Page 29 of The Misfits
When Dexter stalks across the room, I watch him through a sheet of hair that has fallen in my face. He isn’t wearing the same clothes he had on last night. His blood-stained shirt has been swapped for a light gray undershirt and a black leather jacket. A pair of dark jeans hides the enticing visual I spent half my night striving to ignore. With his nearly black hair combed away from his face, his defined cheekbones are mesmerizing, and his blue eyes pop right off his face. He looks appealing in a sleek, bad-boy type of way.
Actually, come to think of it, he reminds me a lot of Noah, the lead singer of Nick’s band.
After dumping a handful of bags onto the now glistening two-seater dinette table, he pivots around to face me. The panicked skitter my heart got when he arrived breaks into a sprint when his eyes land on mine. They’re carrying the same hunger they held last night, but something in them has changed. They are less murky like he’s pleased to see me.
I shouldn’t be tickled pink by the idea, but I am.
“Ugh!” I grunt when he seizes my wrist in a firm grip to yank me to my feet. I’m not angry at him. I am more confused than anything.
When I woke alone, I was fuming mad, but the bags he arrived with reveal his time away was well spent. I just wish he had left a note, or better yet, taken me with him. I guess that would have been hard to do since he shredded my dress to beyond an inch of recognition.
A dusting of dark hair falls into Dexter’s bright blue eye when he slants his head to the side. “Miss me?” he asks, his tone facetious.
I shouldn’t nod, but I do. I did miss him. I don’t know why but lying won’t alter the facts.
Dexter blinks two times as if stunned by my reply.
Was he expecting me to say no?
With the smile of an evil man, he replies, “Then how about I fix the injustice?”
Not giving me the chance to seek clarification, his hands drop to the elastic of my panties. A daring gleam in his eyes makes me slap his chest before witnessing the consequence of my resistance. I get in three good whacks before a flash of silver stops me. Dexter has flipped open a switchblade razor. Even without it touching any part of my body, I know from experience how sharp it is, and the remembrance ensures my compliance.
Dexter protects my skin from being nicked by the razor before dragging the blade down the cotton maintaining my modesty. The material falls away from my body even more freely than my dress did last night. My bra is removed just as swiftly.
Both items puddle at my feet, giving me more freedom than I expected. I thought I’d be fuming with anger, but all I am feeling is euphoria. That probably has something to do with the look Dexter is giving me. I’ve never been awarded a look like this before. It’s an odd stare like he equally detests and loves me.
He’s most likely mirroring the image I am giving him because right now, I’m torn between wanting to slap him and kiss him.
What?
My eyes stray to Dexter’s bags of goodies, hoping he purchased water during his visit to the store. If I don’t take my medication soon, I’ll start believing the ideas in my head are logical and that I should act on them. I like that my mind isn’t as woozy as it’s been the past decade, but the thoughts I am having can’t be sane.
I’ve only ever cared for two people in my life. Both betrayed me. I can’t open myself up to the carnage a third time. I’ve barely survived the past five years. I doubt my heart can sustain more injuries.
Dexter’s eyes stop absorbing my body when they land on my sandal-covered feet. My shoes are modest—thank God. After my effort last night, the blisters on my feet are the size of a small country, so imagine the massacre if I had worn fancy heels?
With a mocking roll of his eyes, Dexter returns his narrowed gaze to mine. “You need to shower. You smell.”
His comment knocks the wind from my lungs. From the pleasant glint in his eyes, I was anticipating a compliment, not a scolding.
When he pushes off his feet, I gather my undergarments in my hand, drop them into the trash can, then follow him. By the time I stop at his side, he has removed two pairs of panties—if you can call these mere scraps of material panties—a plain white shirt and a three-pack of socks from a Nordstrom bag.
I lift my eyes from the clothing to him, wordlessly asking if they’re mine. When he nods, I snatch them up and hold them to my chest, hoping to maintain a semblance of modesty.
“I don’t know if this is the right stuff, but it smelled like you, so I figured it would do.” He dumps my favorite duo of hair products onto the stack of clothes I’m balancing.
Even naked and unsure what the hell is happening, I can’t stop my smile from stretching across my face. He’s pretending he is mad, but it’s all an act. The fact he sniffed shampoo to match it with my scent reveals his cranky demeanor is a ploy.
He likes me. He is just confused as to why.
He isn’t the only one who is confused. The instant he handed me bottles of fruity shampoo, my desire to kiss him overtook my wish to slap him.
I’m drawn from my wicked thoughts when Dexter says my name. I’m not talking about the standard name every doctor in the state has called me for the past five years. I’m talking about my Christian name—the one I was given at birth. He called me Megan.
“It is Megan, isn’t it?” Dexter confirms, unsure if my gapped mouth stems from confusion or shock.
Tears blur my vision as I nod. I argued with the doctors for months that my name wasn’t Claudia, but no matter how many times I told them Megan wasn’t ‘a figment of my imagination’ or ‘one of my multiple personalities,’ they never believed me.
