“So,” I say as he guides me along the pool with a hand on my shoulder, without which I’d have probably stumbled into the lit water already, “you’re not into chicks, or am I missing something?”
He chokes on laughter. “Fuck’s sake, J. Who says I don’t like chicks?” He sobers as we walk past a cluster of people dancing to a ballad. The bride and groom are at the center, wrapped around each other, and anger flares again inside me.
Embers…
“That one.” Seth is pointing at someone, and when I focus enough to look, I see Cassie, her back turned to me, talking to some people.
“Fuck her.” I jerk away from him and start toward her, heat rushing up my neck, my hands fisting. “I’ll punch the bitch. I don’t give a flying fuck that she’s a girl.”
“J, no.” Seth’s hand closes around my bicep like a vise of steel, holding me back. “Not her, idiot. The brunette. Her friend. That’s the one I want.”
Seeing through the red haze of anger takes some effort. I finally notice the brunette. She’s pretty, with large, dark eyes, shiny long hair and a tight, tall body, like a dancer.
“That Cassie’s friend? Maud, or something like that?”
“Manon. Madeline Torres.”
He sounds breathless. Jesus.
Oh yeah, the boy’s got it bad for this particular girl.
“I take it all back,” I mutter as he drags me away and out of the garden. “You really are into chicks. But honestly, why the fuck did you have to pick Cassie’s friend of all people?”
***
I’ve been buzzing Amber’s door for what feels like hours, but no reply. I try again calling her on the cell phone.
Nothing. Nada.
The call goes to voicemail. She’s switched her phone off.
Seth is smoking beside me, the embers of his cigarette glowing in the night.
“Open up!” I slam my fist on the building door and relish the jarring pain shooting up my arm.
“Easy, guy.” Seth throws his smoke down, steps on it and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”
“Fuck you. Lemme go. I have to talk to her.”
“She’s upset right now, man. Give her time.”
“Time will only make this worse.” I know it. I can feel it in my bones. Have to clear this up before it festers. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
“The hell you will.” He tugs. “Come on, J.”
“Get your hands off me.” I shake him off and press the buzzer button again. “Why won’t she talk to me? I didn’t do anything.”
“We talked about this. Your reputation—”
“Fuck my reputation. I’m a person. I’m not my past.” Not sure I’m making sense. I’m gonna break something, and if it’s not this door, it will be a bone in my body. I bang on her door and yell her name.
I only want… Want her to keep me, dammit. To give me the benefit of a doubt. Don’t I deserve even that much?
“J, dammit. Come on, before someone calls the police.” He tears me away from the building entrance and hauls me down the street, glancing over his shoulder all the way. His grip is cutting off the circulation in my arm, and the pain is welcome, though not enough to take my mind off this mess.
My fault. It’s all because of my fucking reputation, my fucking past and my need to drown it all in sex, sex I was in control of, until I met Amber.
My fault for not punching Cassie in the face when she came on to me.
I need to drink more.
But Seth has other ideas. He’s dragging me away, walking me back to my apartment, and dammit, I have nothing there to drink, not since the jackasses who live with me drank all my liquor.
And then Amber took me to her place and broke out the brandy, and we toasted Helen together.
Fuck.
Amber. She tastes like candy. I want to kiss her again, wrap myself in her. She’s so intoxicating and yet she feels so good, like home, a feeling I’ve almost forgotten.
I want her. Need her. So much it fucking hurts.
Rubbing the demon inked on my chest, I stumble after Seth who’s determined to bring me home safe.
I let him. I don’t even bother to shake my arm free again. We stagger past closed stores and groups of guys and girls barhopping and having a fun night out, and my brain shuts down to minimum functions.
Heart beating. Eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead. Swallowing down the bile rising in my throat. Breathing.
Because I don’t get how this is happening again—and how it can be worse than anything that has happened so far in my fucked up life.
***
“What the hell were you thinking?” Zane rants at me, walking up and down the tiny space of his booth. Which basically means he takes two steps and turns, takes two steps and turns.
Driving me up the wall. “Z-man…”
“Now listen to me, fucker.” He stops, sucks on the barbell in his tongue. “I thought you were serious about Amber, but I told you how I felt about you toying with her.”
“I’m not toying with her. I am serious. Jesus.”
“Shoving your tongue down Cassie’s throat isn’t showing me you’re serious.”
“I didn’t—”
He backs me up against the counter. “Don’t give me this shit.”
“Back off.”
He doesn’t. He’s glowering at me, a flush going up his neck.
Goddammit. Way too close. He’s crowding me. He’s got a few inches on me, and with the Mohawk he looms over me. I shove him back, my breath short. “Stay the fuck out of my face.”
He stumbles, caught by surprise. “What the hell, man?”
“Stay away from me. Just… stay the fuck away.”
I lean back on the counter, cross my arms across my chest and try to pretend my heart isn’t pounding in my ears and that cold sweat isn’t running down my face.
Damn. I thought I was over that evening when I got my scars. I mean, come on, I wasn’t even a kid. It was only a couple of years ago. I thought it hadn’t affected me, hadn’t scarred anything more than my arm, but in moments like this, or when Gage cornered me in the kitchen, I realize it has. It’s carved deep into my mind.
Zane is still, one hand gripping the back of his neck, watching me like a hawk.
Boom, boom, boom. My heart is hammering, knifing through my chest.
“Sit down, fucker,” Zane finally says, grabs my arm and drags me to his work stool. I let him, mostly because my legs feel weirdly weak. Then he sticks his head out of the booth and roars, “Tyler! Get your butt in here.”
Great. I scowl and brace for round two of whack-a-Jesse.
“What’s up?” Tyler walks inside, and damn, that’s too many men and too much testosterone for a booth. Maybe I can escape outside long enough to draw a real breath.
But Tyler decides to stay in the entrance, blocking it.
Figures.
My breath whistles in my chest. I scratch at the scars on my arm. Need to get out, dammit.
“Man, I told you.” My voice echoes in my ears. “I didn’t kiss Cassie. Don’t know what else to say.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Tyler says. “Admittedly, this one was fucking stupid, but—” He takes a step forward. “You okay, J?”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I whisper, because I need to say it. “I didn’t do it.” My hands are shaking like an old man’s.
He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Have you ever been attacked?”
I flinch, my heart racing away. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Why are you rubbing your arm?” Tyler sits on the counter next to me, crosses his legs at the ankles. “How did you get those scars?”
Zane leans on the counter across from me, giving me an illusion of space. It’s almost working.
I suck in a long breath. “I was attacked… years ago.” The words drag through me like rusty nails. “In a back alley.”
Tyler nods at my arm. “That all the damage?”
I nod, even as memories assault me—Simon’s stench of rank sweat and alcohol, his hands on me, pushing me down, to my knees. Any attempt to draw oxygen into my lungs fails, the images, the sensations pummeling me into pulp.