Fakemates

Chapter Ten

Evelyn and I wouldn't work. We had too many variables, more cons than pros. The hot pelts of the shower hitting my back did nothing to release the tension in my muscles or relieve the stress forming knots in my shoulder .

The good thing to do was just to end it. To take Evelyn out of the equation and tell her that her secret was safe with me.

That way, I would stop hurting her, and she could be free from me and the anxiety and heartache I'd only give her.

I didn't know how to do anything else or offer anything besides pain and suffering. Growing up in that orphanage, the only emotions you feel are solitude and rejection.

Sometimes, they overlap, and sometimes it feels like just one big ball of emotion. It bubbles up inside of me, and at times, I feel like it's going to fucking explode.

It didn't matter that I got adopted or was doing good in school and had Nick in my life to keep me centered.  Sometimes the feeling of being rejected was buried deep inside of me, underneath my skin, like some thorns on a rose.

I wasn't used to feeling good about myself or making anyone around me feel good. I was just there. A nuisance. A bother. A burden.

Always have been. I always will be.

The sound of my phone ringing broke my train of thought, and I had to blink my eyes to see it was actually her calling me. I sat back in my bed and answered without a second thought.

"Dean." She spoke, her voice as squeaky as a mouse.

I could hear someone giggling next to her, and then Evelyn shushed whoever it was loudly.

"Evelyn, why are you calling me?"

"I've got a bone to pick with you." She slurred.

"Are you drunk?"

She hiccuped and then made some weird clearing throat sound. "Of course not."

"Evelyn."

"Yes, sirree."

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I calmed down my breathing. "Why're you calling me?"

"Because I'm mad at you." I could almost see her pouting.

"Tell me why you're mad at me, baby," I murmured, the endearment coming out of me naturally.

"You yelled at me."

"I did."

"You made me cry." As if remembering, I heard her sniffle. "I always come home from our fake dates crying."

I knew this. I knew I made her cry. I knew I was an asshole. I knew I was shit. She didn't have to call me to tell me, but then again, she was a little drunk. And she probably wouldn't remember any of this shit tomorrow.

"I know." I sighed. "I know, baby. I fucked up, yeah?"

"You did."

"Tell me what I can do to make it better?" She whimpered. It was low, barely audible, but I heard it and grew hard at the sound.

Shit.

"Tell me what you want Sir to do to make it better, baby?"

Her breathing hitched, and I closed my eyes, mentally groaning at her little reactions.

"I want you to kiss me better."

Fuck me. "You want a kiss?" I rasped, my hand pressing down at the tent of my pants.

"Yes, next time you see me. Kiss me."

She's drunk. She's fucking drunk. Hang up. Don't encourage her.