Page 40 of Fragile Facade

RIOT

I hate his red skin.To the point that I almost want to let him down just to get rid of the flush to his cheeks. Something about how Ghost wears the colour isn’t as harsh as everyone else, and instead of seeing it as a weakness, I’m admiring it as a form of my influence. His cheeks are pink and his lips are slick with spit, but it balances nicely with the vibrant, angry blue of his eyes and the sweaty blond hair brushing his forehead. It’s a nice combination that speaks to his level of stirred thoughts; part of him likes this, but most of him hates it because I’m the puppeteer.

I’ll take both as a win.

Leaning back a little more just to feel the clamp of his legs around me, I inhale his hypocritical thoughts and meet his eyes. “True or false? You don’t want to break the curse on your family now that Remi is safe because you like the thrill of not knowing if you’ll kill yourself or not.”

“False.”

I lean back as far as I can go, strangling him by doing nothing more than shifting my body weight and dragging him with me. The rope digs in under his chin, making his blue eyes bug out. “Don’t lie to me, Sauder.”

His mouth gapes open like a fish out of water. Funny, because the last time his mouth gaped open like this, he was drowning in the pond under the weight of my body. When his forehead turns red and his arms start to slacken, I let up, leaning forward.

“True. Maybe. I don’t know.” He sucks in air and coughs in my face.

Good enough. I let his legs down, and he sighs in relief when his toes can balance on the counter again. “True or false? You think you’re perfect.”

“True.”

“Which parts of you are perfect?”

He hesitates, unsure about lying to me again so soon. He doesn’t know what else I’ll do, and my threat to make his body admit the truth is weighing heavily on his choices. That part will come soon enough.

“The parts I let the world see.”

I smile at that. Aren’t we the same that way? Perfectly prettied up for whoever looks at us, ugly as fuck behind our well-placed masks.

“True or false? You like the idea of being taken against your will because you’ve never known someone strong enough to do it.”

He swallows hard, his throat echoing to join the lulling music. “False.” When I tilt my head at him, he curses under his breath. “False.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

I reach forward, watching him try to tip-toe away from me. He doesn’t get far enough before the noose cuts in, making him stop. I pop the button of his pants open and look straight into his eyes as a threat that I won’t stop here if he doesn’t admit the truth.

“Fuck! Not taken against my will,” he seethes at me. “But maybe like… someone who can handle my roughness.”

I undo the zipper.

“The fuck?! That was the truth.” His knee comes up, but I back away before it connects with my thigh. “Someone who can handle my level of rough and pushes it even harder. Who doesn’t stop when I say no.”

There. That’s better. Taken against his will, just like I said. I grin at him, offering myself up on a silver platter if he wants to be bold enough to fucking beg for it. “Wasn’t too long ago you threatened to rape me if my brother raped yours again, right?”

“Maybe I’ll make good on that promise.”

“Love to see you try, sweetheart.”

“Stop fucking calling me that!” He kicks out, knocking a display case off the counter. Pamphlets for music lessons and brochures for Moros’ townwide music festival scatter across the floor. “I’m not your fucking sweetheart.”

He is, so I smile at him. My charming one. He falters for a second, almost falling for it, but he fortifies his illusion, seals his cracks, and continues to glare at me with all the rage he wants to expel but doesn’t have the power to right now. Because I took his power away, and I’ll continue taking it away until he learns to fight differently. Until he learns that his power comes from somewhere else.

“True or false?” I push on his chest, making him swing a bit. When he drifts back to me, I fist his shirt in my hand and bring us nose to nose. “Your pride is the only thing preventing you from admitting you want me.”

He laughs in my face, and there he is, my fucking sweetheart. I love when he laughs because it means he’s at his most deranged. When he laughs, he’s there, on that precipice of sanity and insanity, eager to tip the scales and let himself loose upon me.

“The only thing I want from you,” he coughs, “is for you to keep fucking trying so I can keep fucking winning. You think you’re in control here?”