Summer #2
“Never have I ever stabbed someone.” Carter cuts the sizzling, red-hot thread connecting Atlas and Dean, and I use that to pull my boyfriend down to his seat. My feelings don’t need fending.
Their stare-off doesn’t stop once we’re all seated, but the raising of all the shots chips another piece of the tension away.
My glass stays nailed to the table, since stabbing someone is not a merit badge I hold. But all of the guys raising those shots make it seem like some sort of secret fight club I’m missing out on.
“Never have I ever shot someone.” Dean permeates the air with his next question, and it’s one I’ve already revealed the answer to Atlas, but I’m more than anxious to disclose to anyone else.
All glasses fly up once more. All of them? Was that some kind of rite of passage for these guys?
My hand stays on the glass, gripping it tightly.
“It’s okay, love. They’re family.” Atlas rests his hand atop mine and caresses it.
I raise my shot in a cautious manner, searching for judgment where none could be found.
Those clandestine actions, admitted freely by everyone, not a shred of reprimand in any form, is a truly freeing sensation.
There’s as much relief brewing inside me from sharing as there is fear of giving out my secrets one piece at a time.
“Never have I ever killed someone.” Dean doesn’t wait for anyone else’s turn to shoot his next question, pouring another round of alcohol.
It’s a question no one sane would admit to freely, yet none of them hesitate, raising their shots again.
My lips, pressed in a line, give away my struggle, but letting my emotions shine through is my choice.
It’s not like I can’t put on a perfect poker face and let lies pour out of me better than truths coming from a nun at a confession.
Yet what would my boyfriend think of me if he saw how well I can wield that power?
Atlas’s hand rubs gently on my leg again, his form of reassurance not lost on me. The pull of his warmth makes me feel like a marionette, as I take another sip, letting the fire in my throat fight the wildfire in my mind.
How much has Atlas told them about me if not a single face around spells surprise?
“Never have I ever killed more than one person.” Dean keeps digging.
His shot, along with Connor’s and Atlas’s, goes up, waiting to see if I would raise mine, too. I started on this road, so I might as well walk it.
My glass cuts through the air, and I knock back the shot in an attempt to silence my mind, screaming for me to stop what I’m doing before it’s too late.
I switch my brain off, for I’ve already crossed that bridge and burned it, with the point of ‘before it’s too late’ already in the past, not even visible in the rearview mirror.
But Dean won’t stop until he knows how deep my corrosion runs in the form of the number of lives taken. I’ll save him the trouble.
“Four. That’s what you wanna know, right? But that’s just a number. It means nothing without the motives behind taking those lives. I had my reasons, as I’m sure all of you had yours.”
Silence settles, while Atlas’s fingers lace through mine, his lips touching the back of my hand.
“It’s getting late, guys. I’ll drive you back to the house,” my boyfriend says as he stands from his seat.
“Summer,” Dean pulls my attention, but his eyes are no longer narrowed at me. It’s like a completely different man is sitting across from me now than the one who joined us more than two hours ago. “Thank you for your honesty!”
I say nothing.
In between Connor telling me how I’ve just adopted him and I’d never be able to get rid of him, the praises Link offers for the desserts, and Carter’s gratitude for the evening, I don’t ask myself how the words for an extended invitation slip through my lips. And yes, that invitation includes Dean.
He excuses himself to use the restroom, while the rest head outside.
Atlas seals a kiss on my lips with a simple “Thank you!” which holds so much more than those two simple words, before following his friends.
Strolling toward the kitchen with dishes in both hands, I let the swirl of emotions from tonight take over. I gave away much more than I was comfortable with, but these psychos were already sailing full speed on the Major Bonkers boat, so they welcomed my honesty.
Cleaning a plate with a knife, I hear a crack of the wooden floor behind me, and I’ve already dropped the dish in the sink, pivoting with the weapon in hand, before my brain could even process the information.
I look up, only to find a set of blue eyes, a shade lighter than my own, staring at a threatening distance.
He doesn’t blink, and neither do I, but I’m the first to break eye contact when a strand of black hair falls above his eyebrow.
When I glance at the knife in my hand, there’s a streak of blood painting the edge.
“Fuck! You’re bleeding.”
Leaving the knife on the counter, I take Dean’s arm to inspect it. It’s not a deep cut, just a superficial one.
“You’ve killed people, but you worry about a small cut you’ve inflicted?”
I pause, staring at him, channeling my anger more than my hurt. Am I being debased to someone who’s not capable of compassion because I’ve killed?
“I’d never hurt an innocent on purpose.”
I pull his forearm roughly over the sink, putting a finger right into the wound with the sole intention of causing him pain.
Yes. I see the irony.
Then I stride for the bathroom on this floor, fetching the first aid kit.
“You think I’m innocent when I’ve killed more than you have? You think you’re innocent, for that matter?”
He offers those words while I pour the peroxide over his cut. I hope it stings like a bitch, though his face doesn’t show it. Atlas mentioned that Dean has a problem experiencing emotions like a normal human being, but pain isn’t an emotion. It’s a reaction of the body.
You feel it, asshole, even if it’s just a little.
“I don’t believe killing someone automatically makes you a bad person. Not all people deserve to live, and most certainly not all deserve to be mourned.”
He lets out a chuckle masked by a grunt, making my eyes squint to slits at him, while I pour some more peroxide over his wound, not because it needs disinfecting anymore.
I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to further defend my stance.
“Not everything in life is black and white, Dean. There’s gray, too. That’s where people like us exist.”
“You mean freaks like us.”
I put the antiseptic aside and take a Band-Aid to plaster over his cut.
“Don’t be ashamed to call yourself one.” I look at him, taken aback by those words. “You’re beautiful. Stunning really. And you are smart. Cunning. But you’re also a freak. Own it! That’s your superpower.”
That’s the nicest thing he’s said to me all evening, though part of it sounds like the kind of praise a mental institution patient would offer.
“Weren’t compliments a waste of breath?” I point out, unable to contain my surprise.
“You made a valid point to the contrary.”
Freaks—that’s the exact word I used to describe them during my not-exactly-stalking ventures. If I fit right in with them, am I one too? I guess I’ve always been.
When Dean glances toward the door, a long scar beneath his jaw comes into view, crawling from his ear to his chin. How did I miss this before?
“The first man I killed decorated me like this, while threatening to cut my face off,” he says, catching me studying his scar. “I was twelve when that happened.”
Fuck! That’s dark. I do feel sorry for him, but I can’t let pity crack my surface. People like us hate being pitied. We are a different breed, and I know how to treat my own.
“As I said, not all deserve to live.”
He smiles like that was the correct answer, and his eyes settle on mine.
“They’re waiting for you,” I remind him when his gaze lingers on me for longer than one would be comfortable with.
Dean takes two steps back, head slightly tilted to one side, raking me from head to toe, like he’s not trying to decipher my secrets, but outright decode my DNA.
“Serial killer in the making,” he mutters under his breath, then heads for the door.
Is that what he thinks I am? Do I give the impression of being that much of a psycho?
Is Dean onto me? Or is this his twisted version of a welcome?
Either way, I do hope Trent gave me deep enough of a cover, so even if the guys smell the putrid, they won’t find the bodies, no matter how hard they dig.