Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

We’ve had this talk more times than I can count, but he’s never outright said those words. He’s always skirted around the subject so he doesn’t upset me. I can’t call this an innocent mistake anymore. I can’t call it an accident.

Mickey got me more than one inhaler. He got me a goddamn case for it so I can leave it in my bag. He even sends me text reminders to take it. I just… don’t. I have no idea why. Maybe for some semblance of control.

My eyes start to water. I’m not trying to be difficult. I want to be able to breathe. To live. I swear I do.

I think I do.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

God, I’m so pathetic. So this is how it is? I’m going to need a babysitter for the rest of my life? I can’t go anywhere without Mickey, just in case I accidentally kill myself, because I can’t seem to do something as basic as breathing. How could he want that? Why should he want that? He’s trying to help me, and I won’t even help myself.

He rushes to me, holding my face in the palm of his hands. “No, hey. No, I’m sorry. Breathe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you; it’s just—I—" He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, they’re softer than I’ve ever seen, yet lined with guilt, grief, and fear. “I can’t lose you. You know those cliché sayings that you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and my last thought when I fall asleep? It’s true. You’re always on my mind. Constantly. There isn’t a minute that goes by when I’m not wondering what you’re doing, or if you’re okay, or thinking about me as much as I think about you. If you were to—" Mickey squeezes his eyes shut again like the words physically pain him. “I need you to take care of yourself. Bring your inhaler with you. I’m sorry for raising my voice; I’m mad because I’m worried.”

Sniffling, I shake my head. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. You’re right. It was stupid and reckless and idiotic and—”

“No.” His voice is stern, and he lowers himself so he’s at my eye level. “Listen to me, Bella, and listen to me well. Here’s what you’re going to do: You won’t apologize. You’re not going to cry or say shit like that about yourself. Do you know why? Because you are intelligent and brave and beautiful and kind and fucking perfect, and I don’t deserve you one bit. And I want you to see that in yourself every day, too.”

My body feels entirely too heavy for me. Too tight.

How many times has he quite literally saved me? Pulling me back when we cross the street, carrying an inhaler wherever we go, or beating up bullies for me. I can’t even count how many times he’s called the doctor’s office for me, taken me to my appointment, then picked up my prescription after.

He feathers his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a fallen tear. Leaning into his touch, I savor the feel of his rough hands.

He’ll get sick of me, eventually. It’s just a matter of when. He drops his head, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t take medication or eat breakfast or lunch for me or for Jeremy; you do it for you. Got it?”

All I can do is nod. It isn’t fair of me to expect Roman to slide into the role of caregiver. And it isn’t right for me to rely on him to keep me alive, fed, medicated, and financed while I sift through my paralyzing thoughts. Any money I make is from working at Greg’s store a few hours a week, but even then, he usually keeps my wage.

I have to start taking my life into my own hands and stop blaming my leaking heart for everything. I will never have a mother or father. I’ve known that for a long time, but I need to learn to accept that.

Mickey shifts his hand down my face, and I forget to stop myself from flinching when he puts pressure on my bruise.

His lips curl back into a snarl. “What did those two shitheads say to you?”

At least we aren’t talking about my asthma anymore, but this isn’t much better.

I pull back from his hold, drying my face with my sleeve. “Just leave it, Roman.” I try not to sound as exhausted as I feel, but I know he sees through my faux resolve. “I don’t want to talk about it, because it will mess up our night when you’ve put in all this effort for me.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

I raise my head in defiance. We played this game earlier this afternoon, and I lost. In all fairness, I can put on as much bravado as I want, but Roman is worse than a dog with a bone. He won’t stop unless he finds the whole carcass.

He narrows his eyes. “Tell me.”

“It’s stupid high school stuff. Nothing I haven’t heard before.” I try to feign being unconcerned, but I am very much concerned.

“I don’t give a shit if you hear it every day. They made you cry—they hurt you. They’re lucky they’re not dead yet.”

“Don’t, okay? It’s my birthday, Mickey. Aren’t you meant to do what I say?”

He leans back and eyes me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “I do whatever you ask every day of the year. I don’t need an excuse for it.”

I sigh. I’m definitely not going to win this. “And I’m asking you to forget about it.”

“Forget about it?” His thick brows drop, and the chilly air around us turns venomous. “They left a fucking mark on your face, Isabella.”

As if noticing the attention, pain radiates from my chin. I cringe back at the use of my full name in that tone. In that very, very angry, pissed-off tone.

This isn’t going to be good.

“It wasn’t really their fault.” I try to defend the twins, but the instant I see his face twist, I know I’ve just made it worse. “He was holding me up by my hair, and when he let go, I fell onto the concrete.”

I should have shut up when I could.

He says nothing for a beat.

Oh no.

The atmosphere thickens.

The muscles of his jaw flutter.

“I am going to make them wish they were dead, Bella. I’m going to do it for you.”

“Mickey, don’t let them get to you,” I attempt to soothe. “They’re just stupid kids who probably have a really messed-up home life and don’t know how to act properly. They need someone to talk to, not to get beaten up.”

They need a therapist, which won’t happen for anyone who goes to our school unless you’re in the system and you’re as problematic as Mickey. And by that time, it’s usually too late for a therapist to do anything.

If I’m being honest with myself, I couldn’t care less if the twins were scared of the sun. So, I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to defend them.

Maybe I don’t want them to take more of my joy, or maybe I’m only trying to prevent myself from having a guilty conscience.

Maybe it’s because this is what Cassie would do. Someone less defective would beg him for hours not to hurt them. Maybe I’m still talking because that’s what I should be doing.

Slowly, to leave no doubt in my mind, Mickey says, “I’m not asking for your permission, and I am not going to ask for your forgiveness after.”

I sigh, defeated. “Just… Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” he agrees.

“It’s just you and me tonight, right?” I ask. “No Mikhail, no Maxim.” No talks about my health. “Just you and me and any food you brought, because I’m starving.”

He watches me carefully for a moment before chuckling humorlessly. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Great.” I put on my most cheerful smile and ignore my aching lungs.

Fake it until you make it, right?

Or at least lie to yourself until you start believing your own delusions to the point that they sabotage your life.

He doesn’t let on if he isn’t falling for my act, rummaging through the bag he brought with him and the box a couple of feet away from us. I still can’t believe everything he’s done for my birthday. Is this what he’s been doing at night? A daunting realization hits and settles low in my gut.

There’s so much about Roman that I don’t know.

He couldn’t have found this place by himself, and he’s never talked about anyone else other than to complain about people at work. How much of himself is he hiding from me? Have I spent all these years thinking there isn’t a side of him that I don’t know, but I’ve been fooling myself the whole time?

I don’t take my eyes off him as he lays out all the food: buns, roasted chicken, salad, chips, and fruit. It’s the biggest juxtaposition; he’s organized the cutest picnic in the creepiest shed and somehow made it romantic.

Once all the food is out on the blanket, he pulls out a little black box that he places right in front of me.

“What is it?” I ask hesitantly, picking up the velvet jewelry case.

“Open it.”

I give him one last look before flicking the lid open. I’m frozen in my spot as I stare at it. For the third time today, tears run down my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.

But this time is different.

This time, the tears don’t sting when they fall.

This time, when I cry, there’s a smile stretched across my lips.

“Mickey,” is all I can say.

He deserves the whole world, and I wish I could give it to him.

They’re an exact match to the pair of earrings that Mamá gave me on my fifth birthday that I lost when I was eight. Small, silver Mickey Mouse studs. I cried for weeks when I lost them. I had only two things left from Mamá: the earrings and the Mickey Mouse doll.

He looks back at me with an expression I can’t quite name. “How?” I breathe.

“I got them made.”

There’s no emotion in his voice, but I can see in his eyes that he’s battling some demons as he taps away on his leg. I want to know what he’s thinking. He usually looks pleased with himself or even excited whenever he gives me a birthday gift. He’s never so reserved.

I finally register what he said. “How—You remember what they looked like?”

He nods once. “I’ll never forget.”

We stare at each other for a long moment before I decide to break the silence. “Thank you, Roman. I love them. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

I replace the earrings I’m wearing with the new pair. The silver is heavier than the ones I was originally wearing. I can’t imagine how much it would have cost him to get them made.

“Movie or music?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks, focused on piling vegetables and chicken into a bun.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes my stomach dip uneasily. I swallow and tuck the box away into my pocket. Have I done another thing wrong? Said the wrong words or acted the wrong way?

“A true-crime podcast,” I joke, attempting to make him feel even an ounce of my elation.

It’s a terrible joke, because neither of us is that into them, but the trick works because his lips tilt up at the corner. “Are you sure you want to give me ideas after discussing the twins?”

“You’re right. Movie.” I force myself to grin, even though there’s still a sour taste in the air.

“As my lady wishes.”

I roll my eyes, and he winks.

Enough crap has gone on today, and if one more bad thing happens, I’m calling it quits.

We both get busy with our tasks, him setting up the projector, and me taking over with making the sandwiches—I make them better than he does. Roast chicken, coleslaw, bread buns, and potato chips. If there’s one thing we both learned at school, it’s that nothing beats a chip sandwich, as the Kiwi kid in my class called it.

We eat in silence as the movie starts to play, and like a typical guy, he inhales his food and manages to eat two in the time it’s taken me to eat half. He artfully organizes the pillows and blankets and drags me by the waist and into his arms the second I finish eating.

I try to focus on the movie, but I can only focus on Mickey: The way his body is perfectly molded to mine, the kisses he plants on the top of my head every so often, and how he doesn’t stop touching me. He’s constantly moving, rubbing circles with his palms and writing love letters with his fingers along my back.

He laughs at the movie on cue and blurts out whatever random thing he thinks of as he watches. With the countless layers of blankets hiding our intertwined bodies and nothing but the fairy lights and the projector to light our surroundings, I’ve never felt so content.

We’ve both lost our jackets, leaving us in our shirts and pants. He keeps running his hand up and down my arm like he can’t get enough of the feel of me. With each touch, the crappiness of everything that happened today floats away.

The credits roll, and I stretch my neck up to find he’s already looking at me. I shiver when his hand follows the curve of my waist, leaving a path of fire up along my collarbones to trace every contour of my face.

Warmth unfurls in my chest as the butterflies that have been quiet all night explode in a flurry of short breaths and fluttering lashes. Those gunmetal eyes of his pierce mine, and I can’t look away, lost in his scent and the way the shadows enhance his cheekbones and run along his nose. I could live in this moment forever and die happy, never seeing the sun again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Bella.”

His gaze drops to my lips, where his fingers brush them over and over. His eyelids grow heavier with each move, hiding his darkening stare. Inch by inch, his other hand crawls up the back of my thigh, slowing over the arch of my back, eliciting a deep desire in me unlike anything I’ve ever known. My core tightens as an ache forms between my legs, but I’m too scared to shift my hips in case the movement causes Roman to snap out of his trance.

My pigtails loosen as his fingers move into my hair, threading through the strands as if he owns them. He doesn’t need to ask; he can take anything he wants from me. I’m his. It’s the only thing I’m certain about in this life.

Roman’s eyes glaze over as if he’s mesmerized, but he licks his lips like a starved animal, never once moving his attention away from my mouth.

He’s looking at me as if I’m the only person in this world who matters.

Like I’m his everything.

Like he’s about to kiss me.

“Mickey.”

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Chapter 11

ISABELLA

3 Years Ago

Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.

His lips crash into mine, cutting off my words as he drags me to him by his grip on my hair. The entire world lights up on contact. Every bulb grows brighter, every smell becomes stronger, and I can feel the kiss in my soul. The stars could fall, and I wouldn’t notice. The room could be set ablaze, and I would be helpless to his possession.

His lips move without waiting for me to catch up. Mickey pulls me beneath him, settling himself between my legs as he dominates every inch of me. Choosing where my legs are curled around him, we become a battle of tongue and teeth that I already know I will lose.

A low growl rattles through his throat as my back arches and my legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips closer to mine. When he takes my bottom lip between his teeth like he’s marking his territory, I can’t help but whimper.

It isn’t just a kiss. Our lips aren’t just touching. He’s claiming me, body, mind, and soul, and there is nothing I can do to get away from it. Because I want him, too, more than anything else in the world.

Not want.

Need.

I need him more than I need air. If he leaves, I won’t survive. There’s nothing else in this world that could compare to him.

I’m his, and there’s a Roman-shaped hole in my heart that is perfectly made to fit him.

As he pushes his hard length against the part of me that aches for him the most, fireworks dance behind my vision. My body takes over at the sensation, and I grind my hips along him. A guttural moan makes it past our lips, and I try to chase that high again.

But then he stops.

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling away from me, and I whimper when his touch vanishes completely.

He leans to the side. One hand disappears beneath the covers to adjust himself. Then he throws his head back and laughs at the ceiling. Looking back down at me, he beams from ear to ear. “God, that was better than I ever imagined. You taste so damn good.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m going to survive another year,” he says, more to himself than to me.

“What?” I shift and try to make myself smaller.

That was amazing, but I don’t understand why he pulled away. Did I kiss him wrong? Was that bad? I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I can’t help feeling like I wasn’t enough, even though he is smiling at me like I’ve given him some gift.

He flops onto his back next to me and grabs me before I can escape any scrutiny. Tucking me into his side, he cages me in his arms. Should I be fighting him? Do I try kissing him again? I don’t understand what’s happening.

“I’m going to see you every day, and it’s going to kill me not to pounce on you.” Mickey pushes himself onto his back and raises himself on his elbows so he’s staring down at me with a grin. “On that note, no skirts, no shorts, no low-cut shirts, and—I never thought I’d agree with the teachers—no shoulders. For God’s sake, you better put away the shoulders. They’re too tempting. And those thin little tank top straps? So breakable,” he rambles, talking so fast I almost miss what he’s saying. I'd believe him if he told me that he was drunk or high.

If the term ‘on top of the world’ could be captured, it would be Mickey at this moment. He’s encapsulating pure joy. I’ve never seen him smile so brightly before. There isn’t a hint of maliciousness or mischief in his lopsided grin. If he started skipping around the room, I wouldn’t be surprised.

I wish I could feel what he’s feeling. My lips curl into a smile, but it’s forced, so nothing happens to the look in his eyes. He’s happy. Truly happy.

But he stopped. He pulled away from me.

His brows drop suddenly, frowning to himself. “Actually, cover the ankles, too. There isn’t an inch on you that doesn’t do it for me. I’ll control myself, don’t you worry. But if someone looks at you?” He whistles. “If you thought I was crazy before, you have no idea what you’ve just unlocked.” Moving again, onto his knees this time, he settles between my legs as if he’s done this thousands of times and belongs there. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that? For years, every single time I saw your pretty pink lips, I imagined what they would feel like between my teeth and whether they were as sweet as you look.”

I blink at him. He’s not making sense. Why won’t he—why did he pull away? “But… a year? Is there—" Something wrong with me? Someone else? Something else? Is he waiting for me to be better or more mature?

He chuckles to himself and runs his hands up and down my thighs and waist like the feel of me is a drug he can’t get enough of. “A year and one day from today, you’re not going to be able to walk. Because once I get my hands on you, you’ll be ruined.”

Oh, right.

My age.

Two years isn’t that big a difference? So many girls at school have older boyfriends, and it’s not like I just met Mickey.

What if he’s actually waiting for me to be different—better? What if one year is a countdown before he decides whether he really wants me? What happens in the time between? How am I meant to change?

“It’s getting late,” he says, without even looking at the time. “We should go. There’s a long ride ahead of us, and I want you tucked into bed before midnight.”

I try to hide my grimace. He wants to get rid of me like he always does at night. He deposits me back into my room before nine and doesn’t return until morning to take me to school. What’s he doing after this? Will he call Cassie and get her to help with the bulge pressed against me?

“Okay,” I whisper. Even though there are a hundred questions I could ask, I won’t utter a single one.

Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, and don’t cry for help when you’re drowning. The only things that can save you are the answers you never asked for.

I can imagine my heart shattering into a million pieces if I ask him where he’s going. He’ll say he’s running into the arms of a woman when he’s just been in mine.

He kisses my lips that I pretend I don’t feel, even though I kissed him back with the weight of all the questions I never asked.

I take his hand and let him help me to my feet, and we pack away the items while Mickey goes on a tangent about all the motorbikes that came into the garage this week. I’m listening, but not really. I feel full and hollow at the same time. It’s an awful thing to feel.

I’m barely conscious as I climb back onto the bike and ride for hours until we stop in front of the two-story house with the window open on the top floor.

He kisses me again when our helmets come off. I peer through the curtains once he escorts me inside. There’s a skip in his step as he goes back to his bike.

My doubts don’t stop swirling as I drag my feet to my room. They don’t take a break when my head hits the pillow, and I look up to see the glow-in-the-dark stars Mickey helped stick on.

Eventually, sleep comes.

The next day, I wake with the same thought as I did yesterday: Days like today are always the hardest.

But I know Mickey makes it better. He finds a way by saying something ridiculous.

I pull myself out of bed and go through the monotonous motions of getting ready before the rest of the house makes it out of their rooms. Shower. Dress. Hair. And… and inhaler. And breakfast. For once.

Only after locking the door behind me do I realize there’s no bike waiting for me. No Mickey.

I stand there at the edge of the porch, watching Jeremy leave for school. Then Greg and Marcus disappear off to work.

But Mickey never comes.

He doesn’t answer when I pick up the phone and call him.

He isn’t there when I go to our spot after school, or the next day when I walk out of the house with my hair down.

I call again.

It goes straight to voicemail.

I show up at his home, but no one answers his door.

I go again the next day and the next.

Until days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months.

A year goes by.

He doesn’t show up for my graduation.

He doesn’t come when I am hospitalized.

He doesn’t say “happy birthday” when I turn eighteen.

A year and one day later, I can’t walk, just like he said. I can’t bring myself to leave the bed or eat.

I’m not enough.

He ruined me.

Roman Riviera was right, and I was wrong.

I won’t die without Roman Riviera.

But sometimes I wish I would.

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