Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(20)

I hated my “gift.” But short of carving out my brain, I couldn’t do anything about it, so I learned to live it with it. And one day, I would weaponize it.

“What do you want?” Uncle Ivan asked.

I shifted my gaze to meet his. He held it for a few seconds before dropping his eyes.

People never used to do that. But ever since my family’s murder, they acted differently. When I looked at them, they would look away—not because they pitied me, but because they feared me, some base survival instinct deep inside them screaming at them to run and never look back.

It was silly, adults fearing an eleven—now twelve—year-old-boy. But I didn’t blame them. They had reason to be afraid.

Because one day, I would tear the world apart with my bare hands and force it to pay for what it had taken from me.

“What I want, Uncle,” I said, my voice still registering the clear, high pitch of a boy who had not yet hit puberty. “Is revenge.”

I opened my eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the memory wash over me. That was the moment I’d found my purpose, and I’d replayed it every day for fourteen years.

I’d had to see a therapist for a few years after my family’s death. More than one, actually, because none made any inroads and my uncle kept replacing them in the hopes one would stick. They never did.

But they all told me the same thing—that my obsessive focus on the past would impede my healing process and that I needed to focus my energy on other, more constructive pursuits. A few suggested art while others suggested sports.

I suggested they shove their suggestions up their ass.

Those therapists didn’t get it. I didn’t want to heal. I wanted to burn. I wanted to bleed. I wanted to feel every scorching lick of pain.

And soon, the person responsible for that pain would feel it too. One thousandfold.





8





Ava





OPERATION EMOTION: PHASE SADNESS

I came armed for battle.

I applied makeup, brushed my hair, and wore my favorite white cotton sundress with yellow daisies at the bottom. It was both pretty and comfortable, and it showed off just enough cleavage to intrigue. Liam had loved it. Whenever I wore it, we ended up at his place and my dress ended up on the floor.

I’d considered throwing the outfit away after we broke up because he’d loved it, but I thought better of it. I refused to let him ruin the good things for me, whether it was a dress or mint chocolate ice cream, which he used to buy me whenever I had my period cravings.

I figured looking good couldn’t hurt if I was angling for an unannounced evening moviethon with Alex.

I couldn’t think of any good ideas to make him sad without being a total bitch, so I’d chosen the neutral option of sad movies. They worked on everyone. Yes, even men.

I saw Josh cry once at the end of Titanic, though he claimed it was allergies and threatened to toss my camera from the top of the Washington Monument if I told anyone.

Yeah, right. A decade later, and he still couldn’t shut up about how there’d been room for Jack on the door. I agreed with him, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make fun of him.

Since Alex was a teensy bit more reserved than Josh, I skipped Titanic and brought out the big guns: A Walk to Remember (sadder than The Notebook ) and Marley and Me.

I knocked on the door to Alex’s house. To my surprise, it opened less than two seconds later.

“Hey, I—” I stopped. Stared.

I’d expected to see Alex in a suit from the office or casual loungewear, though nothing he owned was really casual. Even his T-shirts cost hundreds of dollars. Instead, he wore a deep gray shirt tucked into dark denim jeans and a tailored black Hugo Boss blazer.

Awfully dressy for a Thursday night.

“Did I catch you on your way out?” I tried to peer behind him and see if he had company, but Alex’s frame blocked most of the doorway.

“Should I move so you have a clearer view of my living room?” he asked sardonically.

Heat scorched my cheeks. Busted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your living room isn’t that interesting,” I fibbed. “Lack of color. No personal effects.” What am I saying? Someone stop me. “The painting’s ugly too.” Stop me now. “ Could use a woman’s touch.” Fuck. Me. Sideways.

I did not just say that.

Alex’s lips pressed together. Had he been anyone else, I could’ve sworn he was trying not to laugh. “I see. The painting technically belongs to Josh, you know.”

“Which should’ve been the first red flag.”

This time, a tiny smirk did touch Alex’s mouth. “To answer your question, I was on the way out. I have a date.”

I blinked. Alex on a date. Did not compute.

Because of course the guy dated. Look at him. But I’d never heard or seen evidence of activity in his love life, unless you counted the women throwing themselves at him wherever he went, so I’d assumed he was one of those workaholics who had an exclusive relationship with his job.

I mean, we’d been neighbors for over a month, and I hadn’t seen him bring a single woman home—though admittedly, I wasn’t watching his house twenty-four-seven like a total creep.

The thought of Alex dating was…strange.

That was the only word I could use to describe the niggling feeling in my stomach, the one that made my skin itch and my pulse beat double time.