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My lips grazed her soft cheek, and I just about touched her lips right then when she let out a little moan.

Fuck.

Every second my mouth glided over her face, her jaw, her neck, I fought to keep my teeth from sinking into her. I was that hungry.

“Can I kiss you now?” I half asked, half pleaded. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either.

“I want to touch you,” I whispered against her lips. “I want to feel what’s mine. What’s always been mine.”

Please.

Her breath caught, and I could tell she was fighting it. Weakly, she pushed me away and jumped off the car.

“Stay away from me,” she said as she headed for the passenger side.

Yeah, no.

I tried to keep my laugh quiet. “You first,” I teased.


 

 

“Give me two.” My father put down two cards to exchange, and my lips twisted up just a little.

No “How are you?”, “What’s new with you?”, or “Happy Fucking Birthday, son.” Nothing.

I was eighteen today, and my father clearly didn’t remember. Or he didn’t care.

I flipped two more cards off the top of the deck and tossed them across the table to him.

To hell with it. Ten minutes down, fifty to go.

We’d been silent since I arrived. Speaking, as usual, only when needed. And my stomach was still rolling.

After the episode with Tate last night, I’d felt great. Relaxed, excited, calm.

But every week, I got sick before I came to the prison, and my high from last night was now gone. The dreadful anticipation of whatever lousy shit my father was going to say to me made me nauseous. I could never eat anything in the mornings. And most of the time, my hands shook so badly that driving was hard.

That’s why I opted to drive up last night after I’d dropped Tate off. There was no way I was going to get to sleep with my body in knots over her, so I just got the fuck out of there. Drove up to Crest Hill. Stayed in a motel and came here as soon as visiting hours began. I usually calmed down after I left. I felt safer the closer I got to home.

The only thing that got me through the visits week after week without throwing up was the necklace. And I hadn’t gotten that back last night.

Right now, though, my insides were caked with acid and burning a trail up my throat. It hurt, and I kept swallowing it down, hoping that he couldn’t see me thinking of her. I knew it sounded weird. How can


someone see what you’re thinking? But my father had a knack for reading me, and he was the only person who made me feel weak.

“So where is it?”


Date: 2015-02-16; view: 589


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