Beneath The Skin(173)

After some time, Dessie turns and says something. I look at her, waiting for her to repeat what she said when suddenly there’s a screen in my face:



Want to get out of here?





I smirk my consent, then slap Brant’s shoulder, telling him that we’re gonna head out. Dmitri takes note of my departure, waving goodbye. To him, I sign back: We’re gonna need the apartment for a bit.

Dmitri’s response is a dimply flat-line for lips and a resolute nod.

Good boy.

After leaving the place, my skin feels a noticeable departure of vibrations and noise, drinking in the calm silence of the street like a cool glass of water. Or maybe that’s just literally the breeze of the night air on my thirsty skin.

We might as well be holding hands, but we’re not. We’re not at that point. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m really the hand-holding type. I don’t know why I’m suddenly obsessed with that idea. Maybe it’s how close she’s walking by my side. Maybe I’m wondering if I should put an arm around her or—

No, fuck that. What am I thinking?

I look over at her. Either it happens to be the moment she looks at me too, or else she’s watching me as we walk. I chuckle dryly. Not sure if that laugh came out or not, but I felt it in my chest.

Then I notice her lips move. I might be wrong, but I think she asks if we’re heading back to my place.

“If that’s okay with you,” I say back.

To that, she nods.

I’m fucking floating right now.

When the door’s in my face, I can barely get the key in I’m so fucking excited. I’ve been desperate for another night alone with her for the past three days. I’ve craved her touch on my skin and longed to put my arms around her body. I want my hands on her skin so fucking bad that I’m practically hopping right now.

“Want anything to drink?” I ask automatically, edging quickly toward the kitchen while peering over a shoulder, keeping her in my gaze.

She bites her lip.

I stop cold at the kitchen counter, watching her. The world grows very, very still. “So … is that a yes?”

Her lips part. She takes a breath, her eyes lifting to meet mine. There’s something very intense about her. I think she’s expecting me to make the first move. She wants me to cast everything off the counter with a reckless swipe of my hand before gripping her and slamming her on the counter to fuck her. The fantasy is painted in her eyes. The yearning for it …

“Yeah?” I prompt her. “A drink?”

Then, the tears touch her eyes.

Uh, fuck. Misread.

“Dessie?”

She shakes her head, the tears sitting up there in her eyes, refusing to fall. Then she lifts her chin and, with a coldness in her eyes, she says something.

I don’t catch all her words. “Liar,” I think she said. “Don’t deserve,” I think she also said. My insides turn to stone as I watch her, frustrated by her quick lips.

“Dessie,” I repeat, coming up to her and grasping her shoulders with my hands.

She looks away and clenches shut her eyes, her jaw tightened.

She’s angry.

“Dessie.” I try to get her to look at me, bending my neck and rubbing her shoulders calmingly. Fuck, her skin feels so smooth. “Dessie, talk.”

“I am talking!” she shouts, her furious, tear-filled eyes meeting mine. I see the shout in her neck pulling taut, her nostrils flaring, her whole body contracting in the effort. “It’s all I ever do!”

I’m so fucking confused. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, all the guilt from this weekend that I thought we had gotten past rushing back into my stomach. “I should not have blown you off. I was scared. I was a fucking idiot. You deserve a guy so much better than me.”

“No.” Her eyes widen. “You deserve better than me,” she says, slapping her own chest. She waves a palm in front of her face once, then throws a thumb past her ear—Better. She pokes a finger at her chest—Me.

Is she fucking crazy? “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Dessie. Don’t mistake that for a second. You’re too fucking good for me.”

She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes, and then her lips move.

And this time, I catch the words.

Every word.

I knew what she was going to say because it’s exactly the conclusion I had come to earlier when we ate lunch together at the UC. Her father got her into this school. Her father is a famous lighting designer. She knew Kellen. She’s the reason he’s here, designing the lights for the main stage show.

And she’s the reason I’m not.

“My being here … has ruined … everything,” she says.