UNORTHODOX | KAI PARKER

XIII .GUILT.

Chapter 13

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The long and tedious car journey back to the Parker household is quiet, but not in a bad way. Not the hostile environment from our previous car ride— with awkward silence, snide remarks, and the silent treatment. It's... it's a nice quiet. Comfortable. If you ignore the fact that I'm internally losing my fucking mind, that is.

My heart continues to palpitate in my chest, threatening to burst from my ribcage, and my lips positively tingle. As if they've been electrocuted. The scene from his dad's office replays on my mind. Over and over and over again. A mocking piece of film reel whirring by. Because what the actual fuck was that about?

I sneak a glance to the culprit of such feelings in the driver's seat, observing his features and any potential change. Any give to what he's feeling. If he's feeling anything at all, that is. If he actually cares about what happened. The sun glimmers on his cheekbones, blue eyes reminiscent to that of sun illuminating ice on a sunny, winters day, and his fingers drumming on the wheel in time to the music. The way his lips murmur the words to Green Day, whether he would ever admit to singing along, and how his tongue flicks out to moisten his bottom lip has me almost enamored.

I rip my gaze from him once I catch myself, a heat rising to my cheeks as I stare out the window. A part of my brain is screaming at me. Throwing every little insult it can muster up in my direction. He's a murderer. He tried to murder my best friend and succeeded in murdering her siblings. His siblings. A sociopath. Someone who doesn't feel empathy, or remorse, or love. But as the sound of his fingers thrumming against the leather, and the soft vibrations of him humming along to She, hits my ears— the swirling feeling in my stomach returns.

And a switch flips.

Suddenly, the... feeling that's been fluttering in my stomach and creeping up my chest the past few days makes so much sense. The deep conversations whispered into the depths of the night. Or conversed during our monotonous car journeys. The soft touches, whether it be me tracing figure eights across his arm, or playful slaps and shoves. Him draping his legs across me without a care in the world. Him pressing the tip of his joint to mine, lacking any hesitation. The way his eyes fluttered closed when the smoke travelled from my lungs to his. His diablerie, accompanied by the flirtatious remarks. Winks. Pet names.

Somehow, some fucking way, the sociopath has managed to get under my skin and I'm unable to shake him and... and I'm not sure I want to. I don't know what that says about me, if it says anything at all, but for once — for fucking once — I'm not disgusted by my feelings. Or ashamed. Or guilty. It's refreshing.

But why would he? Why would he... why would he do that? To fuck with me? Play with me. He's made it more than conspicuous that he enjoys fucking with me, enjoys frustrating me. But why that? What straight guy would passionately make out with another guy just because he fucking can? Because he's a sociopath?

It's illogical. But, who said the impulsivity of the sociopath was ever logical in the first place?

I blow out a cool stream of air as the car comes to a stop outside of the Parker household, and push the jumble of thoughts to the back of my brain to rationalise later. Kai steps out of the car, not giving me a second look. I sink back into the seat, throwing my head back against the headrest and squeezing my eyes shut. Why the fuck would I let this happen?