taste | e.d

bonus chapter 2

Ethan

The first thing I do when I get home is drop the girl on the couch, face down so her blood doesn't stain the cushions.

My hands shake as I slip my gun out from under the waistband of my jeans. Did I have to shoot him? Did I have to break his fucking arm?

Who am I?

I drop the gun on the counter and pick the girl up again, wincing when I feel the sweat that makes my sleeves stick to my arms.

Blood, I correct myself. It's blood, not sweat. Maybe both.

I set her down on the bed of the guest room. No one has slept here in a while. I guess it's okay for her to.

As I watch her lie there, motionless, breathing softly, I realize that I can't leave her like that. She'll wake up to a torn dress and blood all over the sheets. She'll wake up and relive the nightmare she barely escaped from. But the only way to get rid of that is to undress her. And from what I can see, she's not wearing a bra.

I've seen breasts before. They don't make me nervous. But I feel guilty at the fact that I don't even know this girl's name. And she's a virgin. It was pretty clear. She had a ring on her finger and she resisted the person that had obviously given it to her. She had to be one.

Virgins, on the other hand, do make me nervous. They always crave something more out of men, always living in fantasies of love and all that shit. And since I saved her, that's going to make things a lot worse.

I sigh and go to my room, stepping over to my closet. I snatch out a long white T-shirt I haven't worn in years. This should be okay.

I go back to the room and stand by the open door when I catch sight of her once more.

She is a beautiful disaster.

Even with her hair knotted and her lip slightly swollen and her dress in shreds, she is striking.

It's probably really inconsiderate of me to notice how pretty she is when she looks almost dead. But it must be difficult to maintain beauty in unconsciousness. I don't even want to know how she's going look when she wakes up in the morning.

I don't even want to know what her body looks like.

But I have to. Either that or I have to hear her screaming again when she wakes.

•••

The next morning, I find myself on the couch in the same clothes I had on yesterday. I can't really see the blood on the black fabric of the sleeve, but I can feel it, dried against my skin.

I'm not sure when I fell asleep—or how, since it's been almost impossible for the past week—but I remove my sweatshirt and the shirt under it, discarding it in the laundry hamper at the corner of my room. When I go to change my pants, I feel the solid rectangular form of Grayson's phone in my left pocket.

Shivering, I take it out and quickly put it in my drawer before I unlock it and haunt myself some more.

I've looked through every picture on that thing a thousand times. Old Instagram photos, screenshots of us with fans, funny Snapchat videos... Every memory he decided to keep from our old lives.

I have memorized every detail of the last photo he ever took.

I shake my head, snapping myself out of my daze. I decide to put on some loose gray sweatpants. I need to feel comfortable. I can't stand feeling confined, and these stupid clothes make me feel that way.