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Our sex is fierce. We will both be bruised. “I want it to always be like this,” I tell him. His nostrils flare, obsidian eyes mock. “Try holding on to that thought.” “I do not need to try. I will never feel differently.” “Ah, Mac,” he says, and his laughter is as dark and cold as the place of which I dream, “one day you will wonder if it’s possible to hate me more.”
“You should have been there!” I snarl, but I have no idea why. I was never at a church. I am shaking violently. I feel like I might explode. He drops to the floor on his knees in front of me and grabs my shoulders. “I know I should have!” he snarls back. “How the fuck many times do you think I’ve relived that night?”
Was he at the church? Was he?” He shakes me. “Answer me!” When I say nothing, he repeats in that strange multilayered voice he sometimes uses, “Was V’lane there when you were raped?” V’lane failed me, too. I needed him and he did not come. I shake my head.
