Page 38 of Driving My Obsession

“Not long, I guess,” she says, turning her face away from me.

It takes a moment for my brain to register her meaning, and that’s a fucking problem. My plan to kill her stays at the forefront of her racing thoughts, but that dark horse has fallen back a few furlongs in mine. I should be more focused than ever on how I’ll take my revenge, especially when I’ve been handed the perfect scenario on a silver platter.

She sighs but she keeps quiet, which is probably a good thing. A headache has been building behind my right eye since her stunt this morning, and I could use some silence. I get these wicked migraines sometimes. Probably from all the head trauma over the years. It feels like a vise has clamped around my skull. Squeezing, squeezing. Usually I sequester myself in a dark room, but I don’t have that luxury right now. I don’t even want her to know I’m in pain. I can’t allow her to see any weakness. As a fighter, weakness makes you prey, and I’m not the one who’ll be hunted.

A bullet of nausea pierces my gut, and I adjust in the chair to find a more comfortable position. I have to get a handle on this pain. “Do you keep any ibuprofen here?” I ask. It won’t get rid of the migraine, but sometimes it can take the edge off.

“Yeah, in the medicine cabinet upstairs. Why?”

“Just figured it might help your ankle,” I say as I rise to my feet. On my way through the living room, I close the blinds and flick off the lights that are driving a nail through my eyes and into my brain.

In the bathroom, I find a bottle of ibuprofen with a faded label, but the pills aren’t set to expire for a few more months. I toss back four and sip water from the sink to wash them down. Placing two in my palm, I return to the living room. I hand them to Oaklyn and offer her the mug again, but she shakes her head.

“Thanks, but I’d rather choke while dry-swallowing,” she says as she knocks them back.

And I’d rather choke her with my cock, but she doesn’t see me spouting off every sarcastic remark that springs into my head.

Gritting my teeth, I head back to the kitchen and prepare another bag of ice for her ungrateful ass. The heat of her skin has reduced the first one to water. When I return to her side, her eyes are closed and her hands are folded over her chest like she’s a kitten taking a catnap in the sun. Her shirt has risen a little, revealing a thin strip of skin above her shorts.

That’s where I place the bag.

She bolts upright, sending the bag to the floor, then turns to me with a scowl. “Why, Ambrose? Are you insane?”

What more do I have to do to show her just how insane I am? Cut off her face and wear it? Because I will. “My diagnosis or lack thereof is none of your business,” I say. I lift the bag of ice and place it on her ankle with a smirk.

Dropping into the chair once more, I try to relax the tense muscles in my neck as I close my eyes. Sweat coats my skin, but I manage to keep a straight face as the migraine rips through my skull. I lift my fingertips to my right temple and press. It eases the pressure in my brain, but only slightly.

A warm rasp of fingertips brushes against my shoulder, and I jump. Oaklyn stands beside me, the bag of ice clutched in her hand. She holds it toward me.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

She jiggles the plastic, then places it against my head. “I know a migraine when I see one. You wince every time you walk by a window, and you’re sweating like a whore in church.”

“You’d know what that’s like,” I say as I clutch the bag to my scalp.

She’s only being nice to me for one reason: freedom. She thinks I’ll let her go if she’s the magical wonder girl who shows me kindness when no one else has, but this isn’t some cheesy Hallmark movie. There are only three options in our scenario: kill, keep, or let go. Letting go is off the table, but I struggle between the other two options. Getting rid of her would be the smart thing. It’s easier to get away with murder than kidnapping. Fewer risks involved. This isn’t a decision I have to make right now, though, so I don’t.

I tip back my head and rest the cold bag over my right eye as she retreats to the couch. “Being nice to me won’t get you what you want, you know.”

“Probably not, but that’s not why I did it. Despite your low opinion of me, being a halfway decent person just comes naturally to some people.”

“Halfway decent people don’t strip.”

She scoffs. “You don’t know anything about us. A lot of us are just trying to make ends meet, and some of us even enjoy the work. What makes your career choice different from mine? You’re still selling your body for entertainment.”

Her words suck because they’re partly true, but I’m not selling my body for sexual pleasure. I’m selling it for gory pleasure. For bloody entertainment. I’m not using my assets to titillate grown men. I’m using my strength to tap into their bloodthirst. We arenotthe same.

“Fuck off, tragedy,” I say, completely done with the direction of this conversation. I won’t allow her to lump us into the same industry in her warped little mind. We’re entertainers, sure, but one of us has no dignity. No shame.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to find something I’m good at and a crowd I fit in with. My mother demolished my dream of a normal life when she sliced and diced me. Oaklyn demolished her own dreams, then danced naked in the ashes.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” she says.

“Why? Because you don’t like being reminded of what an absolute disaster your life has become?”

When she doesn’t answer, I turn to look at her. Her chin quivers below her full lips, her eyes locked on the ceiling. A glaze of tears covers her eyes, but she doesn’t allow them to fall.

“Yes,” she finally says, “but it’s not because I strip. It’s because I long for things I will never have. It’s because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work or how much I strive, I will never reach my goal. This situation has made me realize that I have been extending my arm toward a brass ring that will forever be out of reach.”

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