Chapter 8
Ryan
I park in her road and switch off the engine. After stopping quickly for her to get some air, and avoid being sick all over the car, we haven’t said a word to each other. We just sit there quietly, listening to each other breathe, filling the silence with nothing, just as it should be.
We don’t even really know each other, and if she hadn’t drunk a bit too much – despite knowing she’d be driving – I wouldn’t be here with her, in her car, in front of her house.
Ian isn’t here yet and, not knowing what to do, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, anxious to get out and leave her to her fate.
What a shit situation. This is why I prefer not to have friends. Then I wouldn’t find myself somewhere I don’t want to be with someone I barely know, who really gets on my nerves.
I take a deep breath of the air inside the car, a mixture of alcohol and women’s perfume that reminds me of something I never want to be reminded of.
It’s been a while since I was last this close to a woman, just the two of us, and it makes me uncomfortable.
Not that I’m interested in that kind of thing: I try actively to avoid them, ignoring signals and escaping from closeness with any women unless strictly necessary.
Unless we’re talking about a very brief physical encounter.
Yet her perfume starts to go to my head, like three or four glasses of whiskey – as if she’s trying to intoxicate me, confuse me, to draw me in towards something dangerous. Something that I wouldn’t want to get close to even by mistake.
As if I’m developing an addiction.
But it’s a nice smell, one that I don’t recognise – or, at least, one I thought I’d forgotten. It’s delicate yet seductive. Sweet, but with just the right amount of spice. Something I can’t stand, yet desperately need.
I throw a furtive glance in her direction while she keeps her eyes glued out of the window.
I notice the shape of her legs, slim in her tight, dark jeans.
Her chest is just visible in her shirt, with one button too many undone, the lace of her bra peeking out of the top.
I follow the silhouette of her face, lit dimly by the streetlights outside, which make her seem both mature and playful at the same time.
How old is she? Does she have a boyfriend? Or a husband?
“Do you have to?” she asks, glancing furiously at me, bringing me back to myself.
“What?”
“That noise…” she accuses me, gesturing towards my fingers.
I take them off the steering wheel, a peace offering, and she turns her back to me again, scoffing.
Obviously, she’s fed up of waiting too. It isn’t hard to tell that she’d rather be anywhere but here with me, and I can’t wait to get away from her.
Idiot.
Apparently, I haven’t learned a fucking thing about life.
I open the car door and get out, needing some air before I lose control and do or say something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’ve already made that mistake once, and I don’t intend to make it again.
I take a few steps down her road, while she also gets out of the car and leans against the door. She digs around in her bag before producing a packet of cigarettes.
Great. She’s a smoker.
She lights one and inhales deeply, as if slowly killing her body will bring her back to life. I shake my head, and a grunt of disapproval escapes my lips.
“What’s wrong? Do you want one too, by any chance?”
“I’d never let that shit ruin my life.”
She lets out a sudden burst of laughter.
“Oh, sure, Mr. Perfect! Don’t you stand there and lecture me about the fact that smoking’s bad for you!”
“I couldn’t care less how you decide to ruin your body. It’s none of my business.”
“Exactly,” she retorts, taking another drag and exhaling the smoke in my direction, challenging me.
“You’re acting like a little girl,” I tell her, pissed off. “How old are you? Fourteen? Maybe less…”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“Aren’t you talking a bit too much?” she asks me, putting out the cigarette with her heel and crossing her arms across her chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be Mr-Long-Face-I-Hate-Everyone-Don’t-Piss-Me-Off?”
Fantastic. She’s also a psychoanalyst. There’s nothing in the world I hate more.
“Maybe I just don’t like talking to certain types of people.”
“Such as? Don’t I deserve a single word from you? A greeting? A wave?”
I shrug, showing her that I don’t care about what she thinks of me, or about this conversation that should never have happened in the first place. I hear her snarling behind me.
“Do you know what I think? You’re just a dickhead!
A condescending, arrogant bastard!” she yells, storming past me and heading for the front door.
“You can just leave the keys inside and then kindly go and fuck yourself!”.
I do as she says, taking the keys out of my pocket and leaving them in the ignition.
I should just leave it – that’s what I normally do. It’s not a good idea to keep screaming back at her, but I can’t stand someone telling me where to shove it, then turning their back on me.
I stride over to her, before she has the chance to open the door and barricade herself inside. She stops in her tracks as soon as she feels my breath on her neck.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl from behind her.
She turns around to look me in the eyes, raising her chin. She keeps challenging me – she must really want a fight.
“The only thing wrong with me is that I keep associating myself with bastards like you – and trust me, I’ve met a good few.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I taunt.
“You’re the worst bastard I’ve ever met!” she screams, her hands balled tightly into fists by her sides.
“And you’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever had the misfortune of speaking to!” I yell even louder, at the risk of waking up the neighbours.
Her hand suddenly makes direct contact with my left cheek. The sound of the slap comes before the burning sensation, quickly followed by the anger pulsing uncontrollably through my body.
I grab her hand, still suspended in mid-air, and step towards her, threateningly.
“Never touch me again,” I say, my voice hard, my fingers gripping her wrist tightly.
“You don’t scare me.”
The look on her face confirms what she’s telling me.
She really isn’t scared of me. She holds my gaze, proud and strong-willed.
Her eyes are wide and clear, fiery enough to set me alight in an instant.
They’re green, or maybe brown; I can’t tell what colour they are, but I can make out a few golden specks, lost in a dark, immense ocean.
An ocean ready to swallow you up, and never wash your body ashore.
They’re bewitching, tempting eyes.
They’re dangerous.
I slowly let go of her arm, my fingers brushing against hers, but I can still feel her.
Her skin.
The sparks of physical contact.
I take a few steps back, shocked, while she stands there, unperturbed. Then I turn away quickly, getting myself as far away as possible, with my head in my hands, afraid that I’ve been stabbed in the heart once again.