KINSLEY
Dying, as far as I can tell, really sucks. Not that I'd expected to fade gracefully away on a bed of roses or anything quite that fairy-tale-esque. But shouldn't there be at least a little bit more dignity involved? Puking your guts out with dirt caked beneath your fingernails hardly seems like the way to go.
"Get it all out."
I can feel something at my back. A strong hand holding me upright while more murky river water spews out of me. When I stop hacking up fluid, I glance to the side.
The man is crouched next to me, eyes furrowed in a permanent brood. There's something about his gaze that keeps me still, and it's not just the intense cobalt blue of his irises, glowing like they're lit from within.
It's an unblinking confidence, bordering on arrogance. It's a look that says, Stay there. I obey without thinking.
"Are you alright?" he asks in a voice that's deep, gravelly, harsh. It's as if he hasn't spoken in weeks and he dislikes the sound of his own words.
"The car..." I whisper, looking up at the bridge overhead. I can see the headlights slicing through the shadows, and when the wind blows, I hear the clink and rustle of the cans that my best friend Emma tied to the back, right underneath the hand-painted banner that says Just Married.
"The car is fine. You, not so much."
"I'm fine," I say breathlessly. But it's force of habit. Repeat a lie to yourself long enough and it starts to feel true. Either that or you just get too numb to keep seeing the difference.
"Are you, though?"
"I... I don't know how I am," I stammer.
I sound weak. I sound like the very thing I swore I would never become: a victim.
The man's eyes run over my body. I haven't gotten to the part yet where I ask him where the hell he came from and what on earth he's doing in the middle of an unremarkable stretch of woods on the outskirts of Hartford, Connecticut. He could be a vicious axe murderer, an alien, a mirage. Maybe all three.
But there's nothing in those blue eyes but curiosity. It's a removed kind of curiosity, though. His gaze doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. Not the way I've felt when other men look at me, at least. Like I'm a prize to be claimed. A meal to be eaten. Like I'm no better than a means to an end.
"You need to breathe," he observes suddenly.
Or maybe it's not sudden at all. But it feels like everything from the last few hours has been happening in horrifying slow motion, and it's just now catching up to normal speed again. The effect is like being abruptly slapped in the face.
I blink. "What?"
He leans a little closer. His eyes really are extraordinary. It's such a pure shade of blue. Nothing to muddy it. Just open sky, deep ocean, the very heart of a sapphire.
"You need to breathe," he says again.
There's a snap in his voice that carries natural command. But it's not unkind. Though I suspect it would only take a little effort on his part to change that.
"You're in shock. Open your mouth."
I frown. "What?"
He repeats it again. I watch his lips move in a sort of haunted detachment. I'm floating above all this, watching it happen from afar.
"Open," he says, raising his finger to my lips, "Your. Mouth."
The moment his fingertip touches my bottom lip, my mouth parts. It feels as though he's put a spell on me. I don't remember deciding to listen to him. I just do.
"Good girl. Now, breathe," he murmurs.
Air fills my lungs. I feel my chest expand and the world rush in with it. I can smell the woodsy scents of earth and musk and asphalt and animal.
Oh, sweet, sweet baby Jesus, I can breathe.
He drops his finger to his side. I feel a spark of disappointment at the absence of his touch, which doesn't make the slightest bit of sense.
"Who are you?" I ask quietly.
"I think the bloodstained woman in the wet wedding dress should answer that question first."
I frown, wondering for one wild moment what the hell he's talking about. Then I look down and see the cascades of flowing white silk. Now with a generous layer of river dirt caked into the bottom hemline.
Shattering glass.
Wild fury in his eyes.
The memory lunges at me out of nowhere. I try to back away from it in my head, but Tom's furious eyes keep getting bigger and bigger and the sound of shattering glass keeps getting louder and louder.
I force myself to my feet, determined not to lie in the dirt forever. That would just be confirmation of what I suspect I've always been: a broken thing. But as I try to get to my feet, I stumble.
"Careful there."
The man moves faster than I thought possible, grabs my arm, and just like that, I'm not stumbling anymore.
Just like that, he's holding me.
Just like that, I'm doomed.
He pulls me upright. There's no distance between us now. No foot of space to keep me comfortable. There's just my body against his and his eyes looking into mine.
When was the last time a man held me like this? Tom had, when we first started dating. But his body felt different. Insubstantial, in a weird sort of way. This man is made of muscle. Of presence. He radiates strength.
The way he holds me is different, too. Tom had been looking for something every time he touched me. This man is asking for nothing.
Instead, he's giving me everything I never knew I needed.
"I'm Kinsley," I say.
"Pleasure's all mine, Kinsley."
"Do you have a name?"
"Everyone has a name."
I frown. "That's not an answer."
He doesn't smile. And I can understand why. His features are uniquely suited to broodiness. His nose is so straight, I want to place my finger at the top and run it down the bridge.
"You're hurt," he observes.
He lifts his hand again. This time, he brushes the backs of his fingers against my right cheek. All I can feel is a tingly warmth spreading across my face.
