Page 6 of Tormented
The handsome chaos that he is.
“You sta-startled me.”
He smirks. The curl of his lips is intoxicating. The beauty of an angel shrouded by the promise of a demon. Something damp stains his charcoal-colored T-shirt—no prizes for guessing what that is.
“I sta-startled you?” he mocks. “You got a problem with talkin’ now too?”
He strides into the room and drops the heavy duffle in his hand on the floor. It lands with a loud thud that makes me jump. His eyes narrow as his smirk deepens.
“What’s the matter? Don’t like loud noises?” He stomps his boot hard, metal buckles clanking as I jolt where I sit. “You’re too easy to fuck with,” he says with a chuckle.
This is how it’s been between us since he first laid eyes on me; he teases me relentlessly, and I try not to lash out and start a fight I won’t win. I’ve complained to King, and our previous president, Apex, about it, but what can they do? “It’s just how he is,” I’m told, as though that justifies the way he treats me.
I’m fucking human too.
I feel.
Angry and jaded, I scowl at the asshole and stand, reaching for the sheets at the end of the bed.
His hand slams down hard over top of mine. “You touch anything in here?”
Breathe through it—he’s too big to take on. I look around at the clear surfaces, fighting to ignore the creepy-crawlies inching along under my skin where his hand touches mine, and wonder what the hell he means.
“I didn’t touch a thing.” There’s nothing in here but the furniture.
“Sure about that?” His thumb runs a lazy line up my forearm. “Didn’t take a little peek in the closet? Open a few drawers?”
Should I have?
Goose bumps ripple across my flesh. I try to pull away, but he holds firm. My heart kicks into overdrive and I close my eyes. I can do this. All I have to do is take it one step at a time. Inhale. Exhale.
The secret to survival is as simple as taking the next breath.
“Got an answer for me, girl?”
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
He jerks his hand away from mine as though the sheer thought of touching me for too long revolts him. The rejection stings, not because I expected more, but because I know how he feels.
I can’t stand to be in my own skin either.
Snatching the linen from the mattress, I walk to the foot of the bed, drop them on the floor, and grab the base sheet from the pile. He watches my every move as I shake it out and drape it over the mattress. My skin sears, the attention too much to process all at once after having his hand on mine. My hold on the fabric falters, spilling the sheet haphazardly over the side of the bed so that it slips to the floor under its own weight.
His laughter echoes off the barren walls.
My teeth pinch painfully into my bottom lip as I stave off the urge to turn and slap him, my need to fight desperate to break free. I’ve looked to this man for hidden answers for years, recognized the same battles in his eyes as I have in mine, and yet, like any idol, the reality never quite lives up to the dream.
I hate him for it.
He leans his right side against the wall as I shake the sheet out again, working corner by corner to tuck it under. By avoiding any more fumbles, I manage to also lose his interest. Sawyer turns away as I pick up the top sheet, and opens his bag. The repeated clank of heavy items being placed onto the bureau has my curiosity, but I keep focused on the bed, executing a perfect hospital fold just like Sonya taught me.
He sniffs, running the back of his fingers under his nose as he eyes me leave the room to retrieve the blankets I left in the hall. No doubt our Forth Worth president, Hooch, has had him on the blow for the past few weeks to escape the memories of what he went through. Only a few know what went down inside the walls of Carlos’ estate, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it was harsh after one look at the man who eyes me as I carry the blankets to the bed.
Bruising on his cheek, fading bite marks on his neck, and stitches in his arms. Unless he gets overly kinky in the bedroom, it was one hell of a fight to be free.
I lay the blankets out and turn the bed down, ready for him to slip into when he wants rest. My hand lingers on the cotton for a moment, the rage still pulsing under my skin. One, two, three . . . . I count my way to ten before I turn and finally pay full attention to what he’s doing.
Watching me.