Page 50 of Driving My Obsession

There is no escaping what will eventually happen to me, but if no one can avenge me once I’m gone, maybe I can avenge myself before I leave.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

Ambrose

She’s in my apartment. This moment seems so surreal. Her eyes dart around as if she’s expecting plastic curtains draped over my walls and floors for easy cleanup. Her gaze lands on the computer on my desk, and I wonder if she realizes that’s where I sat and looked up all the information about her. Where I sent an email to her mother and exposed her in more ways than one.

She lowers her bag to the floor and rubs her hands against her hips as she glances around one more time. “So this is where I die, huh? I mean, it’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but—”

I grab her bag and walk to the kitchen before she can finish. I feel jilted that she’s snatched away the fun of killing her. She ruined my plan by kissing me like I don’t disgust her. She sucked all the wind from my sails when she made melikeher. But I can’t show her that, and I can’t let her go.

My tragedy has to meet her end, or she was never my very own disaster to begin with.

I set the bag on the counter. All the drink ingredients wait on top, so I pluck them from inside and make a Moscow Mule for Oaklyn. Her favorite drink can be her last drink. It’s the last kindness I can show her. She watches every move I make as I mix it and pour it into a coffee mug. I’m not trying to drug her again, if that’s what she’s worried about. I want her awake for the play’s denouement.

I hand the drink to her. She goes to the couch in my humble living room and sinks into the cushions, balancing the mug on her knees. She hasn’t looked me in the eye since we kissed.

“What did I do to make you hate me so much?” she asks.

She didn’t really do anything. I hate what she does and what it makes her. But I don’t hateher. Not anymore. Not now that I’ve glimpsed the sweet dancer inside her.

Her eyes finally rise to meet mine. “I think I deserve to know.”

I run my hand through my hair and pace in front of her. Frustration simmers just below my skin. Talking isn’t my thing, and working throughfeelingssure as shit isn’t either. Whenever I need to let off some steam, I do it in the ring. There’s no crowd here, though. No cocky opponent to pour my rage into. It’s just me and her.

I stop and face her. “I don’t hate you. I hate dancers. Not the dancer you were before, but the one you became. I hate women who flaunt their tits in men’s faces in exchange for cash. I hate people who remind me of the woman who ruined my life.”

“Sacrificing me won’t somehow right your mother’s wrongs, Ambrose. You have to see that.” Her eyes plead for me to hear her words, and her voice wavers when she speaks again. “Killing me doesn’t wipe the scars from your body.”

“I have no choice now! I’ve done far too much to let you live. I barreled past the point of no return when I spread your legs and took your cunt when you didn’t want it. Even if I trusted you to keep your mouth shut, I can’t let you go because I’m too obsessed with you. I would always be in the shadows, watching and waiting. Is that how you want to live?”

She shakes her head and looks at the mug in her lap.

“There’s no other end for you, tragedy. I wouldn’t have named you that in the first place if there was.”

Her thumb clicks against the mug handle, then stops. “Can I make you a drink at least?”

Her question takes me off guard. “No, I don’t drink,” I tell her as I sit beside her.

“If you’re going to kill me, the least you can do is have a drink with me,” she says.

If that’s her dying fucking wish, so be it.

“Go on, then. Make me a drink.”

She gets to her feet and walks to the kitchen, only slightly favoring her ankle now. A bag of ice is good enough for me after a rough fight, but she needs something softer on her delicate skin. I make a mental note to buy gel ice packs from the store, then scratch through it. She won’t be here with me the next time I go to the store.

The thought that once brought me so much excitement makes me feel sick.

I drape my arm over the back of the couch. “Make it strong,” I yell toward the kitchen.

She returns after a few minutes and sets a drink in front of me on the coffee table. I stare at it. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted alcohol. She’s prepared my drink in a mug identical to hers, and I almost smile. This is the sort of cute couple shit I’ve never known. That I’ll never know. Even once she’s gone, she will always be my obsession. No one will ever satisfy me like she does.

I lift the mug and swish the liquid around. The acrid scent of vodka wafts up to me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand. Drinking this feels more taboo than the murder I intend to commit, but maybe it will drown out the doubt bubbling low in my gut. It’s called liquid courage, after all.

I throw back the drink, and the liquor singes my throat. She really took “make it strong” to heart. I look over at her, and she’s back to balancing her glass on her knees again. She picks it up and takes a swig before lowering it. She drinks much slower, savoring the flavor. I tip the mug to my lips again and finish mine off. I’ll let her take her time. A few more minutes won’t hurt anything.

I yawn. The drive has taken more out of me than I realized. “Thanks for the drink,” I say.

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