Skin of a Sinner: Chapter 31

ROUGH COTTON SCRATCHES AGAINST my cheeks as I turn over in bed. My back hurts. My ass hurts. My goddamn eyes hurt. I’m so sick of sitting in a freaking car.

Even with Roman and I’s fickle truce after he picked me up from the station, things are still tense. I’m not ready to go back to where we were before he went to prison or even before I almost got kidnapped.

But he’s trying to make it up to me; I know he is.

After a lot of arguing last night, he respected my wishes to let me have a bed all to myself. Trying to fall asleep while he watched me from his spot on the chair was unnerving, but I managed to, eventually. Part of me thinks he only agreed to keep his hawk eyes on me to ensure I don’t run again.

I honestly wasn’t sure how I got away yesterday morning. He’s a light sleeper, and he’s become worse since he came back. I guess prison changed him after all.

Peeling my eyelids back, I survey the room, searching for Roman. The bathroom door is open, and all our stuff is still here. He probably went off to get breakfast. I guess he thinks leaving me is a show of trust or something.

But I admit, it’s unlike him to be out of bed before nine-thirty in the morning.

Whatever, he’ll be back whenever he’s back.

Yawning, I rub sleep out of my eyes as I crawl out of bed, ready to use all the hot water. I reach for one of the duffle bags on the floor—they all look the same, so it’s a guessing game to figure out which is mine.

Kneeling on the floor, I stretch and click out my rigid joints before unzipping the bag to get a change of clothes. Various shades of dark clothes spill out of the bag as I search for a pair of underwear and a fresh shirt before I realize that I’m looking through Roman’s bag.

Just as I’m about to place the contents back in, my fingers wrap around something solid. Frowning, I pull it out and inspect the stack of envelopes tied together by rubber bands. Needles prickle my throat as nervousness fills my body. It’s addressed to me.

Tentatively, I remove the bands and pick up the first letter, seeing it ripped open already. Right in the corner is a stamp: UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY. Every single letter has the same return and sending address.

My heart slams against my chest, unsure if I should pull it out. Why does Roman have this? Why is it addressed to me? Who opened it?

I glance around as if he might have materialized out of thin air to answer my questions, but it’s just me and the stack of letters calling my name.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the first envelope and unfold the letter, reading the scratchy handwriting.

Dear Isabella,

What’s up Princess,

Ignore the first line. I didn’t realize how hard it was to figure out how to start a letter. Shit’s too formal. I should warn you that this is the first time I’ve written without auto-correct in over a year so if you see any spelling mistakes, no, you didn’t.

And ignore the shitty handwriting because if you didn’t know, I got shot (like, literally, with an actual gun and bullet). Don’t freak out though, I’m alright. Now. I wasn’t for half a second there. I had a half decent doctor and a couple decent nurses. And don’t get jealous, I’ve been waiting on you to give me a sponge bath (I didn’t realize how much I used the winky face emoji until now).

Anyways, you’ve probably been wondering where I’ve been (and I refuse to believe that you know where I am but you’re intentionally ignoring me). Just know that I haven’t left you, and I’ll be back to being your loyal bodyguard/ man-servant/ chef/ hair stylist/ guinea pig/ art supply dealer/ soulmate/ human heater/ sexy taxi driver in three years.

There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it:

It fucking S U C K S in here. And my chest hurts like a bitch all the time. But what sucks even more is that I don’t have your pretty face and your sweet voice to make my day anymore. Which leads me to my next point. You changed your phone number? What the fuck? I expect a letter ASAP with your new number.

Okay, my chest is starting to hurt too much to write. I expect to see your cute little butt on Saturday when we can have visitors.

Congratulations btw, you now have a prison pen pal.

From your one and only,

M.

P.S. Marry me? We can have conjugal visits.

A lone tear drops onto the paper, making the rough black ink bleed all over the page. He really did try to get in touch with me. He didn’t forget about me.

I suck in a sharp breath. Roman told me Marcus and Greg took the letters he wrote, and I never thought twice about what he said. I could’ve asked about them, or checked if he took them so the police wouldn’t connect the dots to him so easily. But as always, I’ve been too caught up in myself.

I pick up the next letter.

Hello Isabella,

I’m mad at you, so you don’t even get any nicknames right now.

Firstly, what the fuck? I’ve sent you four letters now and you haven’t responded to a single one of them. No, “Hi Mickey, I missed you so much. Can’t talk right now!” or “My darling Mickey, oh dear! Are you okay?” from you? Literally nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Come to think of it, there’s no ‘secondly’. You haven’t answered my calls or visited me. Even this fucker named Damien came to visit me. I almost turned down his visit in case you showed up, but guess what? You didn’t.

WHY.

WON’T.

YOU.

ANSWER.

ME?

Someone tried to stab me today, and they came real fucking close to killing me because I could barely move my arms. Do you even care?

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m healing great after my wound got infected. Thanks for asking. Really appreciate that, Isabella.

I’ll probably forget about how mad I am at you if you respond. But you better have a really damn good reason for the radio silence.

The only time I get to talk to you is in my dreams, and that’s not good enough for me anymore. I want the real thing. I want the real you.

I fucking miss you, Bella.

Respond to me. Please.

Yours,

Mickey.

P.S I’m still serious about the conjugal visits. Say the word and I’ll get it arranged ASAP.

There’s no stopping the tears streaming down my face.

We both suffered. I haven’t stopped for one second to think what it was like for him for the past three years. I’m not the only one who felt like life was ripped away from me, and I’m so unbelievably selfish for being so goddamn self-absorbed.

The next letter I pick up is dated earlier this year.

Are you okay? Thunderstorm was really bad, and I know how scared you get.

Please reply so I know that you’re alright.

He never forgot about me. He didn’t even try to move on, and here I was, spending the past three years trying to forget about him.

There’s no order to the letters, because the next one I open is two years old.

Someone thought it was a good idea to play Disney on TV in a room full of thugs. We watched Mickey Mouse. It made me think of you.

Everything makes me think of you.

Why didn’t Mickey give me these sooner? Why didn’t he remind me about them?

I just won two and a half grand in a bet. Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere as soon as I’m out of here.

I chuckle through my tears as I pick up the next letter. My heart crumbles, the padding falling out and the cracks splitting wider.

8160 hours.

365 days.

52 weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.

Happy birthday, Isabella.

I’ve been learning how to sketch portraits. It’s not much, but the drawing at the back of this page is my gift to you.

I love you, Princess.

I wish I could hear your voice. Or that you’d write to me. That would be my birthday wish. That’s the only thing I want.

I choke on a sob, giving up on trying to keep my tears from spilling onto the parchment. He’s bled for me while I’ve cried for him. We’re nowhere near even. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s willing to bleed for me until the day he dies, and he’ll spend the rest of his life keeping the tears out of my eyes.

I have an idiot cellmate who gave me an early birthday present in the form of a prison tattoo. Can you guess what it is?

That must be Rico.

Why didn’t I try harder to find him? Why didn’t I even consider the possibility that he might be in jail?

That was stupid. I don’t know why I asked you to guess.

I’ll just tell you the answer: I wanted to carry a part of you.

It hurts.

It all fucking hurts.

There must be at least a hundred letters in this pile.

I don’t even know why I still bother sending you letters. You probably don’t even read them. You’re eighteen now and most likely far away from Greg’s house. I’ve been lying in bed wondering what you’re doing now, which colleges you applied to, and what you’re planning on studying. Or if you are still deciding what you want to do.

You’re so smart, I know you’ll be amazing at whatever you put your mind to.

I knew you’d worry about paying tuition, so I’ve been saving for when you decide if you want to go. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine too. I just want you to know that it’s there when you need it.

Just respond whenever you can, I guess.

I miss you.

M.

Hidden in the corner behind the bed, I stop breathing as I read the next letter.

They put me in the box yesterday.

As soon as they put me in there, my first thought was, “At least I can see Bella after this.” Then as the minutes—or maybe hours—went on, the voices got louder. They wouldn’t stop. No matter how much noise I made, they made more.

It’s worse than I remembered.

I wanted to die, Bella.

Thoughts of you were the only thing that pulled me through. But I couldn’t stop thinking about this one question. Do you think about me anymore, or have you forgotten?

I tried telling myself that there will be a letter from you waiting for me once I crawl out of Hell. But I should have known better, because I know the answer.

You’ve forgotten about me.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I sob into my arms.

I don’t deserve him. I never have. I never will. I’ve taken him for granted; he should never forgive me for how terribly I’ve treated him.

I want you to know that even if you don’t miss me, you have been the only thing on my mind since I met you. Bars will never change that.

“Bella, what’s wrong?”

I snap my head up to the door, and a second later, I’m on my feet. Nothing else registers until I crash into his arms. Sandalwood and cinnamon soak into my skin, but I need more of him. My fingers find a home in his hair to draw him closer until there isn’t an inch of space between us. “I’m so sorry. You must hate me. I’ve been awful to you. Mickey—Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I cry against his lips.

Pulling away, deep gray eyes bore into mine, the corners creased with worry. “Bella, what happened? Talk to me.”

I nod frantically. “I will. Whenever you want.”

I lean into his touch when he cups my face, and I hold his gaze. All he’s ever done is support me, and it’s time I support him too. “Why are you crying? Who do I need to kill?”

I bark out a breathy laugh, sniffling as I wipe my cheek. “The letters.”

He pales. “You…”

Pressing forward, I thread my fingers through the silky strands of his hair as my broken heart beats for the man in front of me. “Why didn’t you show them to me sooner?”

His forehead leans against mine, and I hug him tighter. I just want to hold him so he knows how sorry I am for being so selfish. All I’ve done is look out for myself when he looks out for me every day. But who takes care of him? Who makes sure he’s alright?

The answer is no one, and I promise to never let him feel that way again. Because I know what it feels like, and I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.

“I didn’t want you to feel bad.”

“You could have shown it to me back at the Horror House,” I insist. I probably would have fought him less or gone with him more willingly. I think.

“The Horror House?” he questions, then shakes his head. “The letters aren’t important.”

“How could they not be important?”

He lifts a shoulder. “What we have can’t be simplified down to a couple of letters, Bella. I want you to want me because you’re everything I need.”

My skin prickles along with the hot tears. “I can’t give you anything.” I’ve never been able to. Mickey has always been the one to provide for me, chase the monsters away so I can sleep easier at night. All I’ve ever been able to truly give him is my fractured heart.

“You’re all I want.” His soft lips brush against mine, and I don’t hesitate to chase them. But it hurts because, even though I know he would never leave, I could have been so much better to him.

“I can’t give you dinner at six. I can’t wear a pretty dress and be as beautiful as you think I am, when all I want to do is disappear underneath the covers. I’m not this sensual goddess that can give you sex appeal.” Gesturing to the fraying bed behind me, I say, “I can’t even give you clean sheets.” I don’t know what it’s like to live when I’m not under a thumb, scared of the creaks in my own home.

“Who said I want any of that?”

“Everyone wants that,” I whisper, suddenly doubting why I’m still fighting him, when all I’ve ever really wanted to be is complete and by his side.

Hands curl around the backs of my thighs, lifting me so I wrap my legs around his waist. The stiff bed groans as he lies me down, towering over me as he runs the back of his knuckles along my jaw and whispers against my lips. “I want every single thing you are willing to give. I want takeout with you at midnight. Sleep-ins and sleepless nights. I want you crying, and I want you smiling, no matter the reason for either of those two things. I just want you, Isabella, whether it’s on an unmade bed or the forest floor. You’re all I need.” He kisses my wet cheeks. “You don’t know what I want, even though you’ve already given me everything I need.”