I pop inside, like a balloon meeting a pin. A shrivelled-up sensation of hope being lost.
‘Amy, I’m sorry your sister is damaged but it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was, it is. All of it. Everything bad that’s happened — it’s because of me.’
‘The hell it is. Don’t ever think you done bad. Christ, Amy, life is messy. It’s messy. And it’s painful and it’s fucked up. It doesn’t make any sense, okay. Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, you have to remember you weren’t the one to put her in a coma. She wouldn’t blame you.’
‘How do you know? How do you know what it’s like to blame yourself? To be torn apart this way —’
‘Of course I fucking do —’
‘Or done something so wrong!’ I shout.
‘I do!’ he roars. ‘I pulled a gun on an old lady. I scared her, Amy.’
‘Wh-what? You . . . you had a gun?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that . . . When I was fifteen I got in too deep. I’d lost all perspective on reality. The only thing I cared about was becoming the toughest and most respected kid in town. I was in a full-blown fuck-the-world mentality. I was in a hate state-of-mind. With the gun in my hand, I didn’t need money. I could walk into anywhere and take what I wanted. If the world hated me, then I hated the world back.’
‘Where did you get a gun from?’
‘The gun wasn’t real. It was a lighter shaped like a handgun. It was just a replica. When you pulled the trigger, instead of a bullet, a flame came out of the end of the barrel. But it looked so real. If you didn’t know it was a lighter, you wouldn’t take your chances with anyone who waved it in your face.’
He looks away, ashamed.
‘The old lady didn’t know that. I scared her, for what? A few quid? Thing is, I bottled it. Didn’t take the money in the end. I ran out of the corner shop but some kid from school spotted me. I was a lowlife. I deserved to be locked up. But being locked up, it does things to you. There’s no light inside. And the dark? It just got darker and darker.
‘So I’m telling you right now, Amy. Don’t waste away until you die. Don’t let the monsters kill you. The fault wasn’t yours. You are not broken — not ever. ‘Cos the bad, the broken and the ugly — those labels are for men like me. You don’t come anywhere close.’
He trails butterfly kisses up my neck, sending hot shivers through my body. ‘Amy. Don’t ever hate yourself — and quit fighting us.’
When he slides farther down me and presses his face against my breasts, he rubs his cheek and his chin and his nose and then his lips against one nipple, and then the other. He does it so slowly and tenderly that I arch my whole body.
He’s in a trance of pleasure, his mouth a little open, his eyes half-closed, hazy silver, as he makes lazy, erratic circles against my breasts. The stubble on his face prickles my skin, contrasting against the softness of his full lips. He breathes slowly, heavily, with one of his hands tangled in my hair and the other stroking along the side of my breast.
His hand tightens in my hair and he whispers against my skin, ‘Baby, you can hate me right now but I can smell you getting wet again.’
The hand that had been stroking my breast feathers between my thighs. He pushes his fingers into my wetness. It makes me moan out loud. It feels better than when I try to do it to myself.
I hate both of us — for what he's done, the nasty, hurtful lies. And for what I let him do, despite his sadistic, manipulative ways.
Years ago, he broke my heart. And now I’m picking up the pieces and putting them right back into the palm of his hands, just so he can do it all over again.
I grasp his shoulders, shove at him. Try to push him away and when that doesn’t work, try to push him lower.
He looks up with a smirk and says, ‘You pretend you don't like it, but you want me to eat your pussy, don't you?’
‘Yes . . . ’
I push at him again, until he goes down on his knees and pulls me to the edge of the bed. There, he rubs his face against my belly, my thighs, my pubic hair. For the first time, I’m not afraid to come.
I want the desire in him that is animal, not polluted by what kind of man he is.
The Liar.
The Monster.
The Hulk.
I open my legs wider, put my hand to the back of his head, tug him to me, and tighten my thighs on him.
He goes at me in earnest, as though he means to devour me. I push toward him, pull at him, trying to get him closer when he is already as close as he can get. When I rub my hand against the grain of stubble on the back of his head, he growls but doesn’t stop.
Without realising it, I dig my fingernails into him. ‘Slow down,’ I gasp.
He obeys. Faster or slower, harder or softer. I dig my heels into his back, and lift my hips off the bed to get at what I want. I don’t say his nickname. He doesn’t deserve it. My orgasm is wordless. A euphoria of ecstasy exploding in every cell of my body.
I lie gasping and undone. He rises up triumphant, wearing a feral smile, and pulls off his T-shirt. Wadding it up, he wipes his dripping face with it. He takes off his boots and trousers, returns my gaze with an unhinged
