Kylie Bray (Love, Hate and Billions)

Chapter 12 (Kylie)

My breathing picks up as I inhale the strong scent of his cologne and the brandy on his breath. The

rush of heat beating between my legs, a familiar wanton of sinful lust my body possessed when Vincent

was in a close proximity.

On one side of the bridge I hate these unrequited predilections. It haunts me with what I could never

have. The other side, that disturbed part of me thrives in the knowledge that I want this man, who is so

unattainable.

I'm like a Lioness who wants, needs the chase.

If everyone could have it,

I don't want it and no one can have Vincent Stone because Vincent Stone is a man bound in blood and

honor, born with death on his hands and a target on his back.

Vincent Stone is a made man and nobody owned a made man besides God, the mafia and himself.

“Jesus fuck Kylie, do you honestly think they want you here.”

Those words do what his cologne and brandy scented body couldn’t. They finish me.

“What?” I don’t recognize that soft note as it leaves my mouth.

Who is this weak girl?

Who is she, this girl that’s talking? Where am I, Kylie Bray, the vivacious girl from Liston Hills?

Where is she gone? I scream inside my head.

'Stop, you hurting yourself, please just STOP'. Except I can't, there is something wrong with my head.

There is something not right inside me.

I am standing in front of this man, who I continue to love even though he has time and time again hurt

me.

His face frozen in a harsh angry scowl. He is stabbing me, with words, but they still cut deeper than a

puncture to the gut and I am allowing it.

What is wrong with me?!

Why do I have these feeling for this man?! I need help.

Who is going to help me?

“You pathetic, pining like a little bitch in heat, embarrassing me at my cousin’s funeral. I'm going to tell

you ONE time, I. Don’t. Fuck. Little girls! , So stay the fuck away from me Kylie, I don't NEED your

brand of fucked up, I already have my own.”

I flinch at the grit and harshness of his tone and the proximity of his suit covered body. His words, it is

too much.

My tears spill silently as my mind and body cripple on the inside.

Did Vincent not understand that he tears me apart when he opens his mouth. He fractures me with his

harsh intent. His demeaning words that is poetry to my fucked up heart, lyrics to my sickened soul.

Demon eyes glare at my sappy ones, telling me that he understands it very well, but just doesn't give a

fuck, because I am nothing to him.

This is it.

I would no longer love this man. I would learn to move on from Vincent Stone.

How could I not, when it is obvious he loathes me.

He is a made man and I am just a nuisance.

I push at his chest wordlessly. Leaving him as he stumbles back in shock. My heavy feet storm away

from him. If he wants me gone, I am darn going.

My friend isn't lying in that coffin anyway, he's dead and hopefully his ghost is beating the fuck out of

Vincent’s soul.

“Kylie I'm not done talking to you.” That snarly voice just makes my feet move faster as my throat clogs

tighter. I will not cry, no I am not going to cry. Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

“You said enough, you want me gone, I'm going. And I won't be back.”

I don't stop or slow down as I say these words. Not knowing if they are meaningless, not knowing

whether I am going go through with it.

I want to convince myself that I don't give a penny if he hears it or not. I want to say there is so much a

person can take and I had enough, but I know somewhere in me that it's not.

But there were serious problems to attend to than getting ripped to shreds by Vincent Stone.

I don't need this crap but I take it. I feel like a junky addicted to shit drugs and I fucking hate myself at

this moment for it. I keep doing this, keep allowing him so much power.

Vincent Stone is a huge asshole and I know , I so know that I should hate his ass.

He needs a taste of his own medicine.

'Kylie, get your ass here now.”

“Leave me alone Vincent.” My voice sounds strong and I am glad I got that from my dad.

I am a Bray, weakness was and is not in my forte, in my blood. Vincent Stone made me weak and

instead of nurturing it he used it as the worst form of torture and I want to be done with him. I will try

anything to just forget him.

“I'm sorry, OK, I'm fuckin’ sorry, can you get your ass here now, please.” Sorry, huh.

“Now isn't a good time, I got somewhere to be.”

My feet pick up the pace. Deciding to detach itself from my head and heart which both get a sick thrill

that he actually apologized.

How more fucked up could I get? I am aware of my problem, many women suffer similar complexes.

There IS an entire blog dedicated to this problem called, 'the addiction barrier'.

“Yeah, and where is this somewhere.”

I can't understand why he is now curious, but I'm too revved, too angry at myself to stop.

Part of me, the weak part that craves anything Vincent Stone wants to answer, wants to talk to this man

even if it means me getting hurt in the end as he cuts me with that bladed tongue of his.

Sometimes I wonder whether it is just me that he chooses to treat so savagely or is it all the female

population.

Do the women in his bed get that sharp vicious tongue to hurt them as he hurts me. Do they also have

these crazy enslaving emotions burning deep inside them for this man like I do?

Do they stalk his social media, and search his name twenty times a day like I constantly do. Or is it just

me?

Maybe Vincent is a man you can't help but be obsessed over.

Maybe the women crave that harsh scowl of his and the dead eyes of this man with a frozen soul.

That could explain my soul depicting desire for him. I am addicted to the danger, fixated to the allure.

Do I crave it? Is something immensely wrong with me.