Brutally Beautiful(23)

I knocked on the screen door, which was ripped to f*cking shreds, like an animal had tried to claw its way inside, or out, and the images of the massacre in my head left me a bit breathless. It very well could be the beginning of a new book…the opening scene already writing itself in my subconscious.

Behind the screen, the scratched-to-shit wooden door opened before I could compose my thoughts back to reality. Lainey was standing in the doorway, framed from the light within the tin trashcan impersonating a house. I hadn’t seen her since I chased her out of the bar two weeks ago, when Dylan asked me to give her a ride home. She looked out of place. She looked awkward and suspicious. Stunning me with her raw beauty, she looked like a f*cking dark angel. And sexy as f*cking sin. Shit.

I had no clue she was going to be here.

She tucked a wavy lock of hair behind her ear and offered me a tight smile. “Mr. Grayson.” Her greeting was curt and short. I hated it. I loved it. I’m f*cking insane.

She stepped to the side to allow me to walk in. The smell of her soap or shampoo or whatever the hell it was that filled my nose left me hungry. No, not hungry. Fucking hell, ravenous. I blinked my eyes rapidly, focused on the inside of the tin box, and swallowed a small gasp. I had never seen the inside of a trailer before, other than the idiotic movies I watched, but I would have never assumed one could look so…homey. The walls were a warm chocolate color and everything from the clean comfortable looking couches to the small yet elegantly decorated table and chairs were in earth tones and warm soft colors. It made me want to lay down and surround myself with its calmness, take some away with me. Steal it for myself. Morgan was already there, sitting at a small counter that separated the kitchen area with the living room area, a blood-red goblet of wine held tightly in her hand and she smiled at me like I was the second coming of Christ on a platter, just for her. She was dressed up like it was her f*cking high school prom, make-up caked on her face and dark brown eyes weighed down heavily with mascara. Flecks of red dotted the whites of her eyes, as if her capillaries were bursting from strangulation, making me think of someone wrapping their hands tightly around her neck and squeezing tight.

Then my eyes locked on Lainey as she stepped in front of me to the counter, and a tall lanky man moved up behind her, hesitantly placing a hand on her ass to ask her if she needed any help. If I hadn’t been staring at her form, the curve of her hips and flatness of her belly, I would have missed the minute flinch that happened just as his hand made contact with her body. She was uncomfortable under his fingers, and for some ungodly reason that made me feel ecstatic. I scanned up the slope of her body to the swell of her chest, the smooth ivory of her neck and then to the wide smile she offered him with her lips. I wanted to f*cking crush his heart. A strange stab of jealousy coursed through me, and I could distinctly visualize in my head the blood splatters and the trajectory of the spray of brain matter after I slammed him with my $500 bottle of wine on the side of his head. I placed the stupid pathetic bottle down on the counter in front of them a little too hard, just really itching for the chance to swing it at him.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked me softly, tossing her hair over her shoulder, slicing the bloodstained scenes from my mind with the smell of motherf*cking cinnamon apples.

“Yes. Thank you,” I found myself saying. Her eyes found mine. Her lashes looked incredibly long against her ivory cheeks, and a small darkening of shadows graced her skin, as if she’d been having trouble sleeping. Those green irises were like gentle pools of brilliant meadows of sage and green-envy coneflowers swaying in a warm breeze.

HOLY f*ck. What the hell sort of poetry was that dribbling out of my twisted brain?