No boy has ever looked at me like this. And for Pax to be looking at me like this? I’m ill-equipped to deal with the surge of emotion that barrels through me; My body is telling me to run. Such a strange, conflicting feeling—when you’re so drawn to something at the same time as desperately trying to pull away. I feel like I’m standing on a beach, and the tide is pulling out, out, out. I see the wave building. I know it will destroy me if it crashes over me, but I can’t pull my feet out of the wash. It tugs at me, sucking me in. There is no escape.
“No games. No plotting. No bullshit,” Pax murmurs. He exhales a slow, steady breath down his nose. “I’m tired, Chase. Really fucking tired. This…you are the path of least resistance.”
Wow.
The path of least resistance?
The words are a slap in the face.
I was so fascinated by this rare softness to him that I almost let myself believe he was capable of feeling something for me. But…fuck. The path of least resistance? What a shitty thing to call someone—the thing that requires the least effort? The easy option? The guaranteed fuck? I step back, away from him, out of his arms, trying to swallow the ache in my throat. “I’m glad to hear you think so highly of me,” I say. That ache hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s gotten worse, and so my words feel like razor blades as I speak them.
I look away from Pax, staring at my tarot deck on the nightstand, and my little green dream catcher on the wall by the bed, but Pax takes me by the chin and turns my face back to him. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m honestly a little tired, Pax. If you want to fuck me, then we should hurry this along. I still have some work to do, and I plan on proofreading my chapter before I send it to you. So.”
The softness in his eyes hardens right in front of me. I watch it creep across the pale silver of his irises like ice over a bottomless lake. “Cool,” he says. And the word is apt, because everything about him is suddenly very cool indeed. His hands work quickly, tearing at my clothes. The muscles in his jaw work overtime as he strips me naked. In three seconds flat, he has me pinned against my bedroom wall with his hand around my throat, and I’m squirming against him, panting, hating myself, because no matter how much that dumb, off-the-cuff comment stung, and how utterly worthless I felt in that moment, I am a fucking slave to this man.
He owns me.
One word from him and my heart races.
One flick of his tongue and I am liquid.
One jerk of his head and I’m on my goddamn knees…
He kisses me, and I can feel his anger. His teeth are sharper than usual, his lips harder, crueler. His fury spills into me as he forces my mouth open and deepens the kiss. His breath is hot and makes my head spin, and for a solid minute it’s all I can do to keep my feet underneath me. He grunts, satisfied and belligerent, when he works his fingers between my legs, pushing the folds of my pussy apart, and discovers how wet I am.
His hold around my neck tightens. Leaning back a little, he narrows his eyes as he assesses me. “Tell me something. Is it me you hate? Or yourself? I’m having a really fucking hard time working that out.”
Ouch.
That stings just as much as his other comment. More, actually. Because the way he’s looking at me now is very different to the borderline sweet way he was looking at me back on the bed. He looks disgusted. Shame nips at me when he brings his fingers to his mouth and he sucks on them, tasting me. His eyes are locked onto mine. He doesn’t look away…
Vrrrnnn. Vrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnn.
Pax’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and reads the message that just came through with a bored look on his face.
Sighing, he puts the phone back into his pocket and steps away from me, releasing his hold on my neck. “Looks like we’re gonna have to solve that little conundrum another time, Chase. I have somewhere I need to be. Night.”
He walks over to the window, opens it, and climbs through without so much as glancing back at me. I watch him drop down onto the rooftop, and then disappear out of view, with my pulse thundering all over my body. I can feel it in my ears, in my lips, in the roof of my mouth, in my fingertips. Deep inside me, between my legs, where I need him fucking most.
What the fuck just happened?
My breath comes in short, sharp bursts as I stare out of the window after him, into the dark. I’m so sad, and relieved, and tense, and turned on that I lie down on top of my bed and I stroke my clit until I come really hard, violently shaking as my orgasm rips through me. And then I turn onto my side and I cry into my pillow, because all of that was fucked.
The way he confused the hell out of me.
The way he looked at me.
Spoke to me.
Manhandled me.
The way he made me feel.
All of it.
Fucked.
39
PAX
* * *
Wren: Jonah Witton, confirmed boarding flight AAL1 to Los Angeles from New York. He went home early.
* * *
It’s all I needed to hear. Clearly, Chase didn’t want me in her room. Her body did; she wanted me to fuck her, but she didn’t want to pick up any of the other shit I was putting down, and that fucking sucked.
So I bailed.
The moment I arrive at Riot House, I storm into the kitchen, snatch the bottle of whiskey Dash is holding right out of his fucking hand, and then I charge upstairs and lock myself away in my room.
I do not come out for twenty-four hours.
Occasionally, I hear knocking over the ear-splittingly loud death metal I’m playing, but I ignore whoever has the nerve to stand on the other side of my bedroom door.
I run by myself on Sunday. All fucking day. I take a pack with plenty of water and ton of protein bars, and I run a total of forty-three miles in the blistering heat, tearing up and down mountains until I make myself sick. Only when I slip on a patch of scree and slide a hundred feet down a steep slope, scraping open my right side, do I lope back home, nursing my foul mood.
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, Chase and I fire chapters back and forth at each other, but we do not talk. The story is taking decent shape. It’s turning into an epic saga that would have made the Greeks proud. My character is still competing with Chase’s character. They bicker and squabble, constantly at odds, but the bones of the book, the challenges and the physical trials they face to accomplish their goals, are solid. I’m increasingly more and more impressed with Chase’s writing, as well as her ability to match me in tone, and to carry the story forward in a logical way every time she sends me back the next part of the story. I hate her for it.
Thursday, I purposefully bolt out of Econ as soon as the bell goes to avoid interacting with Chase.
Friday, she texts and flat out asks me what the fuck is wrong with me, and I ignore her message like a child.
Saturday, I develop film in my closet, and I almost drive my fist through the drywall when the image of Chase, curled up and fast asleep in my bed, develops on the photo paper. Her hair is a streak of fire across my pillow. She is the most beautiful, peaceful thing I have ever seen, and I fucking hate myself for not climbing onto the bed behind her and fucking holding her. My arms ache for the weight of her. A weight I’ve never even fucking known.