Chapter 19
DOVE
Dear Boo,
I’m a horrible person. Call me a bitch and a cunt. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes, I REALLY am.
I'm not saying that to gain sympathy, or paint myself as the victim. TRUST me, I’m not the victim here.
He is.
So is she.
I did it again. And I hate myself for it.
Bane and I were supposed to meet after school in the student parking lot next to the field house.
But instead, I waited by the locker room entrance for the football team to come out after practice.
Scott always gets this kind of part-creep, part-hungry look on his face when he sees me.
I know it’s because I look like the bad girl version of Dove that would fuck him with the lights on, or actually swallow.
I didn’t outright flirt with him. That’s not why I do this. I just smiled and acted dumb and talked to him about football (barf). Then I asked him to walk me to the parking lot, and he did, probably because he thought he might get lucky.
Eww. Gross. Never. But that’s not why I do this.
I’m not ACTUALLY trying to steal Scott from Dove.
Just... She acts like such an uptight asshole sometimes.
Like she’s so much better. So part of me doing this was a fuck-you to her.
Like, maybe her knuckle-dragging boyfriend might think of me next time he’s fucking her from behind.
It’s so petty. God, I hate this.
But also it was to fuck with Bane. And that's the part I don’t understand. He’s never done anything. He’s always literally PERFECT. Not “perfect” as in clingy and annoying. Just actually, for real perfect. Too perfect. Maybe that’s why I fuck with him like this.
I had Scott walk me to the edge of the parking lot, and then I was suddenly like “oh hey there’s my boyfriend” which probably deflated his boner. But then I gave him a big hug.
I knew Bane saw it happen. And I knew when I walked up to him that he was pissed, because he asked me wtf it was about.
I said I was just being friendly and to stop being so possessive.
He didn’t push it, and that just pissed me off even MORE.
Like maybe I wanted him to blow up. To show me that he’s not perfect… because I sure as fuck am not.
Boo, what the fuck is wrong with me? I mean seriously. I don’t know why the fuck I do this.
I hate myself so much right now.
It’s not the first entry like that I’ve read in the last few days. I’ve gone back to the beginning of Lark’s diary to read it chronologically, and there’s a lot of them.
The first time I read about her doing something awful behind my back, or Bane’s, I felt sick. Like someone was pulling a really shitty prank on me.
The girl I knew, who was my best friend in the world, had problems and issues. But they were nothing like what she’s written about here and there in the diary.
But the more I read, the more I realize that I didn’t know the girl I called my best friend nearly as well as I thought I did.
There was real darkness in her. And pain, and self-doubt, and confusion.
I vaguely remember through the haze of memory loss that I was always so envious of her and Bane because they always seemed so goddamn perfect for each other.
And the fact that I truly can’t remember a single thing about dating Scott probably says it all.
But now here I am, with Bane.
Engaged to him.
Living with him.
Fucking him.
It’s happened four more times in the last week since the night on the roof. That next day—fuck. I was sore in the way water is wet and the sun is hot.
It felt like my pussy had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime. I spent Sunday morning curled in a ball in my bed. Then I found a bag of lavender Epsom salts sitting outside my door and spent the second half of the day in the tub, soaking my wrecked body.
Still…
So fucking worth it, even though I could barely get through rehearsal on Monday because my pussy was still screaming at me for fucking a horse all Saturday night.
Or a stag, I guess.
And worth it even if every time I think of her, or even glance at her diary, I feel like an utter piece of shit.
Maybe the entries about Lark being a psycho manipulative cunt behind Bane’s back—and mine—are a blessing in disguise. Maybe they’ll inject just enough bitterness into my memory of her that I can stomach sleeping with Bane.
Because I have, four more times since that night. And even though every time it happens I sit in my room later, biting back tears of shame and self-loathing as I read her words from seven years ago…
I keep doing it.
Like I've said before: you’re always an addict. You just strive to be one that doesn’t use.
My problem is, I’ve found a new addiction.
And he lives down the hall.
I exhale, closing Lark’s diary and wincing as I hobble to the bathroom. I wasn’t with Bane tonight. He’s been gone since this morning, presumably for some work thing. But last night…Jesus.
Last night he fucked me on an open ledge—the literal ledge—of his glassed-in roof, with my head hanging over the side and gravity wrapping its long fingers around my heart. He fucked me like an animal, both of us slapping and clawing at each other until we were both bloodied beyond measure.
This…can’t be healthy.
But then addictions rarely are.
In the bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet and take my nightly buffet of lithium, risperidone, Zoloft, Lexapro and buspirone and then chase it all down with a lorazepam plus a melatonin for dessert, hold the whipped cream.
I drop my eyes to the lineup of pill bottles on the counter.
Little plastic soldiers to remind me exactly how fucked in the head I am.
…As if my nighttime activities of the last week or so aren't proof enough.
I frown, remembering as I stare at the bottles that Dad texted me recently, reminding me to make time next week to meet with Dr. Caruso. He didn’t say why, but it’s been about six months since my last appointment regarding my psych meds, so it’s probably time for a dosage review.
Gotta keep the crazy in check, right?
I limp back to bed and gingerly slide under the covers before I turn off the light. Even with the lorazepam and melatonin slowly entering my bloodstream, sleep doesn’t come.
This…can’t be healthy.
But then addictions rarely are.
I stare at the ceiling, thinking about, well…
Bane.
I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Like, a lot.
It started as cautious wariness. A week ago, the thoughts turned vicious and wild and all-consuming, which is why I call him my new drug—a toxic high that I simply can’t get enough of.
But in the last few days…I don’t know.
It’s started to run even deeper. And that scares me more than any nighttime chase, or freakishly giant cock, or psycho stag mask.
A lot of it is that being near him has always made me think of Lark, for obvious reasons.
And since I’ve started sleeping with him, that’s only gotten more intense.
But it’s not only a guilty feeling, like I’m a piece of shit for stealing him or whatever.
The more time I spend with him, the more I find myself thinking about that chapter of my life, trying to piece together the missing bits of my past.
It’s not like Bane has a magic dick that fixes the holes in my memory.
But you know how the scent of a certain candle will make you immediately think of a specific Christmas spent at a cousin’s house?
Or how the taste of a candy brings you back to an exact day on the playground in the second grade? Yeah.
Bane ignites a little spark of memory inside me. Not enough to rediscover things I’ve forgotten, but enough that it brings me back to that time.
And I like that, a lot.
Maybe more than I should.
I think I'm starting to like him more than I should.
Even if he still unnerves me at times, and looks at me now and then like he’s so fucking mad at me for taking Lark away from him.
I’ve been tempted to show him the diary, especially the parts about her being a psycho manipulative asshole behind his back, like that might lessen the anger he feels toward me for getting her killed.
But I’d never do that. Even if I wasn’t on a hundred different psych drugs.
That’s just not me.
Then again, he’s just not me, either.
So… Who even knows what I’m capable of.
“Here is fine, thanks.”
The guy driving me back from rehearsal in the black Escalade frowns, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
Ivan? I think that’s his name.
“Miss Marchetti,” he growls in his heavy Russian accent. “We are not yet at Mr. Antonov’s building—”
“I know,” I smile. “I just…” I exhale. “I could use some air, you know?”
“I will roll down windows.”
I laugh. “No, Ivan, I… Can I get out here and walk?”
He frowns again. “Sorry, Miss. Mr. Antonov's orders.”
I pout. “Please, Ivan? I swear I won’t tell. We’re only two blocks from the building.” I roll my eyes, gesturing through the windshield. “Also, it’s the Upper West Side. What could possibly happen?”
I can see the gears turning in his head.
“You know that girl you saw me talking to after rehearsal the other day?”
He blushes.
He knows who I mean. Elodie is in New York from Paris guesting with the Zakharova for the season. She mostly keeps to herself, but we chat now and then.
I’ve caught Ivan staring at her like a lovestruck puppy about dozen times.
“Her name is Elodie,” I say in a sing-song voice. “She’s French.” I grin at him. “And single…”
Ivan swallows, his eyes darting to mine in the rearview mirror.
“Let me out here, I won’t breathe a word, and I’ll ask her if I can give you her number. Deal?”
His mouth twists. Then he grins.
“Da, deal.”
He pulls up to the curb and unlocks the door.
“You're the best, Ivan. Okay if I leave my dance bag in the car?”
“Of course, Miss.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “You’re awesome.”
I watch the Escalade pull away, wincing a little bit. I totally just bullshitted that. Elodie keeps to herself, but I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s chatting with her boyfriend back in Paris.
There’s zero percent chance she'll want me to give her number to Ivan.
I’m an asshole.
I could stay on this street and be at Bane’s place in two minutes. But it’s busy, and noisy, and I really do need to clear my head.
I head down a side street to the next block over, a little removed from the flow of traffic. It’s quieter here, and there’s a back door to Bane’s building on this street, so it'll work.
I find myself wondering if he’ll be home when I get there. Not because I’m hoping to play one of our games—okay, I’m not opposed to the idea…
It’s more that… I don’t know…
My face heats.
Because you just want him to be there.
I’ve realized in the last week that I don’t mind living with him.
I like it. A lot.
It’s not like we have tons of long, philosophical discussions about the universe.
But it’s nice to have someone there when you get home who asks how dance was today.
Who grins and inquires if you’re still sore after the brutal fucking-to-within-an-inch-of-your-life they gave you barely twenty-four hours previously.
Who asks if you’re hungry, because they’re about to cook or order delivery.
It’s just…nice.
I grin, my steps quickening. Suddenly, I sense someone behind me.
Eyes watching me.
I whip my head around, glancing into the darkness behind me. There’s nothing there, but I still put my hand into the pocket of my jacket and lace my fingers through the keys to the carriage house that I still carry around.
I start walking a little faster.
The footsteps behind me do the same.
I whirl fully, brandishing the keys in my fingers, my face stony.
“Hey!” I bark, the hair on the back of my neck bristling.
No reply. No sound. No movement.
I swallow nervously. “Bane?” I murmur. “I… This isn’t fun, if that’s you.”
The seconds tick by. Another shiver ripples up my spine.
I turn back and start to power walk toward the back door to Bane’s building. It’s only a block away. And this is the Upper West Side. What could possibly—
The footsteps get louder, closer behind me. This time, I don’t turn around.
…I just fucking run.
I pelt down the block, my legs pumping, my breath ragged and my nerves jangling. The rough thud of heavy boots on the pavement grows louder and closer. I swear I can hear the grunting, snarled rasp of a man’s heavy breathing.
I choke out a cry, hurling myself the last hundred feet down the block, sure that any second someone is going to grab my hair or tackle me to the ground.
I hit the glass back door to the building with a thud, pounding on it and screaming until two Antonov guards inside rush to it and shove it open.
“Right behind me!!” I scream as I tumble into the lobby and dart behind them.
The men pull out their sidearms and duck out, looking up and down the street. They glance at each other, then at me through the glass, still panting, my hair wild.
“Ms. Marchetti?” one of them says gently as they step back inside and holster their guns. “Did you actually see someone behind you?”
“N-no,” I mumble. “But he was right there. I could hear him chasing me.”
The man nods. “Okay, I believe you.”
He doesn’t believe me. It’s written all over his face, especially when he steps closer and discreetly sniffs, trying to smell the alcohol on me.
“I don’t drink,” I say tightly through clenched teeth.
He winces. “I—of course not, Ms. Marchetti.” He smiles. “I’ll escort you upstairs personally, and we’ll have five men search the surrounding blocks right now.”
I nod, exhaling as I chew on my lip. “Yeah… Please do. He was there.”
I know he was.
I felt it.
…I’m not crazy.