My Monster

Chapter Nine: I Hate It That I Love It

Chapter 9: I Hate It That I Love It

"Ouch."

"Hold still."

We're in the guest bathroom in the basement. Shawn Henderson is down on his knees on the fluffy pink bathroom rug, his chin raised up toward me, a look of manic desperation on his face.

I tap my finger against the bridge of his nose just to see him wince. Now that the blood's gone, I can tell it's swollen, but not too badly. Enough to give him the ruffled-up look, but not enough to make his face any less than legendarily handsome. There's barely even a bruise.

"Well?" he asks anxiously.

"Well what?" I straighten up and turn to wash my hands in the sink.

"Is it broken?" His voice squeaks slightly when he asks this.

"How the hell should I know? Do I look like an X-ray to you?" I look over my shoulder at him.

"You said you'd have a look." Shawn wobbles up to his feet. "I thought you had a way of telling."

I turn back to the sink to wipe my hands dry with a clean blue hand towel. "And I thought I'd have you down on your knees in front of me in less than three seconds."

I turn around to get out of the bathroom, but almost walk straight into Shawn's bare chest. His hands shoot forward to grasp the edge of the bathroom counter on both sides of my body, trapping me in the cage of his arms.

"Is that how you like it, Fee?" he asks in a low whisper. "Did that turn you on?"

When did he take off his shirt? I peer up at his face, and he looks down into mine. Neither of us wavers.

There's a raw red bruise on his abdomen below his ribs. I stab it with my finger, making him flinch away and gasp in pain.

"Out of my way, vodka-breath."

"You evil woman," he moans as I open the cupboard next to the door and throw a new toothbrush at him. It's one of those cheap ones they hand out on flights. My mom flies a lot for her job and always collects these airline freebies. I thought it was pointless, until today.

The corner of my mouth twitches upward. This may possibly be the first good deed of my life, but the whole time, I'm wishing I was evil enough to let Shawn rot in his car for the rest of the night.

"Clean T-shirt on the bed. Towels under the sink," I say, and look at my watch. It's 4:41. I can still get an hour's sleep before I have to wake up for school. "And Shawn?"

He looks at me, attentive and hopeful. It's hard for me to believe that I'm the only person he could turn to in a moment like this.

"Don't ever come to me again," I say, my words aiming to hurt. "I'm not your friend."

I'm about to leave the bathroom, but he pushes the bathroom door, preventing me from opening it. "That's not how you make it look," he says into my ear. "But I'll play along if that's what you want."

I yank the door open. He's going full force on me. It's clear to me he's changed his strategy. He's teasing me now only for the sake of getting a reaction out of me. The best thing I can do is ignore him.

So I don't say anything and walk out of the bathroom.

I cross the basement and start climbing the stairs. I hear the shower begin to run. I turn off the light and open the basement door.

And freeze. The creak of a floorboard in the living room alerts me that someone is up. I quickly close the door, leaving the smallest crack open so I can spy on the kitchen. Sure enough, I see my dad pacing back and forth with some notes in his hands as he reads, waving his arm in the air theatrically.