Take (Need #2)(63)

“This conversation is absurd.” Steven’s voice grows louder, like he’s closer to the door. “I’m going out with Tim and John. I’ll be back later. Enough of these bullshit accusations, Sonia.”

The door pops open, and so do my eyes. He stomps out and glances my way, jumping a bit.

“Shit.” He looks back to the door where I can hear my mother trying to stifle her cries, then eyes me up and down. “What?”

I say nothing, do nothing, though I want to. We’ve never gotten much past pleasantries, even after living in his house for three years.

He gives a little huff and makes his way down the stairs.

Halfway down, I step to the edge and yell, “I get it now.”

He stops and turns back, looking up at me. “Get what?”

I stick my chin out and glare down at him. “Why he hates you so much.”

“You know, Kira, I used to think you were a good girl,” he pauses, lip twisting up to a sneer, “but you’re just another girl competing for his attention, aren’t you?”

I let out a gasp, then freeze.

“You said you were going, so leave, Steven!” Mom yells from behind me. I jump, unaware she’s there.

He looks between us, then finishes his descent.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Why are you with that *?” I ask.

She pulls back, her lips set in a straight line, brow knitted together. It’s her “I don’t know look.”

I slip the earrings into her palm and head back to my room, leaning on the door as it closes.

Once upon a time, Steve was right—I was a girl vying for Brayden. Now?

The beaded ring is still sitting on my dresser, looking at me. Times were easier then, and I almost wish I could go back to that innocence.

I’ve got my phone in my hand and I’m texting before I even realize it.

How did you live with the fighting?

It’s a question I’ve wondered for years, and an answer I partially know. But it’s also a question I don’t notice I’ve actually texted to Brayden until he responds.

I had no choice.

No choice.

It’s true. For him, it started when he was young, too young to understand.

But I remember when he was fourteen, when we ran away one night. He’d lived with it for years, the fighting, and I watched it beat him down and tear him apart. Shaped him, hardened him.

I remember, but I’d forgotten and I never, ever went through it until today.

Hot tears slide down my cheeks as I wonder what it was like for a little boy to go through that and worse.

I’m so sorry, baby. You shouldn’t have to go through that. Ever.

No one should.

You did.

His response leaves me cold inside. I’ll kill him if he keeps putting you through that.

He’s always threatening to kill people because of me. Anyone else would be scared. I find it sweet, actually, despite the fact that I worry what would happen to him if he went through with it.

I guess that just shows how off we both are. We’re slightly twisted. I think we both always have been in a way. We’re not normal. Not by a long shot.

Fuck, that connection between us.

There’s no denying it—it’s still here. The broken pieces of us that bonded and brought us together aren’t going anywhere.

I miss my best friend. I always, always miss him.

And I can’t have him back. Because I won’t allow myself to.

Brayden sends me another text. Promise me you’ll call me if it gets too bad over there.

My heart breaks.

I won’t promise him that. There’s no going back for me. I can’t return to that place of soul-sick dependence. Not after all the times he brutally left me hanging. I text him back, feeling nauseous. I know he’s offering his help and that it’s coming from a good place, but I still have to shoot him down.

Don’t worry about this. I’ve got this. Thanks anyway.





July 19, 2015





I. Am. A. Whore.

The realization does nothing to calm me.

I’d always known I was horny. My entire life, the promise of sex had taunted me. I lived every moment waiting to experience passion.

This isn’t passion. This is a sickness. A straight-up plague of epic proportions.

How many damn times do I need to have a dick before I actually start getting tired of it?

I can’t stop looking. My God, those red swim trunks were made to obliterate my clit.

Correction: you are a whore for one man only.

Ugh, don’t remind me.

Why can’t I react like this to another man’s dick?

Noooo. It’s all about this one. It’s always about this one.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It’s twitching for me. Hardening right before my eyes.

Hunger.

Madness.

The existence of this man pisses me off so much.

I bite my lip and press my thighs together, feeling like I haven’t had it in centuries. Fucking centuries.

“Kitty, are you wearing that to kill me? Your tits look f*cking amazing in that bikini.”

Blindly, I reach behind me, clutching at the kitchen island. “You’re the one that wanted to hang out. In the pool.” Why did I freaking agree to this again?