Pointed Gun

Care to repeat that?

Syncear

Who cares how I feel.

A whole lot of sadness and defeat matched with loads of other emotions took its course through me before I even had the chance to stop it. To consider whether or not any of it was tangible enough to make that feeling valid.

Until it wasn't.

Trying to decipher what I did wrong or why I deserved to be shoved aside so easily by the only other person who saw a side of me I refused to unmask for anyone else. Blair and I went way back. Try college buddies on for size and you would get a snippet of what I meant. Well, maybe college buddies weren't as significant as a childhood friendship or sharing the same womb, but, that didn't mean it meant any less. To me, at least.

Could Blair honestly believe anything she said? Telling me she didn't care as if saying she didn't care about me, or my problems. Making me look like the main problem factor in all this as if I wasn't the one that needed escaping. But she would never know that, simply because I would never come out of my mouth and say,

Blair help me. I'm a prisoner.

She will never understand.

Though that whole situation was one of the most difficult to playback in my mind, I pulled through. Clearly besides being a part of Boston's own childish games in order to rid of someone else.

If someone tried to make me believe that story, I wouldn't. Trust me, I'd believe pigs flying before I believed that bull.

Anyway, back at the restaurant, the conversation seemed to only revolve around our false relationship and his quote on quote sex scar, as if her mind couldn't get enough of hearing the exact words on replay even after the countless times one of the guys tried changing the subject to something a little less in Boston's business.

After a while of,—Ida, please—Boston grew tired of the questioning and decided to end our afternoon quite early. And thank gosh he did. Shifting under the scorching heat disguised as Ida's gaze from the moment we left the bathroom ruined my entire lunch. Eating around her made me uncomfortable as if somehow poisoning me came to easy to her.

Speaking on a friendlier conversation, Gavin and Ryder conducted most of our happier times during the evening. I thought against speaking altogether. Feeling as though whatever I said, Ida would always find a way to counteract it with a snarky reply and straight face.

Maybe a little mentally unstable would describe her. Maybe crooked off of whatever Boston gave her in the past has her hooked for life.

I rather not think about that, thank you.

Well, jumping back on the topic of the weirdly orchestrated day that was meant to be peaceful though, instead spiraled out of control, I expected nothing but the same once arriving at the dungeon I was confined in. From the moment Boston and I stepped foot back into the house, his whole personally reverted back to the person he once was. Yet colder, and bothered.

From the shift occurring so unexpectedly despite expecting it, I couldn't even tell who I was dealing with anymore.

He didn't reach for my hand like before,—not that I wanted it—. He didn't attempt to ask me how I felt after the restroom thing or even displayed an ounce of concern if tears left my eyes or not.