In bed, I lie back on my chest, and Amy rests her cheek against my torso, most likely feels the reverberation of my happiness echo through her own body like a ripple across a pond. And it’s like Amy’s heart beats back a harmony of her own happiness.
There’s no beauty inside me. I love her because she loves the ugly in me, and for nothing else.
She shined her light into my darkness, and destroyed everything in my starless world. I’ve been convincing myself I’m not for her.
I’m the poison in her heart. She’s the cure to my dead soul.
I keep burning around her like I’m a planet too close to the sun. Without her, I’m cold as ice. And I realise now. The truth. I’m done fighting this stranger-thing feeling.
Done.
I want Amy more than I want to fucking breathe. Her bones are made from emeralds, she is that precious. The thought of another man touching that soft, magical, sunshine brain hair makes me want to destroy the world for her.
I need Amy Earhart to be MINE.
Love? It’s not a good enough word. The burning thing in me feels a lot more powerful than any romantic little word like that.
My father’s identity has tormented my head, drowned me in doubts whether my love for Amy is true or tainted. Deep in my gut, I know she isn’t wrong. We don’t share the same damn father. This love isn’t infected. It’s the purest fucking thing in my world.
And that’s the single truth in my whole fake goddamn life.
49
ME
Amy’s face is like ice, staring off to one side of the phone screen. I know it's my fault she looks like that. Hell, I don’t expect her to forgive me for lying.
Broken promises.
Hurtful lies.
Can't undo that. A sick side of me doesn’t want to.
In the past, I figured staying away was a good way to protect her, from hurt, from me. That didn't work out, so now I've got her right in my hand where I can protect her. From everybody else, but not from me. Haven't figured out how to do that yet.
‘We can have dinner together,’ I say.
‘Dinner?’ she says and looks at me with this curious little hope in her eyes. Screw air, food, water. I could just about live on that look.
‘Well, I'm gonna have you for dinner, but I’m gonna cook up something for you to eat, too.’
That's not a joke. When she comes round, I eat my dinner out of her from a handful of bites. She lies back on the bed, all willing and totally indifferent.
‘No, we're not playing that game tonight,’ I say darkly.
Sex isn’t enough. Never was.
‘We'll play whatever game you want,’ she says, but too slowly. She's not paying attention to me. Gone off to the land of fluffy bunnies or wherever she goes to get away from me.
Something’s bothering her. Has been for days.
My true identity has been kept a secret my whole life, because of lies.
All secrets are pain. All secrets become dark.
I’m done with the lies.
And I’m done with her locking me out.
‘You say that, but we play your game as often as we play mine. How's that work? Big monster playing the little girl's game. Who's in charge here?’
‘What is my game?’ she says.
Like she doesn't know. Like she doesn't use that coldness against me.
I grab her wrists, pin them above her head with one hand, and trap her under my weight. I love the feeling of her breathing under me, moving restlessly, finding possible escape routes. She doesn't do that tonight. She lies perfectly still, except when I lean down to kiss her mouth. But when I’m done, she looks away.
Anywhere but me.
‘That game, that game, where you pretend you don’t care. That's your game and we ain't playing it tonight. Look at me,’ I rasp.
I grab her, turn her face back to mine, but her eyes are closed. She doesn't even bother to squeeze them tight. She just doesn't open them.
How the hell did Amy get this kinda control over me?
‘Fucking look at me,’ I say and I know I sound crazy-mad. Nothing like her cold, usable anger, but hot and — and this is the point where I usually do or say something that she's afraid of. Where I hurt her. Kind of on accident, but mostly in a rage. Worthless rage, because she has the power to give me what I want — some thing — but I can't make her give it to me.
Most people fear me. I went toe-to-toe with death and made it my bitch, and little Amy has that power over me? After what I've done to her, how can she be indifferent?
She’s definitely not lifeless when I make her come. Her taste is still sweet and fresh in my mouth and I get a sudden high from the memory of eating out her pussy.
‘If I didn't like your little fur so much, I'd give you a shave,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I love it when you look at me that way.’
To cheat me, she closes her eyes again.
‘I told you to look at me,’ I say. Petulant like a little boy.
I return my hand to between her thighs. I stroke her, and I wonder what she thinks of as her face melts into cloud nine, as she watches me slick her with my saliva before I work my fingers into her.
She feels warm and pleasurable. I go on caressing her, and after a moment, I lean forward to kiss her between her tits.
‘Why, baby? Why? You always make me take. You never want to give,’ I say against her breast, but my fingers don’t
