“Why don’t you ever talk about your father?” I asked, looking up. The blacks of his eyes had swallowed the green parts.

“It’s hard for me.”

“Well, do you feel like talking about it, with me?”

Jack was silent for a moment. “I guess.” He paused; he seemed to be searching for the right words. “Apparently he wasn’t a very nice guy. I don’t remember him, but my brothers were older, so they do.”

He spun me in a circle under his arm, pulling me back in close.

“He was pretty abusive to my mom. He was a mean drunk.”

He dipped me low, and held me there.

“Anyway, he got involved with the wrong people and ended up in prison.”

He pulled me back upright.

I wanted so desperately for him never to hurt again. I stopped. “Jack, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” He looked past me. He was sucking on the inside of his cheeks, the concaves and ridges barbarically pronounced. “You know, I’ve never told anyone that before.”

I pressed my cheek against his, feeling the scratch of his stubble. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.”

Eventually, we flopped on the sofa, but just as we settled, the chemicals peaked again.

I jumped up. “Let’s do something to remember this night.”

I grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, lit one, and passed it to Jack.

“Burn me.” I inched toward him. “So we’ll always remember.”

His smiling eyes darkened as he stood up.

“I want you to mark me.” I felt the drumming between my legs now. “I want to be only yours.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, taking a long draw on the cigarette and attempting to ash into an empty beer bottle. He missed and it landed on his bare foot.

“So sure.” Pushing up my sleeve, I presented him with my forearm.

“Okay, but if it hurts too much, scream ‘bananas’ and I’ll stop.”

Laughing, I bent to brush the ash from his foot. “Why ‘bananas’?”

“I don’t know, it seemed like a good safe word.”

The room was breathing, expanding and shrinking in my peripheral vision. I grabbed onto the sofa with one hand. “I’m ready.”

I felt the heat as he drew the cigarette close and pressed the tip into my soft skin.

I withstood the pain for a second, then recoiled, squealing and shaking my arm before blowing on the wound. I glanced at Jack, his gaze shifting from my arm to my eyes. The smell was horrible—like rotting beef in a frying pan.

“Fuck, that hurts.” I smiled. The throbbing between my legs had somehow connected with this fresh pain. The current travelled, pulsating from my forearm to my pussy.

“Good girl.” He stroked my hair, admiring his creation.

Chapter 19

I spent most summer days with Annabelle, playing in the unkempt field alongside our house. We’d pretend it was a jungle, amusing ourselves with games of hide-and-seek, Ring-Around-The-Rosie, or make-believe we were contortionists in the circus, practicing cartwheels and bridges until we collapsed, side by side, giggling and exhausted.