CHAPTER 3 #2
“I’m hurt, Mary,” he says, leaning forward so that his lips brush against my hair. I feel his breath against my ear, and my entire body shivers. Something hot pulses between my legs.
I feel almost dizzy, intoxicated by his presence. I take a step back, and he responds by stepping forward.
He's so close that I can feel the heat coming off his body.
Then, as if my body is operating on autopilot, I take a tiny step forward and feel his chest press up against mine.
Before I know what's happening, he wraps his large hands around my waist and I sink into them.
I feel tiny, like a small doll he could snap.
It feels dangerous and somehow inevitable.
Like, the universe was conspiring to bring us both here. Right here, right now. Like, there's no other way this could have gone.
“Stop calling me that,” I whisper. I don't know if I even care about him calling me Mary anymore, but I'm trying to stay grounded. I'm trying to do anything I can to avoid getting swept away in his haze.
His grip around my waist tightens, and I suck in my breath. I feel off balance, like I've just stepped off of a roller coaster, and my legs have turned to jelly.
“I’ll stop,” he says, “as soon as you make it up to me. How are you going to do that, angel?” he asks, leaning forward again so that his lips brush against my ear. His voice is full and raw, and familiar. So familiar. I rack my brain again, but I still can't find him.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I shiver as he holds his hand there for half a second. Then, quickly, so quickly I almost don't notice it, his lips tug on my earlobe and suck. If my legs felt like jelly before, they're a puddle now. It’s like I've had the wind knocked out of me.
Why do I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe?
And then it hits me.
Angel.
I've heard that before.
From the same lips that were just wrapped around my ear.
And the intoxicating powder blue eyes that stared me down during the outreach last week.
Right after a knife-wielding maniac almost took my life.
It’s him.
The stranger.
The stranger that saved me.
I stare at him for a good few seconds, wondering how I missed it for so long. As I drink him in, it all clicks into place.
He looks totally different. Last week when I met him, I thought he was homeless. The man standing in front of me certainly does not look homeless, though.
He looks well put together. Clean-cut. If I hadn't been talking to him for the past few minutes, I would have assumed he was a good Christian boy. I know better, though.
I take in the man’s crisp white tee and denim jeans, then his clean-shaven face and combed hair. This man was hot before, but in more of a hot-psycho-who-just-escaped-from-prison-or-the-psych-ward kind of way. But now? He’s just hot in an I-want-him-to-rip-my-clothes-off-right-now kind of way.
Which confuses me. The second the thought flashes through my mind, embarrassment rushes over me. Why did I just think that? Have I forgotten how rude this man is? There's almost a 0% chance he's a Christian. But even if he somehow were, I’m not supposed to be having these kinds of thoughts anyway.
I feel ashamed.
Maybe the stress is getting to me.
My knees buckle.
I’m torn.
Part of me wants to hate him.
I mean, he did just bump into me, blame me for it, then call me Mary, i.e., in reference to the Virgin Mary, to insult me.
But part of me also feels indebted to him.
He did save me, I think to myself.
I look at him.
But that doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole.
“You know that’s super offensive, right? Calling me$1“Virgin Mary” to insult me? You know I'm Christian, don't you?” I ask.
I grab the small gold cross hanging from my necklace and raise it slightly to show him I'm not letting him off the hook for this one. I suspect he knew I was Christian when he ran into me last week. But even if he somehow didn’t, I'm wearing a cross necklace now.
Plus, why else would he call me Virgin Mary? He must have known that it would cut. I mean, would he call an atheist Mary? I doubt it.
I flash back to our conversation from last week: “Catholic or Protestant?” I remember him asking.
Yep, this asshole definitely knows, I think to myself. Which means he's been calling me “Mary” on purpose, mocking my religion.
I feel angrier than I have all night. I suddenly wish my glass was full, so I could throw my drink on him all over again.
But you've been questioning things, a voice in my head says. I try to shake the voice off.
It's true. I've been having doubts for months, maybe even years now. But still, he doesn't know that. Which makes him an asshole.
And besides, you’re not a virgin anyway. And you told him that, I think, remembering the comment I made a few minutes ago: “And not that it’s any of your business, but I have done that.”
My own words replay in my head, and I cringe, hot shame bubbling in my core. I shouldn't have said that, I think to myself. It felt freeing at the time, but that was when I didn't think I knew him. Back when I thought he didn't know I was a Christian. When sharing that information felt safe.
I look down at my cross necklace, the one I still have clutched between my fingers, and I drop it. It suddenly feels hot to the touch.
I regret ever mentioning I was Christian to him. But he already knew, I remind myself.
All of a sudden I want to hide under a rock. I brace myself, waiting for the insult, waiting for him to call me a slut or a whore or a jezebel. But he doesn't.$1“Well?” I ask.
“Well, what?” he asks, seeming confused.
“Go ahead and say it.”
“Say what?” he asks.
I study his face. Is he fucking with me? I wonder. Is he just trying to humiliate me by making me spell it out for him?
I stare at him for a few more seconds, but the confusion remains etched into his face. He genuinely doesn't get it, I think to myself.
“That I'm a slut,” I say bluntly.
“Why the fuck would I say that?” he asks, his eyebrows crunching in confusion. I sigh quietly.$1“Don't make me say it,” I whisper.
His hand reaches under my chin and tilts it up. I stare at his baby blue eyes and notice his entire face has softened.
He's been basically going back and forth between a smirk and a gloating look for the entire evening. This is the first time I've seen an ounce of compassion or kindness on his face. He looks concerned now, though, like he's caring for a wounded animal.
And that wounded animal is me.
The thought registers in my mind automatically. It sparks something in me. A flip in emotions. A 180. I go from shame and sadness to defiance in half a breath. I don't want his pity. Anton may have taken my virginity, but he didn’t take my pride. No one can take that from me.
I step back from him, creating half a foot of distance. “You know,” I say, crossing my arms,$1“I'm not going to say it just to give you the satisfaction.”
“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, stepping towards me.
I step back again and bump up into a table. I start to lose my balance. I feel my body tilting. Panic and adrenaline shoot through my veins.
I close my eyes, bracing for impact. Instead of a hard impact, though, warm arms wrap around me. I look up, and I'm staring into his eyes.
“How did you—” I start.
“Shh,” he says, putting a finger over my lips.
He stares at me and I can tell he's wrestling with something.$1“You're drunk,” he says after a few seconds.$1“I'm gonna take you home.”
“What?” I burst out.$1“No, I'm not.”
Truth be told, I'm tipsy, but I'm not drunk. I didn't slip because I'm wasted, I slipped because I'm emotional and have bad balance.
I hate the way he's looking at me now, though. Again, I can see the pity in his eyes.
And I’ll take anything over that. Anger, ridicule, hatred. Anything besides pity. I need to shift the mood here, and I need to shift it fast.
I breathe in, waiting for a few seconds to see if he'll bring up our earlier conversation, if he'll question me about the Virgin Mary conversation. He doesn't, though. It seems like he's totally forgotten that.
Now he just seems concerned. Concerned about my well-being, I guess. And I can't have that.
I rack my brain trying to think of the most offensive thing I can say right now to shift his look from pity to annoyance, or even anger.
An idea pops into my mind.
“You want to know why it took me so long to recognize you?” I ask.$1“Why?”
His blue eyes are wide open, full of curiosity. I almost feel bad for what I'm about to say. But then I remember the pity in his face, and I harden.
“Because I thought you were homeless,” I say.
He chuckles. “That's funny. You're a funny girl.”
What the fuck? That was not the reaction I was expecting. At the very least, I was expecting him to ask why, why I thought he was homeless, or to look even slightly insulted.
But as I scan his face, I don't see anything resembling even an ounce of offense. He just looks amused.
Which makes me annoyed.
“You're not offended?” I ask, staring at him.
He smirks.$1“No. Why? Were you trying to offend me?”
I purse my lips together. I don't know how to answer that question. The fact that I don't respond immediately gives it away.$1“Ah,” he says as he rights me. I'm on my feet now, but he hasn't let go. His arms are wrapped around my lower back, pulling me towards him.
“I'm good,” I say, grabbing his hands and peeling them off me.
He releases me immediately and holds his hands up.
“Okay, seriously,” I say, looking him in the eyes, “I needed you to let go.”
His smile disappears. “Then I let go. If you want me to touch you again, you tell me.”
I should step away. Instead, after a beat, I take his wrist and place his hand back on my waist. “I’m telling you.”
He stares at me so hard that I feel like his gaze is a laser and I’m about to burn to a crisp. His look says,$1“Your turn.”