Page 49 of Twisted Needs

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means, you know where the line is, Anders.” His eyes finally meet mine, and for the first time in a while, I don’t recognize the man who wears them. It’s cold and distant. Nothing like the man I’ve spent the last year talking to. “And lately,” he continues, “you keep pretending you don’t.”

“You kissed me!” I snap. “You fucking kissed me, Pet’ka. That was you, so don’t do this fucking shit because I’m sick and tired of you brushing me off!”

Heat flashes through my chest, surging with anger and humiliation. Every moment he let me think this thing between us was mutual has been reduced to something entirely different. I think the part that hurts the most is that despite having every reason not to, I still gave him the benefit of the doubt. I told him we could be friends because it’s obvious some part of him still refuses to admit how goddamn much he needs me.

The kitchen suddenly feels too small. I can’t tell if I’m furious or embarrassed. Maybe it’s both.

“Anders.” His voice softens, just a little. For one second he sounds tired instead of angry. Almost guilty.

I know this version of Parker. He says something cruel, gives me a second for it to fully marinate, then acts like nothing happened until I start believing it never actually hurt in the first place.

I wait for the other shoe to drop, because it always does, but this time it doesn’t. Whatever softness was there disappears. His expression hardens again. “You’ve gotta get over this,” Parker tells me in a voice that doesn’t sound or feel like his own.

Something sharp pulses behind my right eye. At first I ignore the pressure that’s been building over the last few minutes, but ever since I realized this conversation wasn’t going where I thought it was, the pain is impossible to ignore.

“It’s not going to happen.”

My breath catches. For a second, I don’t understand. But then I do, and the realization hits so hard it almost feels physical. The pressure behind my eye spreads. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Jesus, Parker,” I whisper beneath my breath.

“What?”

I shake my head. “You’re seriously fucking evil.”

The kitchen suddenly feels brighter, like the sunlight coming through the windows suddenly seems too harsh. Nothing is wrong. I know nothing is wrong. But I can already feel a migraine settling in behind my eyes.

“Anders?”

Parker takes a step toward me and I can feel his hand before it even reaches me. His hand barely brushes my arm, but I jerk away immediately. “No.” The word comes out much sharper than I intended.

Parker freezes. For a second, something flashes across his face. Guilt…regret. But I don’t fucking care. Not right now. Not when it feels like somebody is slowly driving a nail through my skull.

“Don’t,” I warned him. I hate how weak my voice sounds, and I hate how much I still want him to touch me even more.

Parker’s hand falls back to his side.

I just grab my mug off the counter, walking it over to the sink. “Whatever, Parker.” The words sound hollow. “I’m not doing this with you again.”

“Anders—”

I dump the coffee out with so much force that it splashes up against the backsplash. And then the ceramic fractures right down the middle the moment I drop the mug into the basin.

“Anders, what the fuck?”

I don’t let him get another word in before I turn around and walk out of the kitchen. The second I reach the stairs, the pain behind my eye pulses again. By the time I make it to my bedroom, I know I’m in trouble.

I shove the door shut behind me and lean against it, immediately letting out a sigh of relief and thanking the good Lord above for whichever genius invented black-out curtains.

No matter how many breaths I take, the migraine just keeps building and building. Pressure blooms behind my eye and spreads across my forehead. My heart is beating too fast. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s the migraine. That’s all this is. Just a migraine, which I get all the time when I’m upset like this.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath me. Going through my mental check list, I press my palms against my thighs and focus on my breathing. Of course, my lungs refuse to cooperate. The next breath catches halfway down, and an unbroken stream of panic immediately floods my system.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The room feels like it’s shrinking around me, constricting the air until it’s just me and nothing else. My fingertips start tingling. My chest tightens. My heart pounds harder. When I bend forward and brace my elbows on my knees, the migraine throbs. My panic grows, and everything fucking hurts.

I reach for my phone without thinking, the movement automatic. My thumb immediately hovers over Parker’s name like it’s the only cure I could ever need. The realization hits me a second later as a broken laugh escapes me. Of course. Of fucking course. The one Goddamn person I want right now is the person who caused this shit.