Absorbed(6)

Lucas Wolfe





Fury races through every vein in my body as I stare down at Sam. A tiny smile tilts the corners of her lips up, but I don't know whether she's mocking me or about to burst in tears in hopes that I’ll pity her. With Sam, either is possible, and right now, either will just piss me off even more. "Why?" I demand. "Why the f*ck would you want or need to go to her?"

It’s a dumb question, and I know she thinks so too because she blinks a few times. Visiting Sienna would give her more control. Give her something to use against me. It’s that simple.

Sam crosses her thin arms over her chest again and rocks back on her heels. She shakes her head in disbelief. "God, Lucas. Do you really think I'd--" she begins in a harsh whisper, but the kid behind us in line interrupts.

"Jesus, are you going to ride?" he demands. Sam’s back straightens and she turns slowly, staring the kid down with a dark look that doesn’t seem to affect him. He’s, at the most, ten or eleven, and I start to pull her off before she can cuss him out and get herself arrested. She dodges my hand, stepping aside.

She sweeps her thin arm out in the direction of the amusement park attendant, and my gaze zeroes in on the bruises in the crooks of her elbow. Fucking track marks.

"Go for it, you little shit," she growls.

Once the kid has slipped between us, Sam refocuses her attention back to me, granting me a withering look. I break eye contact first by walking away. I'm done with her games, and that's all this is. More of Sam's bullshit. And like always, she’s not done yet. She catches up to me quickly, out of breath with strands of her hair blowing into her gray eyes.

"Don't you want to know if I'm planning on seeing her or not?" she demands, and I release a low laugh that sounds more like a growl.

"You're not.” And I feel like an ass for letting what she said a few minutes ago affect me. “You wanted to meet me to play games. Fuck you."

She stops and grabs my wrist, digging her long, fake fingernails into the star tattoos there. It doesn’t hurt—not the way she wants it to. "You love her." It's not a question, but a statement, and it automatically sends a warning siren blaring through my skull.

"About as much as I love you,” I tell her, enunciating each word to drive the point home. “And you’re quick to tell me how little that was.”

She does a shitty job hiding the way she flinches. I watch her carefully—the way she brings her hand up to cover her mouth as if she's stifling a giggle, the way her chest rises and falls heavily—and I know I’ve given her the right answer. The type of answer that hurts. The type of answer that will keep her from Sienna.

"You make me sick," she finally says, and I cock my head to one side.

"You forgot to tell me you love me first. Isn't that how it usually goes? You tell me you still want me and then tell me to go eat a dick."

Grabbing the front of my shirt, she brings herself to her toes and gets her face as close to mine as she can. "I could ruin you."

I pull her off me, untangling her fingers from my shirt. I force a smile that nearly breaks my goddamn face. The last thing I need is to find my picture on the front of some tabloid for getting into it with her in public. "You already have.”

“Already what?” she demands.

“Ruined me.” I touch the inside of her elbow, and she winces. “And yourself.”

When I turn to leave her standing in front of a family bathroom, she lets out a strangled noise from the back of her throat. "You're going?"

I turn around to face her, but continue to walk backwards towards the exit. Away from this woman who’s made the last few years of my life a bigger nightmare than I'd already made for myself. "There's not shit else to say to you."

"But you need me," she says, and though she doesn't say anything else, the rest of her words linger in the air.

You need me if you want to be happy. You need me to let you go before you do.

I turn my back to her in time to maneuver around a family that's making their way toward the park attractions. As I leave, I say in a quiet voice, "When you figure out how we'll make that happen, when you're done playing games—you f*cking let me know."

I know she’s close enough to hear me.

***

Keeping with tradition, Sam doesn't call or text me for the next five days, a few of those probably spent with her dealer and a needle in her arm. By the weekend, I start the mental countdown because I know it's only a matter of days before I hear from her. I busy myself with music—mostly my solo project but stuff for the band, too.