In the Arms of a Villain

18

We breeze lasts the tunnel. They didn't even fucking stop us. I was stressed for nothing. Well, not nothing. We ditched her ex husbands car.

I've been listening. Watching for him. I don't think they've discovered his body. Guess he wasn't really loved.

We made it through. We settle down again, another night in a hotel. She's been quiet. Very quiet. Sometimes it bothers me. Sometimes it doesn't.

When she moves, sometimes it's like slow motion to me. Isn't that fucking stupid? And other times it's like she's not even there.

I smoke a cigarette, reclining. She sits on the floor, counting the money we made on the way here.

She's in nothing but an old shirt of mine, her hair pulled back in a puff, eyes focused, mouth counting each dollar.

I watch her carefully. I guess is this one the moments she's in slow motion. Everything she does...

Fuck. I just don't want her love anymore. I want to kill her. Sometimes, I watch her, and I see blood coming from I'd give her. But I never know how I...feel about it.

I can never tell. But she's beautiful. Even in blood. Especially in blood.

"How much is it?" I ask.

"If we actually pay the hotel this time? 3 grand."

She folds the money in rubber bands, stashing it in her breast. I smirk. Yeah, no one will find it there.
She sits beside me, and I offer her my cigarette. She takes a hit, and so I do.

"You're still mad at me?" I smirk, looking up at the stucco ceiling.

"I was never mad at you," she sighs.

I put the cigarette out on the table. "Come here," I tell her.

She crawls over top of me, sitting on my lap. I kiss her. She's in my thoughts a lot. I've been counting them. It's an obsessive amount. More than I think of anything.

I don't like that.

"I love you," she whispers against my lips.

I fucking hate you. "I love you," I smile, pulling my shirt over her head.

I settle my hands on hips. Even if I hate her, there's no one like her. No one on this earth. She's the most perfect thing on this earth.

She looks at me under lashes. "You do?"

I nod. "Yeah."

No. I don't really understand that concept. In fact, as far as emotion goes, contempt, and hatred are all I really feel.

All I've ever felt. And amusement at times.

But if I tell her that my life will get harder and who the fuck wants that?

"Did you like him?" I ask out of the blue.

"Who?"

"The man...your husband."

She blinked and then shrugged. "I don't think I had any feelings toward him either way. But he was nice enough—"

Anger is rising in me. Why did I ask that question? I don't like her talking about other people. And I don't like the fact he existed. She looks at the mirror. You can see into the bathroom from here, her reflection in its mirror.