You scared the life out of me, you can’t just barge into my room—”
“You weren’t moving for hours. It’s past dinner. The party’s begun—”
“I was sleeping,” she groans.
I should perhaps have taken that into consideration, but there is no reason where she is concerned.
All this hate I bear for her collides with the love I try and fail, to stamp out each time.
Yet I keeptrying.
I will, eventually, win and erase Ophelia Bellanti from my memory, from my soul, from my very being.
Today, however, is not that day.
I release her abruptly. She’s fucking with my head too much, and standing in her space, surrounded by that damned strawberry scent, is robbing me of precious neurons.
