Page 38 of Cruel Demands

“It is necessary.”

“Because I’m so irresistible?”

“Yes.” The answer leaves my mouth before I can dress it as sarcasm. I don’t correct it. She stills.

I go to the opposite side of the bed, pull back the covers, and lie down without a pillow beneath my head. I leave my shirt on. My trousers. Everything. Taylor watches with annoyed amusement for a minute before lying down on her side of the barricade. The mattress dips beneath my weight.

The house is quiet around us. Too quiet for her, I think. She’s used to smaller spaces. Rooms where other people can be heard moving. Pipes knocking in the walls. Cars outside. Some proof that the world has not narrowed to one bed and one bad decision.

My house offers no comfort like that. My house is built to keep sound out. And secrets in.

Taylor lies on her side facing me, the blanket tucked beneath her arms, my shirt visible at the collar. Her long dirty-blond hair spills across the pillow in a dark-gold mess, her bangs uneven over her forehead. In the bar, she looked young because she was loud and bright and a little drunk. Here, in my bed, she looks young because she’s trying very hard not to be.

I hate myself for bringing her here. I hate myself more for being glad she came.

“Are you asleep?” she whispers.

“No.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer, “Are you angry?”

“At what?”

“Me.”

“No. Why would I be?”

“Because I wasted your time? Because I’m a virgin?”

My eyes close. I should have known she would not let the word remain buried. Taylor is the sort of girl who pokes bruises to see if they are still tender. “No,” I say.

“Liar.”

My eyes open. She’s watching me. There’s no coyness now. No shield. Just embarrassment trying to disguise itself as bravery.

“No, I am angry at myself. That I brought you here.”

“I came here.”

“Yes.”

“I got in the car.”

“Yes.”

“I kissed you first in the hall.”

My mouth almost curves. “You tried.”

Her eyes narrow. “I succeeded.”

“With my help. You are almost a head too short to have succeeded on your own.”

“You are impossible.”

“So you keep saying, yet you ask me to stay.”

The little exchange eases something in her. I see her shoulders lower against the mattress. She looks at me for another second, then turns away from me, onto her side, her back to my chest. A safer arrangement. The blanket slips lower. I see the line of her throat. The shirt I gave her rides up the back of her thigh. I see the pale skin there, sheltered from the sun unlike the rest of her, before I turn and look at the ceiling.