Page 100 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
‘Will you go back to your online world?’ she asks.
The way she says it makes it sound like another universe.
‘I don’t have much choice,’ I admit. ‘It’s the life I built. I can’t pay bills without it.’
She nods. ‘Even though you don’t believe the things you say.’
The disappointment in her face guts me.
‘We can still see each other. No one would know with us living across the hall from each other.’ I hate that I even suggest it, knowing she deserves better.
‘I can’t be another one of your lies, Roman. I can’t be something you slot in to the gaps between the things you show the rest of the world. The rest of my life is shrouded in secrecy; this can’t be too. I want to be loved. Properly. Regardless of what happens at my dad’s.’
The way her jaw sets tells me it’s a firm boundary, and honestly, one I know is fair. I’ve been dealing in dirty secrets for years.
I nod. Knowing she’s right. We stand there for too long. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, and see the bob of her throat as she swallows. I can see the way her eyes have grown moist. I fear mine have too.
Stepping closer, she pulls my face to hers, laying her lips on mine with a kiss that says all the things we can’t.
A thank you and a goodbye.
‘One for the road,’ she whispers as she pulls back, fishing her keys and my phone from her bag. After fighting with the metal ring for a minute to remove my key, she hands them over with a guilty smile and unlocks her door.
She hesitates, then steps inside.
When the door snaps shut behind her, I want to pound on it. To follow her in and beg her to see what this could be.
But I know I can’t give up when she’ll just leave me in the end anyway. From her father’s pressure. Or my job. Or the realisation that I’m a waste of space.
35
MAGGIE
A few days later, I’m rotting in my bed.
Other than going to work, I’ve done nothing since getting home.
Maybe I can just live life horizontally from here on out. Dad can’t make me kill people if I don’t leave the house. Or find some other douche for me to marry. If I don’t go outside, I won’t bump into Roman and feel that ache which smarts harder than Eddie’s baseball bat.
The thin walls don’t help. Even when I’m trying really bloody hard to imagine Roman doesn’t exist, I can still hear his existence. It’s like being haunted. Every scuff and cough has me freezing, listening to see if it’s him.
If it’sonlyhim.
So far at least, it’s only been him. I’ve yet to be awoken by a woman screaming his not-real-name through my wall.
It had been hot before I’d fallen for him. Imagining myself under him as their porncast next door played out. But now? Well, fuck. If there’s something that might drive me to racking up cold bodies, that might be it.
His shower comes on just after seven. Every morning. The pipes groan, then there’s the rush of water. I close my eyes and imagine him under the flow. His dark hair dripping. Those eyes watching me. Water clinging to him like a thousand minuscule koala bears. The way the water splashes change as he moves.
I shouldn’t be doing it, but I’m still obsessing over him.
I shouldn’t be lying here, duvet pulled up to my chin and clutching the key I made to his apartment. He never asked for it back. So I’ve kept it under my pillow. If I knew any witchcraft, maybe I’d use it for some kind of love spell that makes him recant all his stupid beliefs to come worship the cult of my pussy.
It’s idiotic,I know.
I spend hours replaying the feel of his hands and the warmth of his body on top of mine. The way he’d looked at me that last night. I realise now that it was just his adrenaline spiking and his head seeking out comfort. But at the time, he’d burned with desire. Those eyes filled with dark and delicious intent.
No one else has ever looked at me like that.
