Wicked Things by Yolanda Olson
Hollis
His home was modest,cozy, and inviting, but the fact that he’s admitted to hiding his own … ‘things’ set me on edge the moment he confessed it.
I didn’t press the issue because I wasn’t sure if it was anything that I would be privileged to know.
I reasoned that when the time was right, if ever, he’d either tell me, or he wouldn’t.
“Come on, let me show you my favorite spot,” he suggested after he closed the door behind me.
I took his hand and let him lead the way, banking on his promise of not hurting me for the remainder of the evening.
If he chose to tomorrow, then it would be a day that he hadn’t guaranteed my safety, and I wouldn’t fault him for it.
“I love this damn thing,” he said to me as he walked over to an enormous, silver-colored bean bag chair and dropped down into it. “I think I use it more than the damn couches.”
I smiled at him as I began to glance around the room, looking for the obvious signs that he was some kind of psychopath.
He had to be to allow someone he had only spent a few hours with to come into his home, completely unaware of what demons they may have been hiding.
But I had never been a danger to anyone other than myself, and I knew I wouldn’t start down that road with someone who had gone out of his way to show me kindness.
“Hollis?”
“Huh?”
Bates looked at me with a curious smile on his face and an arched eyebrow. “I asked if you wanted to sit with me.”
It took less than a second to decide that I would give him whatever he wanted, and I wasn’t sure why.
As I made my way over to the bag, Bates moved over just enough to give me room.
When I sat down next to him, he slid an arm around my waist and smiled down at me.
“It’s crazy how a few hours ago I was sitting in the same spot, trying to convince myself to leave the house; and you know what? I’m glad I did.”
“Why’s that?” I asked timidly.
He let out a soft chuckle as he brushed my hair out of my face, trailing his finger down my cheek.
The moment he brushed against my bruise, I winced, and he stopped.
“Who hurt you, pretty girl?” he asked, his tone soft, yet stern.
My voice barely above a whisper, I looked deep into Bates’ eyes and told him the truth.
“Everyone.”
