Page 62 of My Girl
Fear trickles inside of me as I scan my surroundings. I’m familiar with the house—I’ve been here plenty of times—but I’ve never been alone in here with a man before. It’s like last night is happening all over again.
Bullshit,my brain argues.You’re here alone with Crave all the time.
With Crave, it’s different though.
Isn’t it?
“They tied me down,” I say. “They were going to?—”
I stop. The mall cop must think I’m traumatized. It’s not that. I just don’t know how much I can say. If law enforcement starts watching this house again, then my father’s killer won’t come to the anniversary party. And if that happens, Crave definitely won’t be able to stay here. I won’t be able to find him again.
But he’ll be able to find you,my brain says.
The mall cop puts his hand on my shoulder like a father figure. Disgust wriggles down my spine. Older men are like that, aren’t they? They think they can protect anyone younger or smaller than them.
I stay still.
“I know,” the mall cop says. “Men like that should pay the price.”
I nod, though I’m not sure why. How can the mall cop be rude to me in the antique store, but inside this house, when I’m clearly the victim, he wants to pretend to be my hero?
“You don’t need to worry now, ma’am,” he continues. “I’ll take care of it.”
I roll my eyes.He’ll take care of it?He’s so caught up in his own idea of masculinity that he thinks I need his help.
I don’t need him. I need him to leave.
I need Crave though. And Crave needs me.
“Right,” I mutter. “Thanks.”
The mall cop spins around, latching onto my sarcasm.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” he asks with that accent so thick, it sounds fake.
I can feel Crave inside of me, egging me on.You almost killed someone last night,his imaginary voice says.You almost died. Who cares about this chauvinistic pig?
Maybe I can pretend this is another test to see what I’m capable of.
I bat my eyelashes at the mall cop. “What?”
“You don’t think I can handle the situation around here?” he asks.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying, ma’am?”
We face each other, both of us staring so hard, that if our eyes were magnifying glasses, the house would catch on fire. The mall cop’s narrowed brown eyes judge me down to my core, like he can see each and every female weakness inside of me.
I see him too. He changed from a helpful hero to a judgmental prick so quickly, it’s funny. And fucking scary. He’ll only help me if I submit to his dominant manly-man side. How cliché.
“It’s just—” I say, putting on a show of reluctance.
“Spit it out,” he growls.
“You’re a mall cop.”
A moment passes by, the anger visibly rising in the mall cop’s shoulders.
