Torture to Her Soul
Page 6
Melody.
My pulse quickens, my fingers twitching at the sudden swell of irritation. I clench my hands into fists to stop them, but it does little to help. I want to squeeze the life out of that laughter, smother the insufferable chatter to make it stop.
She gets under my skin and claws at me.
The noise is coming from the den, the one room I feel most at home. The only fucking place I ever feel safe.
Inviting someone into my house is like letting them touch my food or pour my drinks: for me, the trust is damn near impossible to come by. I've been bugged before, had my phones wiretapped, and it's all too easy for something to slip by, skating in right under my nose. I don't let people into my life, and she opens up my sanctuary to someone I hardly know.
Melody Carmichael. Her father works on Wall Street. Her mother is a homemaker and runs a book club. It's the picture perfect family, but it's an image I don't trust. Deeper, beneath the surface, there's always another story, buried secrets that a man like me knows how to unearth.
There's a downside to everything, a dark side to everyone, and those who willingly walk in the shadows are a hell of a lot more convincing than those who only acknowledge the sunshine.
My best friend shot me in the chest, but at least he had the decency to look me in the eyes when he did it.
I avoid the den and head to the kitchen instead, seeking out a strong drink to calm my nerves, but my footsteps falter right inside the doorway. It's an utter disaster. Dishes and trash are everywhere, pans still on the stove with leftover food stuck to them. It smells grotesquely burnt, another failed dinner, this one abandoned based on the half-filled pizza boxes on the counter beside the charred mess.
I can feel myself growing hot as I clench my jaw. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying to keep my anger at bay. Relax. Don't worry about it. I count to ten to calm down, but it's senseless. Because the moment I reopen my eyes and see the mess again, my vision gets cloudy, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep from losing my cool.
My patience is officially gone.
Grabbing pans from the stove, I knock them against the trashcan, dislodging the food before tossing them on the counter, not caring about the noise they make as they bang against the marble countertops.
I fill the sink, the bubbles nearly overflowing as steam rises from the scalding water. I toss the dishes in, my mind a flurry of dark thoughts as I tear off my coat and shove my sleeves up to my elbows.
I scrub, and scrub, and scrub, the blistering water scorching my skin. I grit my teeth, trying to distract myself with the pain from it, trying to focus on the sting to internalize it, but it's counterproductive. Every laugh, every sigh, every syllable that reaches my ears from the den is like hitting the reset button, my resentment escalating again and again.
She has a lot of nerve.
The world around me falls into a haze, my hands moving on their own. I scour everything within sight until my hands are raw, scrubbing so hard with a steel wool pad that my fingers bleed, cleaning in the darkness to try to purge the vindictive thoughts, but they're all that exist.
They eat me up when I get like this.
I'm so lost in the anger, so consumed by the rage, that I don't hear her footsteps, don't sense her presence, until the overhead light flicks on. The brightness momentarily stalls me. I clutch a glass so tightly that the knuckles of my reddened hand turn as white as cocaine.
I'm damn lucky the glass doesn't shatter.
I almost wish it would.
I'd take a shard and slash a fucking vein.
"Naz?"
Her voice, so close, uttering my name, is like throwing gasoline on already raging flames. I drop my head, feeling myself violently shaking.
A lot of fucking nerve.
"Turn around," I say, my voice low, so cold it's almost unrecognizable to my own ears. I need her to go back to where she was and give me time to calm down, to clean up this mess and bring order back to my world, before I take this out on her.
"What?"
"Turn around, Karissa. You don't want to do this right now."
"Don't want to do what?"
I don't answer her, and she doesn't go away.
No, instead she comes closer, her footsteps finally registering as she strolls through the kitchen toward me, her steps measured. She treads lightly, but her approach is an ominous roar to my ears. I breathe deeply to keep myself from reacting, standing as still as possible, closing my eyes when she speaks again.
"Ignazio?"
Her hand is on my back, her touch tentative, but it's enough to set me off. The glass slips from my hand, crashing into the sudsy water as I spin around. Karissa is caught off guard and starts to pull away, to back away, but I snatch ahold of her wrist and yank her to me instead.
She flinches, eyes wide, as I shove her back against the counter in the corner, pinning her there.
"Is this what you want? Huh?" I stare straight in her dark eyes as I lean closer. "You want to mock me? You want to provoke me?"
"What?" The word shakes as it spills from her lips. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about what you're doing," I say. "What you're doing to me."
"I'm not doing anything to you."
Her eyes water. I have enough sense to loosen my hold on her wrist, in case I'm hurting her, but it makes no difference. A tear streams down her cheek as she stares into my eyes, body tense like she's holding her breath having to be so close to me.
Me.
My pulse quickens, my fingers twitching at the sudden swell of irritation. I clench my hands into fists to stop them, but it does little to help. I want to squeeze the life out of that laughter, smother the insufferable chatter to make it stop.
She gets under my skin and claws at me.
The noise is coming from the den, the one room I feel most at home. The only fucking place I ever feel safe.
Inviting someone into my house is like letting them touch my food or pour my drinks: for me, the trust is damn near impossible to come by. I've been bugged before, had my phones wiretapped, and it's all too easy for something to slip by, skating in right under my nose. I don't let people into my life, and she opens up my sanctuary to someone I hardly know.
Melody Carmichael. Her father works on Wall Street. Her mother is a homemaker and runs a book club. It's the picture perfect family, but it's an image I don't trust. Deeper, beneath the surface, there's always another story, buried secrets that a man like me knows how to unearth.
There's a downside to everything, a dark side to everyone, and those who willingly walk in the shadows are a hell of a lot more convincing than those who only acknowledge the sunshine.
My best friend shot me in the chest, but at least he had the decency to look me in the eyes when he did it.
I avoid the den and head to the kitchen instead, seeking out a strong drink to calm my nerves, but my footsteps falter right inside the doorway. It's an utter disaster. Dishes and trash are everywhere, pans still on the stove with leftover food stuck to them. It smells grotesquely burnt, another failed dinner, this one abandoned based on the half-filled pizza boxes on the counter beside the charred mess.
I can feel myself growing hot as I clench my jaw. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying to keep my anger at bay. Relax. Don't worry about it. I count to ten to calm down, but it's senseless. Because the moment I reopen my eyes and see the mess again, my vision gets cloudy, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep from losing my cool.
My patience is officially gone.
Grabbing pans from the stove, I knock them against the trashcan, dislodging the food before tossing them on the counter, not caring about the noise they make as they bang against the marble countertops.
I fill the sink, the bubbles nearly overflowing as steam rises from the scalding water. I toss the dishes in, my mind a flurry of dark thoughts as I tear off my coat and shove my sleeves up to my elbows.
I scrub, and scrub, and scrub, the blistering water scorching my skin. I grit my teeth, trying to distract myself with the pain from it, trying to focus on the sting to internalize it, but it's counterproductive. Every laugh, every sigh, every syllable that reaches my ears from the den is like hitting the reset button, my resentment escalating again and again.
She has a lot of nerve.
The world around me falls into a haze, my hands moving on their own. I scour everything within sight until my hands are raw, scrubbing so hard with a steel wool pad that my fingers bleed, cleaning in the darkness to try to purge the vindictive thoughts, but they're all that exist.
They eat me up when I get like this.
I'm so lost in the anger, so consumed by the rage, that I don't hear her footsteps, don't sense her presence, until the overhead light flicks on. The brightness momentarily stalls me. I clutch a glass so tightly that the knuckles of my reddened hand turn as white as cocaine.
I'm damn lucky the glass doesn't shatter.
I almost wish it would.
I'd take a shard and slash a fucking vein.
"Naz?"
Her voice, so close, uttering my name, is like throwing gasoline on already raging flames. I drop my head, feeling myself violently shaking.
A lot of fucking nerve.
"Turn around," I say, my voice low, so cold it's almost unrecognizable to my own ears. I need her to go back to where she was and give me time to calm down, to clean up this mess and bring order back to my world, before I take this out on her.
"What?"
"Turn around, Karissa. You don't want to do this right now."
"Don't want to do what?"
I don't answer her, and she doesn't go away.
No, instead she comes closer, her footsteps finally registering as she strolls through the kitchen toward me, her steps measured. She treads lightly, but her approach is an ominous roar to my ears. I breathe deeply to keep myself from reacting, standing as still as possible, closing my eyes when she speaks again.
"Ignazio?"
Her hand is on my back, her touch tentative, but it's enough to set me off. The glass slips from my hand, crashing into the sudsy water as I spin around. Karissa is caught off guard and starts to pull away, to back away, but I snatch ahold of her wrist and yank her to me instead.
She flinches, eyes wide, as I shove her back against the counter in the corner, pinning her there.
"Is this what you want? Huh?" I stare straight in her dark eyes as I lean closer. "You want to mock me? You want to provoke me?"
"What?" The word shakes as it spills from her lips. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about what you're doing," I say. "What you're doing to me."
"I'm not doing anything to you."
Her eyes water. I have enough sense to loosen my hold on her wrist, in case I'm hurting her, but it makes no difference. A tear streams down her cheek as she stares into my eyes, body tense like she's holding her breath having to be so close to me.
Me.
