16. Augustus
SIXTEEN
AUGUSTUS
April 12th, 2024
The smell of popcorn and stale human sweat assaults my nostrils, floating toward me on the humid Texas breeze, and I helplessly watch Nathan follow along behind Stetson, into the small, one-room theater. His nose is buried in his cell phone, and he barely lifts his head long enough to pay for the movie. If he hadn’t, I don’t think I’d have been able to stop myself from stomping over there and smashing his face in.
It’s so fucking predictable that he would bring her somewhere where he doesn’t have to talk or acknowledge her existence. Why does he bother? I don’t think he or Stetson are interested in the other, so why do they keep putting on the lamest rendition of the world’s most horrible dates?
I slam my palm against the wheel, my irritation reaching a boiling point. Everything about Nathan is wrong for her—the most obvious point being he isn’t me. And no one will be with Stetson that isn’t me. We’ve done that song and dance, and I am fucking over it.
It’s impossible to be around Stetson and not want her, touch her, take her. And it’s even more impossible to want her, touch her, take her and not expose every single thought or feeling I have for her.
But she’s made it clear she’s not ready. She keeps me at arm length, deflecting each of my charming advances—she even disobeys the “stalker” version of me, and that is quickly becoming an issue. Have I made it worse by creating two versions of myself? Definitely—it’s made things far more complicated. But I can’t stand not being in her life anymore. I need to be everything to her, even if my tactics are… unsavory.
Climbing out of the truck, I slide on a pair of shades and pull my ball cap tight over my curls. No one in this town spares me a kind glance—not that I care—but I know they watch every move I make. I have no doubt word would get back to Stetson that I was here, looking shady. Not for her benefit, though, but to add questions to her character.
Parking at the Mexican joint across the street may be my only smart move tonight, the only thing that may plant a single seed of doubt in her mind if she sees me. I’m not here, following her—that would be too stalkerish.
She’s far too smart to see something like that and ignore it, so I have to be careful where I can.
I know I’m getting sloppy—desperation will do that to a man. But I’ve worked too long, too hard, to lose her now. I won’t.
I walk across the street, my face tipped downward, and hold my breath. I’ve gotten good at following her, being her shadow. But something about this, about being here, about her knowing my face, makes things harder, more intense.
And I’d be a fucking liar if I said that doesn’t make me a little hard.
“How many?” The girly voice snaps me out of my haze, and I look at the teenager behind the ticket counter. She looks around nervously, chewing on the raw skin around her thumb.
“Just me.” It comes out as a growl, and the girl flinches. I should try harder to not come across so rude. But you try being celibate for ten years—minus one night—and tell me you wouldn’t be a growly bastard; that, and I was raised by the biggest jerkoff known to man.
I’m not soft or kind, because I have experienced very little softness or kindness in my thirty-five years of life. Anything good I’ve ever known has been destroyed. So, I’ve learned to steal, stalk, and hold hostage the things in life that I want—it’s the only way to truly keep them.
Her hand shakes as she extends the small ticket under the glass toward me. I sigh, trying to plaster on a small smile for her. But I think it comes off more creepy than anything and the girl pulls her hand back, dropping the ticket on the counter. I grip the bill of my hat and squeeze, blowing out a breath as I stomp away.
Looking around the small theater, I note each of my possible exits and hiding places, not that I plan to be out here when they exit. I also note the sticky carpets and huddled herds of the small-town gossips. This doesn’t look like Stetson’s thing—I’ve known her long enough to know that much.
And stupid fucking Nathan hasn’t.
I hate that I’m here tonight, but no way am I leaving her alone with him again. No fucking chance.
The movie is already blasting as I step through the double red doors. The small space is packed with people, and I fucking hate people. Straining, I look around the room to find my little filly. Quickly, I spot her and the captain of the pussy-pants party near the front, his arm already draped over the back of her seat.
Do not go up there and break his arm off. That would be messy to clean up. And harder to explain.
Growling, I look near the back of the room and spot an open seat along the aisle next to an elderly woman. I slump into the seat, my body deflating. Rubbing my hands over my face, and mashing my teeth together, I brace to sit through some unbearable romcom I have no desire to know anything about.
“Does she know you love her?” The frail voice next to me floats up in a whisper. I whip my eyes to her wrinkled face and note a small smile painted on her lips. I stare, unable to form intelligible words. Is she even talking to me? She laughs softly, patting my arm, and I stiffen at the contact.
“Us girls, we like to do things that make our male friends jealous. Especially if we like them.” She winks at me, as if she knows a secret I don’t.
Fuck, maybe she does. Old goats like her are typically full of hot air and wisdom—even if it does smell like mothballs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turn toward the screen, trying to ignore the nosy old bat.
“Look—” She points to where Stetson sits, and I mentally berate myself for being so obvious before. “Look at how she’s leaned away from him, stiff as a board.” She chuckles, the sound hoarse. “Don’t wait too long. Life is short, I know from experience. If you love her, tell her.”
I continue to face forward, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the words. I do love her, and I am going to tell her. Soon. I just have to figure out how—I have to figure out how to make her love me back.
The woman doesn’t speak again, but when I peek at her from the corner of my eyes, she has a lopsided grin consuming the wrinkles across her face. No one seems to notice our interaction, and the lady doesn’t seem inclined to continue. So, I settle in, unsure of what else I can do.
As the movie nears its end, I extract myself from the too-small chair and slink from the darkness like the shadow I’ve spent years becoming. The woman’s words play over and over in my mind, and I can’t help but be stuck on one fact.
Maybe she wants me jealous.
Maybe she does like me already, more than she is willing to admit to me or herself. Maybe she is as twisted up into knots as I am. Maybe she wants me to snap, to expose myself to her. But I’m certain she has no idea how desperately I want to. And when I do, she will have no idea how many men she will find under the mask—how many shadows will be lurking beneath my skin.
And that’s the part I am determined to prepare her for. That’s the part I have to slowly weave into her subconscious. She needs to want each man I have created. She needs to love each version of myself I have become, the way I do her.
Loving a monster is madness; it is no easy task, and not as simple as just loving them. Loving a monster is to be consumed by them—pliant enough to weather the storm and strong enough to fight back.
That’s how I’ve always known she is the one. She embraces life’s challenges and holds them close to her chest so that they might fuel her, push her, instead of shying away from them. Same as me.
It takes a monster to love a monster.
Realizing the power I now wield, the sudden hold I have over Stetson’s guarded heart, I do what monsters do best. I push back.
If she wants to make me jealous, if she wants to push me, I will embrace it.
Striding into the Mexican joint, I pull up a stool at the bar. I don’t drink much, but that’s not really why I’m here. The full—and fake—breasts of the woman next to me rest on the counter, their weight no doubt pulling at her back. Why would anyone want tits that big? They have to give her quite the backache.
She turns to face me, her brown hair pulled up into an up-do that looks closer to a nest than a hairstyle. I scan her body, more for her pleasure than mine. Dressed in tight black leather pants and a cheetah print top, she looks like the kind of woman who begs for attention. The pounds of makeup caking her face add to my list of reasonings. I lean toward her, flashing her a menacing smile that has her eyes dilating with desire.
I know I’m not bad-looking; the body count I’ve acquired over the years is proof enough for me. But I don’t think it would matter much to this woman—she looks desperate enough to take home a stool to hump tonight.
I don’t mind using people, never have. If it means helping me get the girl, I will burn this world to the ground. Or let the very desperate, very fake, very heavily perfumed woman lean all over me.
Only for a moment.
“Gonna buy me a drink?” she drawls, a forced twang mixing with her slur. I lean toward her, being sure to rub my chest over her arm and she gulps.
“My woman would be awfully jealous if I did.”
Her lips drop, an ugly pout claiming her face. “Fuck her,” she whines, and I fist my palm to keep from slapping her. No one talks about my filly that way. Shaking my head, I stand up.
That’s about enough of that. If I don’t still smell like a whore by the time I get back to the house, I’ll figure something else out. I rap my knuckles on the bar.
“I plan to.”