Accompanying Song: “Exile” by Hurts
Providence, Rhode Island – June 3nd, 2013, morning
I drag her to a room on the uppermost level. It’s a hidden room, just beyond the narrow corridor that is usually overlooked by everyone walking through here. Number 569, a room no one but me knows exists. The room that I had built especially for her.
“What are we doing in here?” she says. “We have to get away from here. If they find out we’re here―”
“They won’t. We’re only here for a few hours, and they don’t know this room exists.”
“Hours?” She raises an eyebrow, so I do the same, a wicked smile spreading on my lips. Her eyes widen when she figures out what I’m going to do with her here.
“No …”
“Yes …” I grin.
“Not now. You can’t do this. It’s not safe. I don’t want this.”
“Don’t lie to me, Miss Carrigan. You still desire me, even if you’re disgusted with me,” I muse. “Besides, I need to do this now. Not just because my cock is all riled up from chasing you …”
I lick my lips while I push her against the door, fiddling with my key. I’m about to fiddle with her if I don’t find it quickly enough. “But also because this is the only way to make them stop right now.”
“How? How is this going to make them stop?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I say, unlocking the door and pulling her inside with me.
“You just want to use me for your own pleasure,” she scoffs.
I close the door behind us as she stumbles inside, and then I place the gun on the table. I turn around to her, smiling. “Perhaps.”
She flushes as I step closer, her hands instinctively crossing over her chest to protect herself. I grab her arms and force them apart. “Don’t. Don’t hide yourself from me.”
“You’re ugly on the inside, you know that?”
My smile dissipates immediately. As much as I want to say it doesn’t, it hurts when she says that. I wish it were different, I wish that she wouldn’t think of me that way, but I completely understand why she does. It’s my fault.
I sigh. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re just saying it to spite me.”
“If I was, it sure worked,” she muses.
I ignore her taunt. “I’m going to prove to you that I can be more than a bastard,” I say.
“I doubt that.”
“I care about you more than you realize.”
“I don’t believe it. Why? What am I to you?”
“Hmmm …” I stalk closer, and she backs away. She’s terrified of me, even though she should be terrified of something else entirely.
“I’ll tell you after I’m done ravaging you.” I bite my lip shortly and her eyes dart toward my mouth for a second. I knew it.
“Try,” she says.
“Oh … I will,” I say, groaning a little. “You can’t resist me, even if you wanted to.”
“Maybe, but I won’t stop trying.”
I smile coyly. “You do that. And I’ll keep proving you wrong.”
She frowns, almost growling as she sighs. It makes me chuckle. “I love it when you’re upset with yourself.”
“With you, you mean.”
I stare her dead in the eye. “No. As much as you tell yourself that, it’s not true. You’re not angry with me for doing this to you; you’re angry with yourself for letting me get to you. For letting me conquer your heart.”
She freezes. I have her now.
I step closer and closer, but the more she tries to hide that heart of her, the more I hear it beat. Loud and clear. There’s nothing she can do to keep her frost from melting into a puddle.
“You feel sorry for me, don’t you?” I say.
She crosses her arms again and looks away. “No,” she scoffs.
“Yes, you do. I saw how you looked at me in the car. How you’re looking at me now. You want to hate me, but instead, you feel pity and desire.”
I cup her chin and make her look at me. “Tell me the truth. Do you feel sorry for me because I told you that story back in the car?”
“Maybe.”
Her face scrunches up and I spot a hint of regret in her eyes. So it’s true. She pities me. I hate that look. I hate not being good enough, not being looked up to, not feeling worthy. Anger boils inside me, and in a fit of rage, I grab her arms and drag her back to the door, pinning her front against it.
She screams. “What are you doing?”
“Doing what I should’ve done sooner.”
I push her neck down, forcing her to bend over. In one go, I rip off the only shredded bottom part of her dress that was still attached. She squeals, but I push her head down further and tap her legs with my feet. “Spread.”