I'm sober by the time I get downstairs and out of my building. I refuse to drive to the Oceanside Hotel, because yes, it's that close to my fucking house, using the time to calm myself down, smoke another cigarette.
What am I going to say to her? I should have called her friends, let them know I found her.
The building is loud and colorful, even at night, but I don't know what fucking time it is and quite frankly; I don't even care. I pull up the hood of the sweatshirt I threw over my head before I left and make my way inside.
I've never seen the inside of the Oceanside Hotel, but I have to admit it's nice. Clean hallways, shiny floors and spotless windows add to the perfect touristy vibe this place has going on.
"Excuse me." I walk up to the front desk. The woman manning it is in her early forties. She's got shiny ginger hair that's twisted away from her face and a friendly smile. "Could I get another key to my room, please? I swear I always lose those card thingies." I give her my best smile, but it doesn't seem to do much for her. Raquelle's eyes drift from the ink on my neck down to my knuckles, a judging arch of her eyebrow telling me she doesn't want me here.
"Look." I sigh and rub my face. I'm too tired for this shit. "I've got other things to do today, miss. Can I get a new key, or do I have to talk to your fucking manager?" She still doesn't respond. Instead, she rummages around her desk.
"What's your room number, sir?" She caves in after I give her a death-stare. I curse myself for going in with the plan to charm this woman. Being rude seems to work, though.
I try to come up with a decent lie, but my mind goes fucking blank. Then I remember: the best lies are the closest to the truth. Bella once told me so.
"Look," I sigh. "My girlfriend is staying here, and we had a bit of a fight. But it's our anniversary today and I want to surprise her. I bought a ring and I'm gonna fucking propose to her, okay?" Red takes a deep breath and considers my words.
"What's her name?" Bingo.
"Isabella Swan."
Raquelle's phone rings, loud and shrill, in the otherwise relatively silent inn. She apologizes to me, but answers it anyway.
She's fucking rude. I make my way out to the courtyard, follow the sign that leads me to a pool encased in between white walls, windows from the second story all the way to the fourth. Cute, rooms overlooking the pool.
One window catches my attention.
There's a cloud of smoke erupting through the closed shutters. Faint light shines from within the room. I swear it's hers.
It has to be.
It's a fucking sign.
Thinking about that makes my balls shrink two sizes. But I rush back to the hallway anyway, trying to figure out the layout of this place. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, too eager to wait, my heart pumping violently in my chest.
I counted floors, so this should be it. I act on instinct, using the skills I picked up over the years, and use all my senses to track her down.
"Yes." I breathe, hearing music waft from one room. I walk closer to the door it comes from, closing my eyes. I feel her energy, hear the music and the way she hums along to a heavy guitar riff.
It's her, alright.
I brace myself, knock once, pull the collar of my hoodie; feeling suffocated by the built-up tension in my head.
The knife is in the pocket of my cut-off sweats. I feel the edge of the blade; razor sharp and menacing on the path of my thumb.
When the door doesn't open, I knock again. It's an aggressive knock, my balled-up fist never leaving the surface of the door when I'm done.
I can hear the chain of the safety bold jingle, echo off the wood before the door cracks open. Dark hair curls around the edge of the door as she peeks her head out. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her.
She gasps when she sees me, her breathing hitches as she sees the look on my face. My eyes are narrowed, chest heaving. I feel dangerous. I bet I look fucking dangerous, too.
"Lost, little Doe?" I sneer, but don't let her reply. "You enjoy playing fucking mind games with me?"
"I — I," she stammers. Her hand glides off the side of the door and I nudge it open with my unlaced boot.
"Let me tell you something, baby. If you want to play games, accuse me — fine. But you won't fucking win. I promise you that." I walk inside her room. Music fills my senses. My eyes drift off to the floor. Her suitcase lays open next to the generic desk in the corner, her clothing neatly folded.
"Going somewhere?" I cock my head to the side. I've got her cornered, but she's not even walking away from me. My eyes drift over the length of her body, dressed in nothing but a fucking lace-trimmed black camisole and a black thong. A sheen of redness covers her legs, slightly sunburned, as are her shoulders.
"Does it make you feel good, baby? Making me feel worried? Getting me to have a fucking panic attack?" I tug my hair hard, never once taking my eyes off her.
She stares at me, open mouth, lips taunting me as she sucks the bottom one in between her teeth.
"I didn't mean to make you worry…"
"Well, know better than to think I won't find you. I know every fucking thing about you. You can't run from me, baby."
"I'm sorry, Masen. I wanted to surprise you, but then I saw you with that fucking whore by your building… I just snapped, I ran."
I chuckle, but there is nothing funny about what is coming out of her dirty little mouth.
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm wrapping my arms around her shoulders, tight, soft body crashing into my chest. I'm not holding back, one arm in between her perky, braless tits, hand around her throat. Her heart is pounding heavily against my bare arm as my other hand snakes around her waist. I've got her right where I want her, and I swear I hear her moan as she leans into me — pushing into my hard cock.
"That fucking whore is my fucking sister, little Doe." I whisper against her ear. She's so close I can smell her — shower fresh, Aloë Vera soothing her burn.
"Fuck." She gasps, my grip tightening on her long neck as I let go of her waist, my other hand reaching into my pocket. "I didn't kn—" She didn't know, I know. But she should trust me.
The blade clicks open in place — fucking ready. I lick my lips in anticipation. This isn't a threat. It's fucking foreplay, she knows that, too.
"You weren't going to show, were you?" My voice is low, and I want to lick her fucking lips, suck them — but I try to restrain myself. I'm angry, fucking disappointed, she thinks so little of me.
"No." She creaks, cheeks flushed, her head against my chest. I feel her pulse against my palm, thundering harder than the music that's playing.
My anger turns to sadness, to know that she'd abandon me. Flight instead of fighting for me, but I don't let her go. Instead, I lift my hand. The bandages around my knuckles pull as my fingers curl tighter around the hilt.
Her chest heaves with shallow breaths as I drag the blade up her cotton-clad torso, the tip of the blade halting at the swell of her covered tits where I press slightly, but I don't cut. I don't want to hurt her. I fucking love this ridiculous, delusional girl. I fucking love her.
I hear her swallow hard, feel it pass before I dig my fingers a little deeper into the sides of her throat. She's mewling against me now; shallow pants escaping between her pillowy lips.
"What about your promise, baby?" I whisper. She shudders against me, but doesn't pull away.
"I thought you were going to give me a fucking chance to prove to you how fucking good I can make you feel." I move the knife up again, leaving the surface of her camisole, cold metal on hot, bare skin. She's squirming against me — not away.
As if I could fucking scare her. I'm not even fucking trying to. Not really.
"You really still want to fucking die, baby?"
I release my grip on her throat, replace it with the blade slanted to one side. Her eyes are closed, but when she opens them they're filled with fucking fire. My hand trails down, cupping her pussy over the high-waisted satin thong she's wearing. She's so fucking wet.