Fifteen
FIFTEEN
VANESSA
Murphy circles my legs, dicing with death as I move the pot of boiling pasta across to the sink to strain the spaghetti. My feet ache after a long day in the cafe, but the busyness was a great distraction. One I’m thankful for as I fill the evening hours until Chaos arrives.
That is if he wasn’t just fucking with me. Damnit. My shoulders drop, pot handles clenched in my fists as I stare out the small window to the overgrown field beyond. I really should call Doctor Phillips. This fascination with a man who fucking broke into my house isn’t healthy in the slightest. But I know in my heart why I don’t reject the idea of Chaos: he’s read my messiest secrets and still managed to look at me and smile.
The man didn’t care, and fuck it all if that thought alone doesn’t turn me on.
My intruder saw the most raw and ugly parts of me, and it didn’t stop him from coming to find me at the cafe. Don’t flatter yourself. I saw him peck Theresa on the cheek like she’s his little old nonna; who said he came to see me? Maybe he wanted to visit her? You know the truth, Ness. It wasn’t my boss that he watched from a distance. It wasn’t my boss’s journal that he spread out on the table. And it wasn’t my boss whom he made sure to see before he left.
I dump the spaghetti into the colander, a cloud of steam erupting before my face. Falling for the fantasy that he has a genuine interest in me is dangerous. Especially when I already teeter on the edge of a fucking mental breakdown. I need to find out the truth about Mom and have him firmly in my rearview again before I can entertain the very real possibility of heartache. Because that’s all he’ll be, right? Another man who takes what he needs from me and leaves me when reality proves too much hard work.
Fuck—I’m too much hard work for myself most days.
I set the empty pot back on the burner, narrowly avoiding tripping on Murphy as he trots into the living room with a yip and promptly makes himself at home on my chair.
“If you think there’ll be leftovers, you’re mistaken, asshole.” I reach for the sauce and damn near drop the glass jar on the floor. “Fuck!”
“That’s not a very nice way to talk to your guest.” Chaos leans in the open doorway, arms folded over his broad chest. The man has no right to look so downright desirable in denim and leather.
“To be a guest,” I quip, recovering from the fright, “I would have needed to invite you here. But I distinctly don’t remember doing that.”
“You didn’t say no when I told you I’d see you tonight, either.”
“I thought you meant after dark.” I upend the sauce into the pot and ditch the jar in the sink to clean later.
He smirks, pushing off the doorframe to cross over to the cooktop. “I can come back later if that’s how you prefer it.”
Say no, Ness. “Whatever you want.”
He crooks an eyebrow and then turns to leave.
“Wait.” Fuck him. “I’ve made way too much to eat alone.”
His perfect pout curls up on one side. “It’s almost like you wanted me here for dinner.”
Is he an apparition? A fucking demon I summon with my wicked thoughts? Wouldn’t that be fun? “Sit.” I gesture to the island with a wooden spoon before dunking it in the pot. “How hungry are you?”
“Starved.” He tugs a stool out, completely missing the blush of my cheeks as he regards Murphy atop my chair. “Cat.”
The furry menace yips happily.
“You two seem to be friends already.”
Chaos takes a seat and sets his elbows on the counter, hands clasped together. “We’ve spent some time together.”
Have they now? My gaze roams the lines of his shoulders, the swell of his arms, and the woven bracelet around his right wrist. Interesting.
“So.” I give the man my back and focus on our meal, retrieving the pasta to add to the pot. “What brings you over today?”
“Wanted to bring this back.”
I don’t need to turn around again to know how my journal sounds when it slaps against marble. “Finished with it, have you?”
“For now.” The wooden stool creaks as he moves. “It makes for interesting reading.”
Here it comes. Here’s the part where he mocks me. Where he takes my trauma and twists it into entertainment for himself. He’s probably already recited the worst parts to the rest of his crew, the bunch of them laughing at me. “Does it?” My words come out weaker than intended.
I swallow down the shame. The desire to be anything other than myself.
The stool creaks, Chaos’s clothes rustling with his movement.
I refuse to look the devil in the eye. You were a fool for letting him in. I did this to myself, so damn desperate for anyone to pay attention to me that I accepted the covetous eye of a madman. Have I not learned a damn thing?
“Vanessa,” he says softly, far too close to where I stand. “Turn that shit off and look at me.”
“No.” Fuck it. I hyperfocus on the meal to distract from the sting of tears.
“I need you to.”
“I can’t.” Fuck it. My voice wobbles.
His body heat envelops my back, the leather vest brushing against my shirt as a tattooed arm sneaks past my side to twist the dial for the gas off. “Look at me.” Large palms settle on my hips.
My breaths come quicker, my mouth suddenly dry as my entire body stiffens. He can’t touch me. That’s not fair. I never said he could touch me. I’m not ready.
Chaos gently removes his hands, taking a step back.
I turn to find him in the kitchen, palms raised toward me beside his shoulders. “Didn’t mean anything sinister by it.”
“I know you didn’t.” Fuck these tears. I bite my lip to redirect my focus elsewhere. “My brain doesn’t understand that, though.” My smile is more of a grimace than I intend as I point to my head. “It’s a little broken still.”
Make a joke out of it before he does. Laugh away the pain. The silence is unbearable. Why doesn’t he smile, too? Why isn’t he laughing? Agreeing with me? God—just let me die.
A muscle jumps along Chaos’s jawline, his brow low as he stares at me, unblinking. “What did he do to you?”
“It wasn’t always him,” I breathe, grimace sliding from my lips as I drop my gaze to the floor. My hands find purchase on the edge of the counter behind me; the heat radiating off the hot element sears my wrist. I don’t have it in me to move, the mild burn a welcome distraction from the self-loathing filling my lungs.
I dare to lift my gaze to the eerily quiet man standing rock solid in the middle of the room. His head is turned toward the door, jaw working back and forth. Chaos draws a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he exhales.
“Please just leave.” My words come so quietly that I’m unsure if he hears me.
His head whips around, a frown pulled deep between his eyes. “Why?”
Because it hurts. I draw a breath, focusing on speaking the words as clearly and steadily as possible. “I write those things in the journal so that I can get the shit out of my head without anybody else knowing how fucked up I am.” He takes a step forward, and I raise my hand to halt him. “It’s hard enough for me to stomach those thoughts when they echo in my head day after day, but seeing their effects on your face? Seeing how it makes you feel about me?” The first tear falls. “It hurts, Chaos. I feel ashamed of who I am, yet who I am is all I have left. Don’t do that to me. Please.”
“You think I judge you?” His brown eye twitches. “That I’m silent because you disgust me?”
“Is that not what’s happening here?” I gesture between us.
He captures my hand mid-flight, tugging me forward. “No.”
I pull back, forcing space between us.
He refuses to release me. “I’m quiet, Vanessa because I’m thinkin’.”
“About what?” I croak.
He studies my face, fingers flexing against my skin, as though he weighs the consequences of telling me the truth.
He’s seen my thoughts. What does it matter if I hear his? Surely it can’t hold a fucking flame to how messed up my shit is.
“Tell me,” I coax.
He wets his lips and then sighs through a scowl. “I wonder who this guy is to you and where the fuck he is now. I consider all the options, like how far would I need to ride to reach this motherfucker? How hard would it be to get to him? Where could I stash this asshole so that nobody could find him and nobody would hear him when I fuckin’ do the things to him you say you don’t want to do yourself.” His upper lip snarls, hand tightening around my wrist. “Most of all, I’m working out what the fuck I need to do to show you that a man’s touch can be good. To give you the fucking pleasure and the release you goddamn need.” He jerks on my arm again, his strength no match for me, as I crash against his chest. “I want to give you every fucking good thing you deny yourself and more, Vanessa. Let me make right every fucking wrong this world has done you.”
“Why?” I breathe, curving my back to force space between us. “What am I to you that you’d care so much?”
My words trigger him to let go. He watches me stumble when I regain my footing. “You’re right.” Chaos shrugs. “You’re nothing to me.”
The barbs tighten around my heart, and I physically flinch at the sensation.
Concern flashes in his eyes as my shoulders curl forward. “But I care ,” he says, spitting the word. “Because nothing you wrote about in that fucking journal was of your own doing, and it makes me sad.” His face contorts as though the emotion is an unfamiliar one. “It makes me sad that you’ve been let down so many damn times, and ain’t anyone done anything for you to set that right. Nobody stood up to fight on your behalf. You just got… left out.” He shakes his head, lifting a hand to rub it through his hair. “That shit ain’t right.”
It’s also nothing new. I know this. I’ve felt it, tearing at my heart for decades.
Nobody fought for me.
I had to learn how to fight for myself.
And it meant shit. Because even though I’m now free, nothing has changed. He still manipulates people for his twisted agenda. He still fucks over people’s lives and divides families, all in the name of cleaning up the ‘blights of society.’ Under the guise of charity. Community.
Fighting for myself was the least gallant thing I could have done.
It was selfish, and I pay for it every fucking day when I wake and realize nothing is different—he’s still thriving, and I’m still dead on the inside.
“There’s nothing I can do,” I whisper, rubbing my wrist where he held me. “There’s fucking nothing I can do to change it.”
“ You don’t have to do anything,” Chaos bites. “That’s what I’m telling you, Vanessa. Make me your hand of justice. Fucking use me. In whatever way you want, however you need, but don’t let this fucker get away with what he did to you.” He shakes his head as he speaks, edging closer. “You don’t want to be as depraved as he is,” he states, using my written words against me. “I get it. But I already am.” Chaos smirks, close enough to touch. “My place in hell is reserved for me. Don’t let it be in vain.”
“You don’t owe me anything, though.” I search his gaze, flicking back and forth between the deepening blue and darkening brown. “Why do this for me?”
“Why not?”
I frown.
“Tell me why not,” he repeats, lifting a hand to brush roughened fingertips against the exposed inch of my collarbone. “What makes you unworthy of my help?”
“I don’t understand.”
His touch increases in pressure, testing, teasing. “You ask me why I should do this for you, but my question is, why shouldn’t I? Asking why I should insinuates that you’re not worthy of my help. But maybe it’s me who’s not worthy of your need.”
“You think you’re not good enough for me?”
“Isn’t that what you’re telling me about yourself by saying I don’t owe you anything? Saying that you have to earn other people’s help before they should give it to you?”
“But..” Fuck. He has a point. What’s wrong with accepting help when it’s given without expectation? Isn’t that what I’d do for someone in need? Offer them my help without first measuring their worth?
His nostrils flare, dilated pupils blazing with need as I relent to his reasoning. “Use me, Vanessa,” he rasps. “I’m fucking begging you to.” His thumb strokes my throat, fingertips steady against my neck.
“What do you get from this?” I whisper.
Regardless of whether or not he gives his help freely, there must be some kickback. Surely. Nobody is genuinely that selfless.
“You.” Chaos’s focus drops to my mouth. “I get you.”
The air feels too hot, too thick. I struggle to breathe, and it dawns on me why. We share the same air—we’re that close. I eye the crisp cupid’s bow of his upper lip, the dusting of a mustache, and the slight dimple of his chin covered by a short goatee. I’ve never found facial hair appealing before, but on Chaos, it’s like art, highlighting the curve of his lover’s lips.
“Are you going to stare at me all night, or come get what’s yours?”
Mine? I seek his gaze and find hooded eyes dark with desire. He really wants this. He really wants me.
“I can’t.” The words sour in my stomach. “Not yet.”
Chaos exhales heavily. Disappointed. Yet he doesn’t move. Nor does he remove his hand from my neck.
I’m grateful.
“I’ve got to be careful,” I reason, gaze shifting past him to my cloth-bound journal. “You know why.”
A single nod as his touch drops away. Chaos takes a step back and runs a hand through his already-tousled hair. “That’s fair.” He rolls his lips, attention moving to the warm pot on the stove. “Save the rest for another night, babe. I’m out.” He glances at Murphy. “Later, cat.” And moves for the door.
“You don’t have to go.” I sound as pathetic as I feel.
Chaos pauses in the doorway, highlighted by the fading dusk light. “Yeah, I do.” Hand to the frame, he glances over his shoulder, smoldering gaze dragging the length of me. “If I stay in this house, I’m gonna end up doing things you aren’t ready for, and then you’re gonna hate me.” He smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I ain’t ready for that, either.”