ᴀᴘʜʀᴏᴅɪᴛᴇ // $ᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇʙᴏʏ$

Chapter Thirty

APHRODITE

I didn't want Scott. I had to keep telling myself that, reminding myself that I couldn't be so twisted in the head as to want someone like him. To think that I would want Scott made me wonder if something was wrong inside my mind too. And to feel like there was something not quite right in my head made me feel like my mom.

I would rather die than end up just like my mom.

And to make all those thoughts go away, so I didn't feel as if there was any kind of traits inside me of the woman who had given birth to me, I told myself that the only reason I had responded to him the way I did was because my body had been reunited with the act of physical coupling again, and was craving for more after a while of remaining untouched.

I stared into the mirror in my room and rubbed my red lips together. "I don't want Scott." I said to my reflection and gave myself a brisk nod before leaving the room to go to the common area and gym of the warehouse. On the way out, I pulled my black sweater over my bare skin, in search of anything to occupy my time other than Scott.

I found it in the form of a small television in the common room of the warehouse I lived in. I had never noticed the TV before, I wondered if it had always been there or if it was new. No one else was around, Scott and the guys were most likely doing something I knew nothing about. I walked up to the black rectangle and turned it on, hoping that it was working. When it did, I realized that I'd been locked up in there for so long that I had absolutely no idea what had been going on with the outside world. I became somewhat excited when I pressed the buttons to flip through the channels, trying to find the news channel.

I feverishly took in all the information on the news, any information, just to hear what was going on in the state I had been closed off from for so long. My eyes feasted on everything, the weather reports, the news anchor's bad choice of dress suit, and even the commercials. For a moment, I forgot about where I was and simply watched TV.

And then, almost like a fist to the stomach, the top story of the night came on. The story they repeatedly replayed over and over because the news station believed the people of Louisiana had the right to know, was about a number of robberies and gang violence happenings in the last few months, and how far away the police department was to catching the person responsible. It said the police department believed that the suspect was Scott Arceneaux from New Orleans. And because I had no idea what he was up to when he left the warehouse, I drank in everything the news had to offer about him.

Then the news anchor reminded Louisiana of the disappearance of one particular woman. I winced a little when I saw my own face appear on the screen, and then my face paled considerably when I heard what the station had to report on me.

"Police are still searching for twenty-three-year old Aphrodite Dillon. The victim is believed to still be alive by the police department. While the police have refused to answer any further questions on the wellbeing of Aphrodite, outside sources tell us that she may be a torture and rape victim to the suspect of crimes throughout the city of New Orleans. If you or anyone else you know have any information on the safe return of Aphrodite Dillon, please contact the number listed below."

Great, I thought, and had no other choice but to accept what was being reported on the news. What on earth would they think if they knew the truth?

The next segment of the story told me of a man named Ryan Humphrey and his murder, and a police chase that followed where Scott, in a black Chevy truck, had opened fired at the police cars. And I remembered Scott speaking to the men about disposing of that very same truck.

I folded my arms and learned more on the investigation to bring Scott down, and learned more about the search for me. And when I heard the sound of those painfully familiar footsteps approach behind me, I did the same thing I'd been doing for days. I ignored him and continued to listen to the news.

I wanted to leave but stayed put as Scott stood beside me. I wanted to simply turn around and walk away but continued to watch the now faint sounds of the TV in front of me. I kept my gaze straight ahead, even when I knew he was looking at me, trying to pretend that he wasn't there and not causing my chest to tighten from his presence.

Scott reached up, his arm covered in the sleeve of his black long sleeve shirt and turned down the volume of the TV. The act annoyed me, but my pride kept me from dashing away, so I stayed and kept watching, kept listening to what he was doing when he wasn't with me. And when his hand was suddenly coming closer to my face, I held my ground and let him take the side of my face in his palm. He breathed softly as he turned my gaze towards his. I noticed his blonde dreads were very messy the way they got when he'd been wearing his black beanie all day.

It was the first time in days I had stared into those incredible blue eyes of his. I tried to ignore him but I couldn't look away as he held his hand against my cheek. I watched as his eyes took in my face, his gaze dancing over my skin the way his hands travelled over my body when he tried to make my anxiety go away. I remembered that day, the way I'd given in to human temptations because my body desperately wanted to feel the sensations again. I thought of the way I let him touch me, of the way I let him take my body. And finally, for the first time in days, I spoke to Scott because I felt I had to prove something to him, but maybe more to myself.

"I don't want you." I murmured to him, an unmoving resentment in my eyes I made appear so he would believe me, believe something I was trying to convince myself of so that I wouldn't feel as if something was wrong with me if it turned out to be a lie.

Scott gazed deeply into my eyes and watched my inner struggle, silently watched me squirm in the lie I'd been telling myself, watched as my lips slightly quivered.

"Yes, you do." He murmured back and trailed his fingertips down my face slowly.

Irritation settled in my eyes then, but I had yet to move away from him, or pull away from his touch. I scowled and allowed the soft caress of his fingers to move across my face. He is wrong, I told myself. He's wrong.

"I don't want you." I said again and threw him one last unforgiving look before walking away.