Burn
11
Hands
My shoes are squeaky and loud and it's hard to walk as I step off the bus. A gust of icy wind slices through his—now my—jacket and I tug it closer around me.
The rain is pouring down, soaking me within seconds, and I shiver. My butt buzzes but I don't bother to see who's texted me; they don't need to know where I am.
I'm hurrying across the street now, cursing myself. Overhead, the fluorescent sign of the rundown motel flickers and sends imaginary warmth across my cheeks.
My teeth are chattering hard enough to cut my tongue in two when I reach the dingy door and hurry in.
"I'd like a room," I say to the man at the counter. He's a bit of a younger guy, with short hair and huge reading glasses, and looks a bit annoyed that I'm tracking water in. And then he does a double take. The white t-shirt I'm wearing is a bad idea but if it helps me get a room without being checked...
The guy doesn't ask for ID, or my age, or my name; he just takes the money I hand him and gives me a key. Maybe he isn't interested in girls.
I'm not vain but I know most guys would jump at the chance to have a girl in a wet t-shirt. Still, I thank him and all but sprint to my room. Last time I was here—
I push the thoughts and memories away as my shaky hands fumble with the door until the key slides home and I'm blasted with hot air. For a minute, I stand and bask in the heat.
Down the hall, a couple is arguing and the woman starts to cry, so I close the door quickly and head straight for the bathroom. My reflection is gaunt-faced, with clumps of hair hanging down, dripping cold water down my front.
"You know," he says conversationally, peering at me in the mirror, and its unmistakable, that lustful, hungry look in his eyes.
I shiver with excitement and a bit of cold as I reach for the bottom of my shirt and pull t off. My bag is sitting on the bed, with dry clothes in it that smell like him, but I'm too cold right now to leave the warmth of the bathroom and I just want to shower.
"I like that tattoo." He likes a lot of things about me. How I'm bronze instead of bone white, how I'm soft instead of dainty, how I follow what he wants, how I give it to him.
I smile at my reflection and lovingly trace the fresh, inflamed area sweeping just underneath my collarbone, from one end to the other.
He doesn't say anything while I strip, my skin covered in goosebumps from the icy torrents of rain. While I wait for the shower, I comb through my damp hair and try not to look directly at my reflection.
I half-expect some horny comment about my ass but he doesn't say a word, even when I lean back on the counter facing him, giving him the view I know he loves. His dark, almond eyes are watching me, but not my body; his gaze is on my face, like he's searching for something.
It's unsettling so I turn away and step into the shower, nearly cracking my head open when I find the floor is slippery. At least the water's hot. With the minimal bar of soap, I scrub down until my skin is raw and inflamed and work the travel-sized shitty shampoo into my hair. Once that's done, I sit cross-legged on the floor and let the heat wash over me, soaking it up.
Eventually, I have to get out because the frigid spray is unbearable and wrap a flimsy towel around my hair and my body. My legs are slick and rub together with every step I take. A billow of steam follows me like a cloud when I head into the room.
I glance around, wondering where he is, only to spot his figure in front of the window. His head is bent down, his dark hair curling at the back of his neck, and I wish, not for the first time, that he'd let me run my fingers through it like I used to.
"You took a long shower," he comments as he turns, a big smirk on his face, but the hungry look in his eyes—it's gone.
I breathe deep. "I thought of you," I say because I wan to see that hungry, hot look in his eyes again.
His smirks melts into a smile. "I know you did, babe," he says and turns back to look out the window, a single finger tracing the rivulets' paths.
The t-shirt I pull out is his, several sizes too big on me, and a pair of clean, pink panties that hug my ass and look more like they belong in a boy-short Victoria Secret model advertisement. When I glance up coyly to see if he's watching, I'm not surprised to see he's not.
Scowling, I shove all my things off the bed, crawl under the itchy covers, and fall asleep the sound of him muttering to himself.
The day starts off with the sun blinding me, my t-shirt tangled around my tits, and my blankets half-way off my legs. Not a good way to start off step one of the plan. Still, I get up, brush my teeth, and then change; I don't bother with my hair or my face or even putting on deodorant. It's too cold to really sweat.
I regret not snatching his car while I was back home, but I don't bitch as I readjust my scarf around my neck and begin the long walk to the hospital. He follows me closely, talking the entire time, about her.
"You just need to smile that pretty smile and bat those eyes like I taught you and you can head straight to the elevator. I bet she'll never see you coming. I'm gonna love that look in her eyes, so scared, so panicked. Oh, it's the best when it's her. Always her."
I stomp my feet a few times and try hard not to look angry; it's hard, considering she's the reason he's like this. When he talks about her, or even fucking thinks about her, he gets this wild, sensual smile on his face and it's not mine, it's hers.
The hospital is a big, brick building and there's a few nurses outside smoking in their scrubs.
I sneer at them; it's pretty stupid considering they're doctors and they're smoking cigarettes. I stand in the entryway, shaking off as much rain as I can, and then I step inside.
He waits for me next to the nurses' station while I walk up and do my best good girl impression. I channel my inner suck up.
"Hi, I'm here to see Chloe Saunders. Dr. Fellows knows I'm coming," I say in my sweetest voice, batting my eyelashes. "I've been so worried about her; she hasn't answered any of my calls or texts and she never really does that, you know?"
The nurse looks at me, his face tight, and then he smiles, a dark, hungry smile I've seen a million times from boys I don't know, and points me down to the elevator.
My companion doesn't get angry at the man for looking at me the way he did. I smother the anger the best I can because, well, if it was her, he'd sure as shit be livid. He keeps going over minute details of the plan, like I'm stupid, and I just stand there and nod.
Her room is dark, quiet, and I can make out the lump of tiny body under the covers. The familiar red-blonde curls are the only visible part of her.
I squeeze my bottle closer, its dark contents sloshing, as I step into the room, my shoes squeaking.
She shifts, turns, and sighs heavily before falling back asleep.
"Did you miss her, Royce?" I ask, unable to help myself as I wrap my fingers around the edge of the blanket. When I look to him, his eyes are on her and I let my anger rip the blanket off her.
"Rae?" she gasps.
"Did you miss me, Chloe?"