There’s nothing I hate more than running.
And it’s not only because of the physical activity of it, the shortness of breath, or the screaming of the muscles demanding I end the torture.
It’s the memories that come with running.
Knox and I ran as hard as our small feet could carry us when we decided Mum’s roof wasn’t the one we’d stay under.
We ran and ran in the dirty streets. We ran after we stole food from the market. We ran after we heard a policeman’s whistle, even if we hadn’t done anything. In our small minds, we believed the police would find us for the stolen food and take us back to Mum.
It would’ve happened. We could’ve been forced to go back.
We didn’t because we ran.
Naturally, all my memories of running are rubbish. Whenever I think about running, my brain fills up with fucked-up shit like maybe now we’ll get caught, maybe now they’ll take us back to Mum and she’ll make me do—
I shake my head as I forge on in the park. I stopped counting how many hours I’ve been running. I pause for water and to catch my breath, but the moment I can run again, I do that. I run.
I let my legs lead me somewhere out of this place. It’s transported me back to Birmingham, provoking loathsome memories and shit I don’t want to think about, but it also eradicates the present.
It erases the predicament I’m in — or rather, that’s what I like to think.
I stop, throwing my body on a bench, and a cat hisses then jumps away, glaring at me for disrupting his peace.
My breathing is jagged and choppy and out of control. I retrieve a towel from my bag and wipe my forehead.
The night has turned into morning and it’s now the afternoon. It’s been an entire day since I last had human interaction.
At least with humans I know.
I spent the night running, then I went to the forest and ran some more, and now I’m back to the park.
Dad and Agnus already know, but they probably didn’t expect me to be gone for an entire day. That’s why I chose a night they were spending working in the office.
Even if they do figure it out, they’ll understand. They know I need this.
My therapist used to call it a coping mechanism. I call it purging.
You know, human beings are like sponges. They soak up so much, and there comes a time when they have to expel those feelings so they don’t suffocate — or worse, snap.
I need to purge more than the average person because when that darkness creeps in, I can’t shut it out. I can’t look the other way and pretend it’s not happening and the world can go on.
That type of darkness not only glides under my skin, it also possesses my head and puts crazy ideas in there, like maybe, just maybe waiting isn’t the greatest tactic. Maybe I should make them feel how I felt before I stopped feeling altogether.
Maybe the shadow on my shoulder will finally stop crying.
But no. I can wait. If I suffered, he can suffer.
If I bled, he’ll bleed.
My heart rate escalates at those thoughts, and I’ve never hated my heart the way I do now.
Despite all the purging, I can’t get those stupid brown eyes out of my head. I can’t chase him away from my thoughts.
The harder I run, the faster he barges in. The longer I torture myself physically, the more I yearn for his hands on me, feeling me, touching me, owning —
I shake my head and take out my phone. Ronan Astor is an arsehole, and that’s all there’s to it.
I power on my phone to send a text to Knox and let him know I’ll come back later.
When my screen lights up with a few texts, I’m not surprised. Elsa and Knox tend to worry even when I make sure to tell them where I’m going beforehand.
Elsa: Kim and I are having a girls night if you want to join.
Knox: Why didn’t you tell me you disappeared? I had to hear about it from Dad. You’re losing twin privileges, sis.
Knox: Text me back that you’re okay.
I reply to both of them, thinking I’m done with texts, but then a dozen other messages appear at the top.
My heart does that stupid thing whenever his name comes into view. God, what’s wrong with me?
The first text was an hour after I left school.
Ronan: When I told you to figure out your mistake, I meant to figure out your fucking mistake, not get together with Cole. Spoiler alert: that made your situation way fucking worse.
He sent another text soon after.
Ronan: Where are you? Why is your phone turned off?
He laid off for an hour before sending another one.
Ronan: Teal, don’t fuck with me or I’m tying you the fuck down when I find you. Answer your damn phone.
Ronan: If this is your version of playing hard to get, it’s working. Reply to my texts or answer my calls. We need to talk. Stat.
His next text was a few hours later, at eight.
Ronan: Do you know where I am? At the Meet Up. You’ve been here before, but do you know the story behind it? It’s the place Aiden inherited from his dead mother. It’s the only place where we get to be ourselves and just talk. Usually, I’d do most of the storytelling. I’m not talking right now, though. I’m thinking about you while smoking weed and contemplating the perfect way to get away with murder and if I can melt Cole’s corpse with acid. No idea what that makes you, but it’s something close to being the cause of murder. If you don’t want to become one, how about you answer me?
My lips curve in a smile before I can stop it. He has a way of making you feel like you’re there with him. I can absolutely imagine him being a bastard about what happened with Cole, but it’s not like he’s innocent in the whole thing.
The following text came soon after.
Ronan: What’s with all the purging Knox mentioned? What are you doing? I just confirmed that the fucker Agnus is with Ethan at the company or I would’ve cut a bitch. You’re not at the club either. That’s a good save, for your sake, not mine. Why do you need to purge? And I can’t stress this enough, but fucking answer me.
I bite my lower lip, my heart beating fast and loud. I can’t believe Knox told him that. It’s supposed to be our secret. Why does everyone think Ronan is good to be privy to my life?
Myself included, because even now, I’m tempted to reply to that text and come clean about all the shit I think about when I’m in this mental state.
He has that effect on me, Ronan, the type where I want to bare myself and just be out there with him.
Which is the worst thing that could happen to someone like me with someone like him.
I might have snagged this arranged marriage, might have fought tooth and nail for it, but the truth remains: he’s an earl’s son.
I’m a prostitute’s offspring.
A few hours later, at night, another text comes from him.
Ronan: You’re infuriating — has anyone ever told you that? You’re so infuriating it’s on another level. You’re so infuriating I’m tempted to do shit to you. But I don’t have you here with me, so I’m rubbing one out in your honour, ma belle. I’m jerking off to the memory of your lips wrapped around my dick as I fucked your face like the other time. When I see you again, I’m fucking you whole.
My mouth hangs open and the cold air forms goosebumps on my skin. I can’t fight away the image of Ronan masturbating, and not only masturbating, but masturbating for me.
When did I become such a fan of male masturbation? And not any male — him.
Another text came this morning.
Ronan: I didn’t sleep because of you. Happy now? I’m not. Happy, I mean. Lars isn’t happy either because I made him stay up all night listening to me spouting rubbish. He’s writing about me in his little black book and hid my stash of weed. No more weed for me at home. It’s all because of you, belle. I’m going to take it out on your pussy the next time I see you, which better be in the first class of the day at school.
An hour later.
Ronan: You’re not here. Why aren’t you here? And why do Elsa and Knox think it’s fine that you’re purging or what-the-fuck-ever? You better answer me or I swear to fucking God…
Ronan: Okay, that sounded threatening. I don’t want to threaten you, but I fucking will if I have to.
Ronan: That text didn’t help my case, but fuck it. If no one told you, I don’t stop, so I’ll search and find you, and yes, that sounds stalkerish, but fuck it again. I’m finding you and punishing you.
I scroll to the next text as if my hands are on fire. Reading the progress from angry to pleading and back to angry touches something inside me. It’s a feather-light touch, but it’s deep and raw and all I want is more.
The next text is a few hours later.
Ronan: Okay, fine. I shouldn’t have threatened that stunt with Claire and her friend. I don’t even know her name. I think I fucked her once, but if I don’t remember her name, she’s clearly forgettable. Anyway, that’s not the point. I never planned to go through with it. The sex part, I mean. I wanted you to come clean, so how about you do that, and then I’ll fuck this whole messed-up day out of our memories?
I narrow my eyes. If he doesn’t remember Claire’s friend’s name but remembers Claire’s, does that mean she’s a memorable fuck?
Damn. I can’t believe that’s the only thing that remained in my mind after that entire text.
Ronan: I visited your house again. Agnus was there. I threw his phone in the rubbish bin. Knox told me I’m being childish, and I told him to fuck off. (Btw, I burned Cole’s newest book toy yesterday too. I had two accomplishments in less than twenty-four hours.) If you didn’t look at Agnus with those damn smiley eyes, I could’ve spared his phone, but oh well, RIP phone. What do you see in that creep anyway? Elsa says he’s a psychopath, like a real one who manipulates people and has no emotions.
Ronan: Wait…is that your type? Is that why you were with Cole? Come on, pick a type — daddy kink or psycho kink.
Ronan: I’m better than both. Just saying.
I laugh out loud then hide the sound with the back of my hand. He’s an anomaly. A serious one.
And he’s the only one who makes me laugh even when he doesn’t intend to.
The next text came two hours ago.
Ronan: It’s been exactly twenty-four hours since you disappeared on me. Congrats on the ghosting effort, but it’ll come to an end. I’m going to hire a PI and even the MI6 to find you. Brace yourself.
His last two texts came an hour ago.
Ronan: I’m at the Meet Up and I kicked everyone out to smoke weed and think about you in peace. I miss you and I’m going to fuck you when I find you, my crazy belle. Oh, and my calls have started with the PI. I’m going to convince Ethan to file a missing person report. You’re going down.
Ronan: I fucking miss you, though.
My chest squeezes so hard after reading the last words, so hard I’m surprised my heart doesn’t tear out of my ribcage and jump out of its confinement. How can he say words like that so easily, as if he was always meant to say them to me?
How can he get to me so effortlessly when no one else could?
I stand up before I even realise it. This time, I don’t pretend it’s normal or that it’s a phase.
It’s not, and I’m completely fine with it.
I’m completely fine with Ronan finding me and punishing me and everything in between.
Because the truth is, he’s not normal, and neither am I.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s completely fine.
