Page 85 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

Maybe they do. In fairy tales.

I follow Dec as he leads me between the containers once more. Am I going to one of the two I visited previously, or am I headed for another house of horrors filled with its own array of macabre delights?

I don’t feel nervous. I don’t feel scared. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m living on borrowed time these days anyway.

He saved my life.He saved The Exterminator’s life.

In three weeks, he’ll know exactly whose life he saved. In three weeks, I refuse to live a lie any longer.

I hope Eoin refuses to continue living his own lie. I hope he tells Irish the truth. The one thing that heisguilty of. Keeping us apart when he had no need to. Keeping us apart purely for his own selfish reasons. Not that it should matter anymore. Irish is happy now.

I want Eoin to be happy too.

Dec steps up to the door of the furnished container and motions his head for me to step inside. I hear the door close behind me.

This time, it’s not pitch black. I look at the contents. At the sofa he fucked me over the last time I was here. At the other small pieces of furniture.

I’m guessing the sofa converts into a sleeping arrangement of sorts. Why does he come here when he has a perfectly good apartment?

I ask myself the question, but I already know the answer. His monster needs to vent and to do that, he needs access to the container next door and an assortment of unwilling victims. It’s easier to remain on site, especially with the need for bloodshed riding you hard.

Having taken in my surroundings, I switch my attention to Eoin. He’s dressed professionally with his back to me. Has he been to the office? Is he planning on going? Has he agreed to meet me here rather than there for a reason?

“What is it that you want, Jaine?” His voice is cold and distant, but even his unwelcoming tone doesn’t stop my body from calling out to his. His shoulders tense.

He can sense it.

The physical addiction works both ways, even if the relationship never did.

“I don’t know.” I’m being honest. I don’t know what it is I want from him. I’m not sure I ever have. Maybe that’s part of the problem.

I used to think that when you loved someone, you worked hard at it because love was enough until I realized it isn’t.

Maybe I’m just jaded with love. After Ace. After Irish. What’s the point in working at it when it’s so fleeting anyway? When in the end, it doesn’t conquer all.

It simply conquers you.

He laughs dryly. “You don’t know what you want?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Did you come here to gloat?” He turns around slowly, his eyes burning green.

Anger. Arousal. Adrenaline. Which is the trigger, I wonder?

He crosses the floor like a panther readying to pounce on its prey. To do what?

Fuck me? Kill me?

He stops in front of me.

So perfectly imperfect.

His spicy cologne pulls me in as his tendrils of darkness wrap around me like a sensual caress. I’ve missed them. I’ve missed him.

I lick my lips unintentionally.

Or was it?

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