And I want to be the one to understand him.
I want to love him because I think that is all he really needs. Someone to actually, honestly understand and love him.
A few days ago, he gave me an old radio clock so I wouldn’t have to sit in silence anymore. I didn’t bother to ask him the time. To be honest, I’d rather keep the concept of time as one of those things I really have no notion of. I don’t know why, but just being able to watch the time tick by—I think that would push me over the edge. There’s some pop rock song playing loud enough that I barely hear the knock on the door.
I smile when I see Max step into the room. “Bought you something,” he says, holding up a book written by two authors I’ve never heard of.I clap my hands before holding them out. He places the paperback in my hand and I immediately flip it over, reading the synopsis toWicked Little Words.
“Thank you,” I gush as I thumb through the pages, breathing in the smell of the fresh ink.
“Yep, sounded like something you’d like. Absolutely fucked up and sick,” he says with a laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Because I care for you.”
“No, Max. Why are you here in your life? What made you do this—Earl, Bubba…whyare you helping them?” He won’t look at me, so I gently take his chin in my hands, much like he has done to me time and time again, and I lift his face. “Look at me,” I whisper. “I want to know who you are, why you are the way you are. I want to understand you.”
His brow creases for a brief second, his eyes narrowing. “I know nothing else.”
I feel a soft smile shape my lips. “Your eyes say differently.”
He glares at me, and I am uncertain whether it’s anger or confusion or something else entirely, but he’s thinking.
“When you fail those you love time and time again,” he says, taking a breath. “When shit like this runs through your blood like a goddamn virus, you have no choice. Sometimes good intentions are laced with pure evil.”
“You and your riddles.”
“I have my reasons, Ava. But even at that, even without Earl and all this shit, I was fucked up long before that. I told you the truth already, I like to kill, and what kind of fucking person enjoys that shit?”
Goosebumps prick their way over my arms like needles. This man is a murderer. He’s confessed twice that he enjoys taking people’s lives, which should make me hate him, but it doesn’t. “But you kill bad people, right?”
“Yes.”
“People that hurt other people?”
“Yes.” His eyes are locked on mine and I take his hand, bringing it to my lips and kissing it so tenderly.
“Then your heart is in the right place.” And I know how twisted that sounds, but I do believe it. We all have different convictions, and who am I to judge his? In a world like this, a person’s conscience changes. Right and wrong are not weighted by conventional measures. “You just need someone who understands it,” I whisper.
“You…” He starts to reach for me but stops, leaning over his knees and scratching his fingers through his thick hair.
“What’s wrong?” I scoot toward him and gently scratch my nails over his broad back.
“Nothing.” He yanks away from my touch. “Nothing,” he repeats, his tone growing agitated as he stands and paces the length of the room, stopping to lean against the far wall.
“Max…” Fear strikes my chest. What if Earl has told him he has to kill me, what if I am no longer an asset to them? My heart hammers in my temples, adrenaline jolting through my body.
He looks at me, his brow furrowed. “How do you feel… I need to know how you feel about…” Shaking his head, he trails off. I notice him swallow
The upbeat song on the radio fades out, and then the song “Unsteady” begins playing. An orchestra plays in the background. The pulsing sound of the strings and that man’s voice change the mood to something somber, regretful, grief-stricken—lost. The air grows tense. Max bites down on his lip, shakes his head once more, then crosses the room with determined strides. His stare pins me in place. The intensity burning behind his eyes causes my skin to prickle and my heart to leap to my throat. Dragging one hand through his thick hair, his brow creases into a torn expression as he closes in on me.
This is it. He’s going to kill me. To this song. In this room with his bare hands. And I thought I loved him…
I scoot across the bed until my back hits the wall and I swallow. Max stops in front of me, his eyes locked with mine. His gaze drops to my mouth and he closes his eyes on a groan. He grabs my face. His fingers scratch up into my hair, his palm resting over my cheek. Slowly, he tugs my face toward his until his mouth is merely inches from mine.
No words are spoken, they don’t need to be.
This is wrong. There’s something about him I know shouldn’t be humanly possible, yet there it is. Those dark eyes of his keep jumping from my eyes to my mouth, and when he leans in so slowly, my heart bangs against my ribs. The chorus of that song blares over the radio and this is one of those moments you know you will recall on your death bed. A pivotal moment where every single unlived breath of your life hangs in the balance.
