Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (27 page)

“More,” I whisper.

“You'll choke,” he says, but his voice is softer. “You passed out,” he continues. “And you're burning up.”

“It's Mexico,” I say, trying to push up on my elbows but flopping back on the mattress like a rag doll when my arms won't cooperate. “It's hot.”

“Christ, I know it's hot,” he hisses, then presses the bottle back to my lips. I drink greedily again, trying to make sure to swallow fully so I don't choke but it's hard when I'm so damn thirsty. “Is this what happens when I leave you alone? You don't take care of yourself?” His thumb is still pressing against my throat, but it's not unpleasant. It's light, almost caressing, like he's still checking to make sure I have a pulse. I still want to punch him, right in the mouth. But it'll have to wait until I get my strength back. The heat in the room is still stifling. My clothes are sticking to my skin. I can't move, so I just lay there and let him feed me water until I suck down the last drop.

He absentmindedly tosses the empty bottle on the floor and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. Then he smooths my hair back and I have to stop myself from closing my eyes at the subtle pleasure of it. I shouldn't let him touch me like this because, when he does, things get so complicated in my brain. I'm too tired to even try to think straight.

“You'll be okay,” he says and I drag my eyes up to meet his, because he sounds different. Not angry anymore. He stares down at me with and unreadable gaze, his lips a straight-line. He's got dark stubble on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He looks terrible – well, as terrible as a man that looks like him can look. He's aged in the time we've been apart, but so have I. The difference is that he only looks more handsome and more dangerous than ever. I've been obsessed with him for so long that it's hard to not see him for what he is. A wounded, insane, anti-social animal with a pretty face and a deadly body. “I shouldn't have left you alone,” he says, working his jaw around the words like they're hard to say. He drops his head to my chest, balling up his hands in the sheet on either side of my shoulders. “Why do you always make it so hard, Joanie?” he murmurs, his deep voice working its way under my skin.

I don't answer him, because there's no point. I have no answers to offer him and he doesn't have any for me either. I want to get out of this room, out of this city. Shit, out of this country. I don't know where we're going to go, but I just want to get gone. I want to feel the wind in my hair as we gun it out of town. He moans lightly, rolling his head and pressing his nose against my sternum. Then he pushes up off of me and sits upright on the edge of the mattress.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, a sudden tremor of of manic excitement passing under his skin. I can feel his change in mood just like that, like the air in the room has shifted.

“Unless it's something to eat, I don't want it,” I mumble because I've regained enough energy enough to be angry again. And I'm also starving.

“I'll get you food,” he says. “But first I have something else for you. Something better.”

*****

She's scaring me.

She's too pale and her eyes are red and puffy like she hasn't slept. Her lips are cracked and dry and her hair is chopped to hell and she's already starting to look too skinny. I was only gone for a few hours and she looks like she's coming undone. I shouldn't have fucked her like that last night, I know. I got too angry, I got too out of control. Only she can do that to me. Only she can make me act like that. Her body was just like I remembered, her pussy just as magical as the first time we fucked. When I was inside of her, I knew. I knew that coming back for her was the right thing to do. I fucked up a lot, but I know it was right. She thinks that I don't love her when all I've done for the past eight years is love her. She thinks that I don't care about her, even though everything I've done in the last eight years has been for her.

But I'm about to prove to her how much I care.

I run my hand down her soft thigh, because I can't resist. Her thigh belongs to me, I realize as I flex my fingers against her. Her whole body does. Last night was the last time I'll ever leave her. She doesn't know it yet, though. That's why she's angry. That's why she's trying to hurt me. But we have the rest of our lives ahead of us, however long that will be. I'm not giving up on her no matter how much she may want me to, not now or ever.

I stand and make my way back to the bag I brought in. The air in the room is stifling and I'm already sweating through my shirt. But we can stand it for a little while longer, until we decide what we're going to do. Honestly, I'm mostly waiting for her to decide. I'll go along with whatever she wants to do, because she's better at this shit than I am. I'm not smart like she is. I can't remember of all the details like she can and I usually fuck shit up whether I'm trying to or not. I never planned to kill her dipshit husband, after all. I don't know what happened, but I never planned to do that. I lost my head and shit got bloody, but it was never in my plan.

This is why I'm waiting for her to decide what to do next.

But there was one thing that was always in the cards and I'm tired of waiting for it. When I was alone on the fishing ship in the middle of the sea, staring up at the bottom of the bunk above me, shivering under my thin wool blanket, I would think about it. The details weren't important. I didn't care if it was in a church or in the middle of a field somewhere. I didn't care what we wore or when it happened, or how. All I could think of was her face. Her shiny brown eyes on me, her lips pink and thick as she formed them around the words that would change everything.

Now it's time.

When I slipped into that huge house that she lived in with her husband, I saw her wedding photo. It was hanging in a fancy gold frame above the marble fireplace in the living room. I stared at it for a long time, my emotions ranging between wanting to smash it to pieces and wanting to stare at it forever. She was wearing a long, shimmering dress and her hair was curled down her back and she looked like a queen. Her skin was golden, like she was glowing from the inside out. And she was smiling, but it was a fake smile. I know her well enough to know when she's faking. She's gotten so good at it, she fools everyone. She probably even fools herself sometimes, but not me. Never me.

I'm not going to let her fool me. I know she didn't love her husband, no matter how many times she pretended that she did. She may have even started to believe it, but I know the truth. She's happy he's out of the picture. His end was too bloody and horrific and she's traumatized. I take responsibility for that, but I know she's happy she doesn't have to pretend anymore. As happy as I am, because now we can finally be together. I fucked up things so much, did unforgivable things, but it will end up okay. We're still together. That's all that matters. Besides, those pictures don't exist anymore, just like her marriage. They were all burned in the fire. They're ashes.

“I don't care what you brought me,” she says, her voice pitifully small but still cold. She's probably dying of curiosity, but she'd rather lie and say she wasn't. I grab the bag and open it quickly, pulling out the dress I spent all morning trying to find. I want it to be as perfect as possible, only because I know I have to make it up to her. The only thing that really matters is vows, but I know what her last wedding was like. Her last wedding was done right, with flowers and a white dress and a church and a big cake.

I want to do it right.

I
have
to do it right.

After everything that's gone wrong, I want to do something right for a change. I never should have left her the first time. I should have told her about the cop. I should've been selfish and taken her with me when I ran. It's fucking stupid to keep looking back on the past, but it's hard to forget. What's done is done, but it's not forgotten. I regret becoming a murderer. I regret the blood on my hands, but I don't regret that I'm here now, in a room where she is. I don't regret that we've gotten this second chance. I don't regret it at all.

“Open it,” I say, plopping the bag beside her on the bed. I want to see her face when she figures it out. She looks at the bag, like she's trying to decide if she's going to open it, but she makes no move to do so. Impatiently, I lean in, sliding my hands under her arms and hauling her up to sitting, even though she fights me. She pushes my shoulders weakly, but she can't budge me. I want her to open what I've brought her. I smooth her hair off of her face because the dark strands keep sticking to her sweaty skin. Her skin is still so hot. I'll give her a cold bath, I decide, before the ceremony. First I'll feed her and then I'll take off her clothes and give her a bath. Then after it's done, I'll bring her home and fuck her until we both pass out from exhaustion.

“What is it?” she says, moving away from my touch. I don't answer her, because she's being difficult on purpose. She's trying to make me angry, but I'm not going to let her. So I take a step back and cross my arms, ignoring her attempts to piss me off. She shoves the bag off the bed and it falls to the ground and tips over on its side. The dress that I've spent the whole day looking for spills out onto the dusty tile floor. She leans over and peers over the edge of the bed. “What is it?” she repeats, but this time she doesn't sound angry. This time she sounds almost... shocked.

Definitely surprised.

I bend over and grab the dress off the floor. I don't want the white fabric to get dirty. She has to wear it today and it has to look nice. This is one more thing I can't allow to be ruined, no matter how difficult she wants to be. This is the one thing I need, more than anything else on the planet. We both need it, whether she knows it or not.

“It's not as nice as what you had before,” I say, even though I probably should just keep my mouth shut. I shouldn't draw attention to how imperfect the circumstances are. She's used to perfection; I can't offer her that. I can't offer her everything that rich prick could. But I have everything she really wants. This is what life should've been. This is what we could've had, all those years ago, if I hadn't been such a fucking idiot. So I can't let it get ruined.

“That's why you were gone?” she asks, still staring at the long dress with wide eyes. “You spent the day looking for that?” I nod, spreading the dress out on the bed. I'm not too good with this kind of shit. In the three years since we've been together, I've thought so many times about this moment, but I never actually thought it was going to happen. But now it is happening. In a few hours, Joan will actually be my wife.

“I went to some bar last night,” I say, keeping my eyes on the dress. I can't look at her yet. I'm feeling oddly nervous. It's fucking stupid, but I am. I haven't slept and barely ate and I'm jittery as hell. But if I'm honest with myself, I'm also worried she's going to say that she doesn't want to marry me. More, I'm worried she'll actually believe it. At this point, it's not an option to not get married. We're tied together in so many ways. If I can't have her, I don't know what will happen. I don't know if I'll be able to let her go again.

In fact, I know I won't.

“I didn't know where you went,” she says, her voice small and close.

“You wanted to be alone,” I respond, smoothing my hand down the front of the dress, clearing the fabric of wrinkles. “I was shitty, I'm sorry for that.” She breathes in a short little breath and I finally force myself to look at her. She's staring at me, her brown eyes red-rimmed. Her face looks pale and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “At about five this morning I figured it out.” I watch her face, watch for any little twitches or blinks that will convey how she feels. Right now, she's giving me nothing. Her face is a blank slate. “When I saw this dress, I knew it was the right one.”

“It's white,” she says, her eyes flitting from my face to the dress and back again.

“It has to be white,” I reply, because it's true. No other color will do. White is a rebirth, white is a new beginning. White is the color of baptism and the color of peace. The color of surrender.

We're getting married in two hours and my bride is going to wear white.

******

For a minute, I don't quite get it. I stare at the cheap white dress and it doesn't hit me.

Then it all sinks in.

It's a deep V-cut dress, polyester, and so long that it drapes on the floor. There's rhinestones around the neckline and they sparkle in the light from the window. It looks like nothing I would ever pick out for myself. Maybe once, I would've worn a dress like this. Once when I was innocent and foolish and liked when men gave me their attention. But I haven't been that girl for a long time. I don't want anyone to look at me anymore. I want to blend in as much as possible.

But he bought this for me. He wants me to wear it and I have to decide if I'm going to give him what he wants. I'm still angry at him, of course. But now the anger has faded to a dull roar because another feeling is pushing in. I'm sweating on the outside, but my insides have gone cold. I'm in shock, I think, because he can't possibly be planning what I think he's planning. He couldn't possibly think that I'm in any position to do that. I don't know how I could possibly put on this dress and walk down an aisle and promise the rest of my life to him. I don't have any life left in me. He took it all.

“Come here,” he says, holding out his hand. I stare up at him because I don't know how to tell him that he's fucking nuts. Not that I'm probably much saner than he is, but at that moment, I feel like I'm the only one in the room that hasn't completely gone off the deep end. He leans forward and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet. I don't fight him only because I can't. My head swims as he steadies me against his chest. I stare at the thin, scabbed over scratches at the base of his throat. The jagged marks look like the work of fingernails. I can't remember if I scratched him or not back in Seattle. Maybe it wasn't me at all. “Put your arms up,” he says and I can smell the tangy sweetness of tequila on his breath.