Page 17 of Two Wrongs
Tears of shame and rage burn in my throat; my molars gripped so tight I feel a shooting pain. I did this to him—I’ve caused this hurt. But the fact is—we’re a matching pair—he made me feel the same.
‘I have all this... stuff inside me—this fury,’ he whispers, the words of a one-sided conversation I’m not meant to hear. ‘I’m famous for smashing cameras and trashing bars and hotel rooms as much as for my work these days. That’s all your doing. You fucking ruined me for better things. Better fucking things; what does that even mean? What was better than you and me?’
The glass hits the dresser followed by a muffled bang of his knees against the floor, the mattress dipping a little as he rests his elbows there. He’s so close; his soft breath suddenly feathers my skin.
‘My God, how I hate you.’ I can feel his fingers hovering, almost touching my hair. I want, though I shouldn’t, to feel him more solidly. I crave the contact, though I tell myself it’s a physical thing. That I miss his touch, but I don’t miss him.More lies I tell myself.
‘Iwantto hate you. Why can’t I?’
I try so hard not to tremble, the invisible weight of his hand now ghosting my arm. Inexplicably, I want to reach out and soothe his suffering, but I’m not that girl anymore.
‘But maybe I should thank you,’ he says suddenly.Fiercely. He inches closer, his lips just a kiss away. ‘But I think I’d rather choke you first.’ I almost flinch, expecting the weight of his hand even as, at the same moment, my treacherous thighs clench. We’ve toyed with this kind of stuff before but never in this vein.Never with real hate.And the sickest part yet? I yearn for this right now. I crave him, my nipples pebbling against a weight that doesn’t come as he speaks again.
‘This person I’ve become—this fame—the brooding and fucking. The destruction. That’s all you, baby. I suppose it’s the real me now. I fucking hate—’ His words halt mid-rambling tirade, his fingers grasping the chain I wear around my neck. ‘What the fuck is this bullshit?’ he whispers, fingering my wedding band that hangs from there.
Stupid, stupid Ivy.I can’t believe I’m wearing it. I should’ve left it at home, but the truth is I can’t bring myself to take it off. It’s always there, slipped under my shirt, the comforting weight of it against my chest.
I lie stock-still and barely breathing, feigning sleep, and for what? But I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now because this time, I’d surely break apart.
Dylan doesn’t move; in fact, it hardly seems like he’s breathing himself, but then the metal chinks quite suddenly, the weight of its pendant against my skin once again.
As he stands then stumbles away, I’m not sure if the choking sobs are his or mine.
Chapter Nine
Dylan
Ihavethe hangover from hell, and I feel like I might puke, but I’m up unreasonably early. Am I hoping to see her practising yoga by the pool? A sick puppy ready to hump her downward dog? The way I feel after finding she stilltechnicallywears her ring; I’m more likely to push her into the damn thing and put my boot on her head.
I was so fucking sure I could do this. Watching her face as I’d told her I knew—knew that she’d lied, I’d had to leave. Put some distance between us. It was leave or put my hands around her neck. Leave or choke an explanation from her. An explanation she wasn’t prepared to give.
I was so fucking sure I could do this.
Icando this. She has to pay.
I thought about bringing someone home to screw loudly in our bed. Something to make her stay a little less comfortable. I thought about it; chickened out at the last minute. I didn’t even accept Blondie’s offer of bathroom head.There’s always the risk that it’ll end up on the internet anyway.
Stumbling into the glare of cameras outside the bar, I came home. Home; what a joke. I didn’t go looking for her—hadn’t expected her to be in that room. I’d just needed to fall into a tequila coma somewhere. I’d faltered down the hallway, bumping off the walls and into one of the bedrooms. An indiscriminate choice; I didn’t care where, so long as it wasn’t in the master suite. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I might’ve considered she’d be avoiding that room, too.
Jesus, what a mess. I was so sure having her here would make it easier for her to break. Just my fucking luck I stumbled into the wrong room, but one step over the threshold, and it was like I was compelled. I’m beginning to think she wears some Celtic voodoo perfume or something.Orange blossom and something indefinable.
There she lay while the dog’s growling at me like I’m not the one paying someone to live in my house and look after him. I stood mesmerised, watching her chest rise and fall, her lips gently parted, and all that dark hair fanned out on the pillow, tempting me to touch.
Just like old times. Especially as I fell to my fucking knees.
I almost touched her. Almost pushed my face into her—drowned myself in her.
Almost.
No harm, no foul, though, right? And miraculously, I’m up, showered, and sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee and feeling vaguely human when she walks in.
‘Morning, dear,’ I say then catch her glare. Her reaction warms my mean ol’ heart. Fuck apathetic this time because apathetic needs to hurt. ‘Sleep well?’ I’m pretty sure she slept through my ramblings, though I still grip the top of my cup as I wait for a response.
‘Fair to middling.’
I grit my teeth, the familiarity of her funny speech patterns and quirks haunting me in the daylight now. Like how she stumbles over her words and gets things ass backwards regularly.
‘Coffee?’ She never touches the stuff, but I feign to forget. Just like she feigns not to hear me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask as she reaches into the pantry, her back facing me.
