“If I show you mine,” he says, “will you show me yours?”
Another snippet of memory from our shared childhood. It serves to calm my racing pulse. “I know your scars.”
He sits there, his jaw set. He just stares at me, not a muscle moving, though a vein beats frantically at his neck. “I have new ones since I last showed you.”
Dread settles like lead in my stomach. I have a feeling I know what he’s about to show me. “Are they bad?”
“Bad. Ugly. Unlike yours.” He stands up, reaches back and pulls the shirt over his head, making the muscles on his chest stretch and ripple in a mouthwatering way. His tattoo is breathtaking—a black dragon curling on his chest, the wings spreading on his shoulder and up his neck.
His eyes flutter closed and he draws a long breath, as if bracing himself.
Then he turns around.
Oh god. His back is a map of cruelty—vertical scars, old and new, some fading to white lines, some still purple and painful-looking, from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back, where yellow bruising spreads.
I feel sick. Like I’m going to throw up. This has to have taken years and years. This was happening to him and I didn’t know. No matter if he was cold to me after the kiss, he was my best friend, and I just didn’t know.
The tears run down my cheeks, cooling my skin. By the time he turns around, I’m ready to throw myself into his arms and hug him like I’ve never hugged anyone before.
But he flinches when he sees my face and steps back. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have shown you. I’m sorry, Auds.”
He grabs his jacket from the chair and strides across the room before I manage to formulate a response.
It isn’t until I hear the door slam that I realize he’s left once more.
Chapter Ten
Asher
Standing at the entrance of her building, I pull on my shirt and jacket, then hurry out to the street. The cold bites every inch of exposed skin, but can’t compete with the ice filling my chest.
God, I was stupid, showing her my scars. Her scars may be beautiful to me, but that doesn’t mean mine would be to her. Just because she listened to me when we were kids doesn’t mean she feels the same way I do. I’m not a kid anymore, and neither is Audrey.
I swallow hard at the memory of her breasts. No, definitely not a kid. Why did I think it would be a good idea to show her my scars? I wanted to put her at ease, and it worked when we were kids.
Right. See again point one. We aren’t kids anymore. Fuck, the devastated look on her face... The horror. I can’t stand it.
So okay, I lied. I do think scars are ugly. Mine are. Not hers. My scars are a mark of my inability to fight back, to win the fight between me and my dad. My weakness. My failure. I hate them. I never show them to anyone.
But Audrey isn’t just anyone, a little voice in my mind throws my words back at me, mocking me.
Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. Now she won’t look at me again like she did before my act of idiocy—with desire; with need.
All that’s left is horror. Pity. Revulsion.
I walk faster, jamming my hands in my pant pockets. God, she’s so pretty. Her face, her eyes, the freckles on her nose—and her body... Christ, her breasts! Full and fitting perfectly in my hands. They drive me crazy.
Stop thinking about her.
The town seems empty. Everyone is at home with family, celebrating.
Dammit, that sort of happiness isn’t meant for me. I can scarcely remember what it’s like. I felt so good for a while back there, in her apartment, in her arms, that I forgot this little fact.
Hell, I’d give anything to stay with her, be with her—not just today but every day.
Audrey doesn’t hate me. She said that. Can I believe it? And she kissed me back, this time I’m sure of it. The girl wants me. But would she hate herself come tomorrow if she made out with me? Today she might be lonely—but tomorrow with her friends at college, would she still look at me that way?
And when she finds out about my plans for the future...
Screw this. Better nail this day in my memory for future reference with a step forward—a step toward my new life.
I cut through the quiet neighborhood toward downtown. Festive multicolored lights flash in the shop fronts. The Bulldog, the illegal fight club, is tucked in the basement of a run-down block of offices. A rusty sign sighs with the icy breeze. Dirty steps lead down to a massive metal door.
Nobody answers for a long while, long enough that I think about leaving. Maybe they closed for Christmas?
Then a lock unlatches and the door swings open. “Yes?”
I try to see who’s behind but there’s only darkness. Damn creepy. “I’m here to see Marty,” I say, nerves making my hands shake. “Name’s Asher.”