Unattainable (Undeniable, #3)(40)
And then, hearing her laugh, watching her laugh, knowing that he had made her laugh despite what she was going through, the fear, the unknown. He, a f*cking worthless, piece-of-shit scumbag, had made her laugh.
He was so incredibly f*cked-up. His thoughts were going a mile a minute, veering off in directions he wasn’t familiar with, new territory, dark and confusing roads lined with guilt and a new sort of pain, one he wasn’t handling well, one he didn’t know what to do with or how to push away or relieve it, because, f*ck, nothing was working.
Fucking the whore hadn’t worked, jerking off thinking of Ellie hadn’t worked, no, nothing had worked. He was still thinking about Ellie, about her body, about her laughter, and he was feeling guilty, guilty about the way he’d been handling his thoughts, guilty for the way he’d been living his life because, FUCK, who was he to save a girl from the same fate he’d handed to too many women to count. WHO THE MOTHERFUCK WAS HE?
He was nothing. He was shit. He was a damaged, deranged, sick motherf*cker who deserved to be put the f*ck down. He shouldn’t have lived for as long as he had; he didn’t deserve to share the same earth with people like Ellie, people who laughed over burnt popcorn even after they’d been stripped of their dignity.
And at the same time, he hated her for all of it. For making these f*cking emotions surface, slap him in the face and f*ck up everything he’d worked so hard to repress the best he could.
No, it wasn’t a life he’d recommend to anyone, but it was how he’d survived this long and now…
After snapping the f*ck out of it, realizing he’d been about to rape her, probably kill her, he knew he didn’t deserve another second of air. Because if she knew, if she f*cking knew the man she’d tried to comfort, even after what he’d done to her, that he was no better than the man he’d saved her from, she’d run away screaming and she wouldn’t come back. She wouldn’t laugh over burnt popcorn, she wouldn’t care that he had a giant gash on his forehead, she wouldn’t give two f*cks if he lived or died.
WHY THE FUCK DID HE CARE IF SHE CARED?
If he had one iota of intelligence, he would get Ellie the f*ck out of his apartment before she f*cked him up even more and he ended up doing something he absolutely did not want to do to her, because he needed a f*cking place to put all the bullshit she was stirring up inside him.
“Dirty,” Ellie said. “You are bleeding all over the place. If you won’t go to the hospital, at least let me help you stop the bleeding.”
He glanced up from his smoke and found her standing way too close to him.
“Back up,” he growled. “Back the f*ck up right now.”
He watched, stunned, as fear momentarily twisted her features, but was immediately replaced by determination.
“Dirty,” she said quietly. “I just want to help you.”
He nearly choked on his own tongue. Help him? Now that was motherf*cking priceless. No one could help him. And he was starting to feel like he could no longer help himself.
“You need to wash your face,” she continued. “You’re…um…you need to…clean the area around the wound.”
“I’m dirty,” he said flatly. “You can say it. It ain’t as if I don’t know.”
Her big blue eyes softened. “You’re dirty,” she said softly. “And you’re hurt, meaning you can get an infection.”
He stared at her, at her long, tight black curls, her caramel skin, bruised but still smooth and clear, her big blue eyes ringed with heavy dark lashes, her full lips.
She was so different than what he was used to. She was like his brothers’ old ladies—clean, good women. Women who should never be left alone with a man like him; a man who could, who most likely would, hurt them.
He continued to stare at her, and then suddenly he found himself thinking about f*cking her, her thighs spread wide open, watching himself disappear inside of her, watching her belly quiver and her breasts bounce with the force of his movements, and then lastly, looking up into those big blue eyes.
His stomach rolled and acid shot up into his throat.
“Move,” he gritted out, sliding off the windowsill, forcing Ellie to back up or get run over by him.
“Dirty,” she called after him. “You really need to clean your—”
“I’m gonna take a f*ckin’ shower!” he yelled as he rounded the corner, hurried down the hall, and all but fell inside the bathroom in his mad dash to escape the f*cking nagging. Is this how women were? He wouldn’t know; he hadn’t lived with a woman, hadn’t truly been alone with a woman since he’d been a child.
He needed away from her, away from all of it, from everything she represented, but most of all he needed away from those…those goddamn motherf*cking eyes of hers.
Gripping the sides of the sink, Dirty bent down and, in an attempt not to throw up, tried to slow his breathing. Once his heart rate had slowed, he lifted his head and found himself staring back at him. He gingerly touched the wound on his forehead.
Fuck. She was right. He probably did need stitches. Fuck it, he’d sew it up himself; he’d done it before.
But first he was going to have to wash the dried blood from his face. Actually, since he’d been naked, he was covered from head to toe in dried blood. He might not be a big fan of hygiene but that didn’t mean he wanted to walk around looking like he’d just stepped off the set of a B-rated horror film.