Page 42 of Driving My Obsession

Warmth encases my hand, and I look down. Oaklyn has placed her hand over mine. Instead of shying away from the scars on my skin, she’s touching them. Willingly. Her gesture gives me the strength I need to continue, but I still can’t say it, so I gesture to the scars on my face and chest.

Oaklyn’s eyes widen. “Your mom did that to you?”

“I lie and say they’re from fights, but a few people in town know how I got my scars. Those that were around back when it was all over the news, anyway.” I listen to the waves crash against the dock, hoping what I’ve said is enough. I don’t think I can say much more.

“Why would she do something like that?”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t know. I was a baby at the time, and I never gave a fuck about the ‘why’ once I was old enough to question it. Whatever her diagnosis or reasons, it doesn’t matter. The institution notified me when she killed herself in their care, and I’m certain it wasn’t because she was plagued with guilt for stabbing supposed demons out of her baby. So I didn’t ask questions I don’t fucking care to know the answers to.”

She plays with the hem of her shirt. “And your mom was a dancer?”

I nod.

“Is that why you hate me so much?”

I gnaw the inside of my cheek. I don’t hateherspecifically. I hate all that she represents. She was just the unlucky one to get into my car.

“I hate me too,” she whispers, and I almost don’t hear it.

Can she not pull on my heartstrings, please? I don’t need to be played like that. And sheisplaying me. Her response isn’t genuine. She’s merely adapting for survival. It’s an innate instinct. That’s all. Anything else is contrived from that adaptation.

So why don’t I believe what I’m telling myself?

“I don’t hate you,” I murmur.

She lets out a soft laugh. “You don’t try to kill people you like.”

I shake my head. “Murder happens all the time between people who don’t hate each other. Some people even kill those they love.”

“Then why haven’t you done it?”

That’s a great fucking question. Why haven’t I?

Because I’m being stupid and weak. The thoughts of killing her were once a constant in my mind, but they’ve become sporadic at best, overtaken by thoughts of fucking her. Using her. Keeping her. But it can’t be that way. It’s impossible and impractical.

She wanted to know my pipe dream, and now I have an answer. Keeping her alive is my pipe dream. Ever since I pushed inside her, I sealed our fates and wove our futures together. Now I’m stuck on this road, kicking a can without an end in sight. I want to keep her alive, but I can’t.

“How’s your ankle?” I ask.

“Don’t change the subject, Ambrose. Why haven’t you killed me?”

Frustration brews in my gut. Her desire to die almost takes the fun out of killing her. Like handing her a gift instead of a disservice.

“Don’t ask me that question, tragedy.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you want to die. Or you think you do, at least. When the blade is against your throat, you’ll change your mind.”

She scoffs again. “Stop acting like you know what’s in my head. You have no idea.”

I turn toward her and fist her hair, pulling her near my mouth. “Stop acting like a pretentious bitch and I’ll think about it.”

I inhale every breath she exhales, and fear laces each one. But it tastes...different. Now there’s a hint of something else. Defiance? Anger? It probably isn’t desire, but that might be what I taste on my tongue.

Is she curious about what it would be like to give in and allow me to fuck her? It’s human nature to seek pleasure. I don’t need to force her every time. She can let me bring her to heaven before I send her to hell.

Her green eyes gloss over, and I can’t pull away. Every breath I inhale makes me want to take one more from her lungs. Not just want, but need.

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