I reach for the bike I’d discarded near the disapproving statue and grimace at the sight of blood running down my fingers. I wipe at my dark blue jeans and pick it up, wheeling it alongside us, no idea where we’re headed.
“Where, uh—where do you live?”
“I don’t want to go there,” she whispers, and I notice she’s holding the bodice to her costume together.
“Here.” I let go of the bike and unzip my sweater. I tug one arm out and then the other before handing it to her. When she takes it, I ask, “Where can I walk you?”
“I don’t know,” she answers.
Goddamn it, I don’t want to bring her home. I can’t bring her home.
And yet, I find myself offering.
Fuck.
“My place isn’t far from here,” I say.
She finally looks at me, and I don’t know what to make of her stare. It’s as if she’s trying to determine the risk factor here. She doesn’t know that I’ve killed before. Doesn’t know I’ve had to hide bodies, doesn’t know that I know what it’s like to steal someone’s last breath.
She can’t know, because she whispers, “Okay.”
I’m far worse than the guys we left behind.
3
Abel
She doesn’t talk the rest of the way and I’m grateful for it.
I don’t need to hear the way her words hold a melodic quality, even when she whispers. I don’t need to find reasons to look at her; to find differences between the woman before me and the one who haunts me.
I don’t need to find hope in brown eyes that look like they haven’t seen anything past the town limits.
When we reach my apartment, a somewhat dilapidated building on the outskirts of town, I grip my bike in one arm and walk up the steps.
I can’t help but look back to see if she’s followed me when I open the front door, like she’s some lost puppy following me home.
She’s staring at the building before her and I wonder if she’s actually going to come inside, when she proceeds to take each step slowly.
“I can always walk you home,” I tell her, nervous at the idea of her entering my shitty apartment.
I’ve never had a guest before, figuring better safe than sorry.
So what makes her so special? So different?
She looks like your dead girlfriend.
I close my eyes for a moment and shove inside, letting my bike hit the wall with a thud. She gasps and I open my eyes, looking at her as she notices my bloody hands.
“I’m fine,” I reassure her.
My apartment door is the first on the right, where my bike is now leaning. I unlock the door, the flimsy lock easily able to be picked by anyone who really wants to get inside. But when I reach for my bike, I see she’s already got it, wheeling it toward my door.
The door across the hall opens and Abelia glances over, but I don’t need to. I know my nosey ass neighbors are wondering what the hell is with all the noise.
“Come on,” I tell her, holding the door open, and she walks under my arm.
I stare at the old lady across the hall who peers out. Her eyes narrow at the sight of Abelia entering my apartment.
I want to flip this old bitch the bird but instead, I smile and shut the door behind us.
There’s not a lot of furniture, and the exposed brick wall looks more like laziness on my landlord’s part than aesthetically pleasing. But I don’t give a shit. I like the place because there isn’t a lot of traffic and for the most part, people leave me the fuck alone.
I have two chairs and a small table in the corner, near the kitchen area. I’d only have one chair if the person at the store hadn’t said they could only be sold as a set.
There’s an old radio on the kitchen counter and a mattress on the floor in my bedroom.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I tell her lamely, my hand on the back of my neck as I look around.
She looks soft and clean, except for the dirt on her knees. She stands out, and she doesn’t belong here.
She doesn’t belong here with me.
“We should clean your hand,” Abelia says, taking a step toward me.
“I’m fine,” I assure her again. “This is nothing.”
“Let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”
I’m itching to get out of my own skin at the sound of her kindness, her presence making me uncomfortable in the only haven I have in this world.
I want to ask her how long she plans on staying but I imagine that would hurt her feelings, and I’m trying really hard not to be a dickhead.
Righteous redemption and all that good shit.
I gesture toward the kitchen sink with a jerk of my head, and I don’t know what she plans to do because I don’t have shit but tap water and the soap I use to clean my dishes.
I stand in front of her and she takes my hand into hers, leading me toward the sink.
“I don’t have anything…”
“I think soap and water will be fine,” she says, glancing up at me before inspecting the damage.
Rough skin already pinkened by harsh chemicals. It hadn’t taken much to split the already taut knuckles.
The soap stings as she cleans and I watch her work, the top of her head meeting the middle of my chest. She’s short. Dainty.
I can’t see her breasts, but I can feel them against my arm.
Her nearly white hair glistens under the shitty lights of my kitchen.
I fall in love with the idea of seeing her hair whisper through the summer wind and I decide right then and there that I’ll do whatever it takes to see it for myself.
Fucking idiot. You’ll probably never see her again.
But I let myself fall into the idea of being her friend. Of trying really hard not to stare at her tits every time I see her. Of kicking anyone’s ass who tries to hurt her.
Abelia doesn’t put out, I hear Ryan say in my head.
“Why do you stare?” she asks as she reaches for the hand towel, dabbing at the sore skin. “I can feel your eyes, you know.”
And now I feel like a fucking creep.
“You look familiar to me,” I whisper, not sure what else to say.
Like my dead girlfriend who murdered people as if it were her favorite pastime.
“I guess you must’ve dreamed me, then.” She steps back. “Because I’ve never seen you before.”
She looks adorable in my sweater with its too long sleeves that are damp from the water. I wonder why she didn’t pull them up.
“You’ve never been bowling?” I ask.
She takes another step away from me and runs her fingers against my countertop.
“Not in years. I go to college an hour from here,” she tells me, and the melody of her tone forces my eyes to follow her.
“College?” I ask, watching her fingers on the counter, watching her dirty knees under my sweater.
“I want to be a doctor.”
Well, shit.
“How old are you?” It’s her turn to ask a question, I guess.
“Twenty-nine,” I answer, before asking her the same.
“Twenty-four.”
“And you’re still in school?” I wonder out loud.
“I started late,” she informs me.