Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

80. MINDFUCK 🔥

PSA: Don't do drugs. And don't fall in love with villains.

His cold hand grabbed me by the shoulder, and calloused fingers hooked into my skin. I choked on a gasp as he spun me around, back arched like a startled cat.

"Where are you going?" asked Pablo.

"To bed," I muttered. "It's late."

He arched one eyebrow, and frowned with the other. "In which room?"

For once, it wasn't the cold wind that made my hair rise on end. Just the thought of finding myself alone with him, with my neck squashed between a cold wall and the palm of his hand, unable to scream for help or fight back, sent chills down my spine.

"I'd like you to stay with me," he said before I could answer.

"Why don't you ask one of the other girls?" I spat back. "You seemed like you were having fun with them."

His lips curled up into a smirk. "So you were paying attention."

The tips of his fingers slid down from my shoulder and wrapped around my elbow. I crossed my arms tight against my chest, and twined my legs together like a sour, stale pretzel.

"Of course I was paying attention," I muttered. "You were doing it right in front of me."

"How did that make you feel?" he asked, smiling as his thumb pinched the skin of my arm.

"Great, obviously," I scoffed. "I just love watching you lick someone else's titties."

"Really?"

I flashed a fake, deadpan grin, and hissed through my gritting teeth. "I'm happy when you're happy, Pablo."

His nails crawled up my wrist, prying my arm away from my chest, and he squeezed my knuckles in the palm of his hand.

"Then sleep in my room tonight," he said, his tone colder than the smile on his face. "It's more comfortable."

"And where are you going to stay?" I mumbled.

I could feel his joints cracking as his fingers forced their way between mine.

"Actually, we're going to a club, so you'll be able to rest without me for most of the night," he chuckled. "Unless you want to come with us."

"Clubbing? No thanks," I replied. "I'd rather redeem my pity points on a better offer."

"What do you mean, pity points?"

"Every time you do something horrible to me, you let me leave my room, or your house for a few hours, just so–" I said, pausing as one of Hernan's friends walked by. "Just so we can both pretend I'm free and that everything is fine. You do the most vile shit you can imagine, and in return, I get the bare minimum. That's what I call pity points."

He pretended to swallow a lump in his throat, gulping loudly to make me think he was sorry. He rubbed his thumb up and down my clammy fingers, rolling droplets of anxious sweat into plushy bits of grime.

"I'm sorry I lost control, Gordita," he whispered. "I feel terrible. I really do."

I answered with a dismissive nod of the chin and a lop-sided shrug.

"Is that why you spent the entire day trying to make things worse?" I snorted.

"Honestly, I thought you wouldn't care," he murmured, gently stroking the dirt off my hands. "But I'm glad you do. It gives me hope that we can fix things before I completely lose you."

I wanted to tell him that he'd never had me to begin with, that he'd just trapped me and pretended I was his, but even I knew that was a lie. There was a time, perhaps not so long ago, when he held a place in my heart– even if it was just a tiny sliver.