He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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6:26 PM
Under the lukewarm shower, I watch the water turn pink as it washes over my hands.
My wrist throbbed a few hours after Fiona tripped me, but stopped, so I haven't worried. My palms are a mess of blisters, swellings, and open wounds. Each droplet that hits my skin stings. It doesn't stop the bleeding.
The feeling of those officers' hands on me lingers. Just like I've tried to shower off Brandon—which I never managed to do—I can't rinse those hands away either. My body is becoming wrinkled paper. I smooth it, but it wrinkles more, so I smooth it again.
I can't flatten the lines out, not wholly.
Stepping out, I confront my reflection in the fogged mirror. The freckled face that stares back is worn but...resolute.
I suck in a breath.
I am fine.
Carefully, I comb through my wet hair, its darkened strands heavy against my fingers, tickling my shoulders. The ritual of applying lotion to my skin follows, the fresh scent comforting.
I tell myself, Take care of your body, and it'll keep going, even though some days, I'm not so sure.
Still, I want to hide my body today. Just a little. It feels like a weakness, but I don't have another choice.
Dressed in black sweatpants and a loose white tee shirt, topped with my favourite flannel, I move through the silent house. If it looks ugly, I'll be happy for it. Even when I sweat through the thick layers, I won't care.
I go downstairs, rolling my shoulders. I take Pat's keys from the hook by the door, leave the house, and hit the road again.
The sun is low in the sky, casting longer shadows across the roads. There is gold and amber, and I can almost pretend Middlebridge is pretty for a moment.
Arriving at the hospital, I park and look around for the SUV that is gone now. I don't know what to make of the empty feeling that gives me. I open the car door, step out, and shut it gently.
The sterile smell and the too-bright lights assault my senses once more as I approach the front desk inside.
My voice is steady as I say, "I'm here to take home Greyson Scott."
It feels interminable, each second stretching out before me. Every boot scuff makes me flinch. Each time the doors open behind me, I look back, expecting guns and badges.
And then, there he is, emerging from the swinging doors with a doctor at his side. Grey's black hair is a mess, the cast on his right wrist a stark white, likely to be dirtied soon. His white shirt and black jeans are rumpled, but it's his blue eyes that catch me—the void there, an emptiness that seems to swallow whatever used to be.
