Page 48 of Bad Blood

But when he didn’t keep talking, I got annoyed because I wanted to hear his voice. To feel it. So I tapped his shoulder and said, “Keep talking.”

He laughed. “You want me to keep talking? Even though you won’t answer my questions?”

“I didn’t understand your question.”

“So you just don’t say anything?”

I was starting to get irritated, so I scowled and stared at the trees ahead without answering.

“Like now. You know, it’s polite to answer someone when they’re talking to you.”

“Polite?”

“Yeah. You know, manners and shit. Being kind.”

Because I still wasn’t understanding half of what he said, and that was bothering me even more since Iwantedto understand, I grabbed a piece of his hair and pulled.

“Ow! What the hell, that hurt!” He reached back and grabbed my hand, looking up at me with wide, surprised eyes. I got distracted by the way his thick lashes framed those eyes. How they curled a little at the ends.

“Why are you pulling on my hair? Use your words, Bowen.”

All the irritation I’d been feeling a moment ago dissipated in an instant, and a profound pleasure wrapped itself around my being. “Say it again,” I demanded, tugging a little more gently at his hair, sifting the strands between my fingers, feeling its softness.

He seemed incredibly pleased with my request, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, those deep grooves on either side of his mouth appearing as he smiled.

How did I keep him looking like that? So I could always see those crinkles, those grooves.

“Bowen,” he said. I got stuck on the way his lips moved as they formed my new name.

I stared at them, bringing a finger to his mouth and touching his fat bottom lip. “Again.”

“Bowen. You like your new name, huh?” My finger slipped when he smiled again, and I curled my hand into a fist, looking away from him.

“Alright, you don’t have to answer this time. I can tell you like it.” He squeezed my thigh, and that felt good. Really good. It made me wonder what his hands would feel like on the rest of my body. They were big and strong and gentle, those hands. Reassuring. Comforting. Capable.

“So…how did you get up here? Really? It’s not exactly an easy spot to get to.”

I didn’t look at him again. His question made me remember that I was supposed to be focusing on leaving, on getting away from him, and he was distracting me with his lips and his eye crinkles and his hands.

I took in the forest around us, trying to see if I recognized anything.

I didn’t.

Then he squeezed my thigh again and I realized he’d asked me a question and it waspoliteto respond. Kind.

“I climbed,” I said.

“You climbed?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not an easy climb.”

I knew that because I’d done it. I shrugged, not sure what to say.

“So you climbed up from over there?” He pointed off into the distance. “Because most of this land is surrounded by cliffs. One of the only ways to get up here is that way. And that’s a hell of a climb.”

Was he doubting me? Doubting that I’d done that? “I don’t know which way I came.”