eyond Desire Collection

by JS Scott, M Malone, Marie Hall, et al

  “He likes you.”

  His voice is smooth. Rolling over my body like silk, reminding me of a good malt whiskey. Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat. “It’s not like that.”

  “Funny.” He narrows his eyes. “That’s the same thing he said about you.”

  He’s had a lot of vodka, I’m not sure how much, but it was enough—enough to know that he sounds way too sober for someone so drunk.

  I shrug. “Your point?”

  Bringing the glass up to his full lips, he lets it hover along the bottom edge of his mouth, making my pulse tremble in my throat. “Call it an observation.”

  It’s weird. A part of me wants to keep talking to him, wants to learn more about him, another part is screaming at me to get up, run away, and never look back. Tapping my fingers on the table, I thin my lips.

  I stay seated.

  “What’s your name?” I finally ask—it’s been bothering me all night.

  He smiles and I’m surprised to note he actually has a nice one. Not as open as Alex’s, or as pretty, but way more fascinating. His front teeth are slightly chipped and the action doesn’t seem like one he’s comfortable doing. There’s a hardness around his eyes I wish I understood. But he has a wicked dimple and I’ve always been a sucker for those.

  “Ryan.”

  “That’s it, just Ryan?”

  Staring at me as if considering whether to take this further, he finally says, “Cosgrove.”

  “Nice.”

  “Really?” He finishes the last of his drink and then lifts his finger for another. Monique scurries back to the bar. “Because I think it’s a fucking ugly one. In fact, I think I like yours better.”

  Now he sounds drunk. I roll my eyes. “You don’t know my last name.”

  “Exactly.”

  Monique returns with a fresh drink. I look at her and give a slight jerk of my head. Hoping she understands my meaning.

  Cut. Him. Off.

  I’m not sure how much he’s had to drink but it’s too much—his eyes are bloodshot and his fingers unsteady.

  “Anything’s better than mine.” He picks his glass up again.

  “What about Alex’s? Is his better?”

  His head whips up, eyes as sharp as cut glass glare at me, full of hate and violence. “His is worse.”

  In that second I’m scared. No point lying to myself. Something violent lurks behind the mask he wears. Something ugly, and I’m not sure I want any part of it.

  But still, I don’t leave.

  “What do you do for a living, Ryan?”

  Blinking as if coming back to himself, he shakes his head. “Fighter. I fight.”

  “For money? Like MMA?”

  He stares at me while he drinks and I feel helpless. Like a rat caught in a snake’s sights. How could Alex live with someone like this? He’s too good, too nice. Ryan is wrong in the head. I’m not sure how, but I sense it. This huge yawning chasm of wrongness that swallows up anything it comes in touch with.

  Leaning forward, he shows me his fist. My immediate response is to pull away, scared for a split second that he intends to crash it into my nose. He doesn’t blink or act surprised, just stares at me while he holds out his fist.

  It’s his stillness that finally causes me to look down.

  A silvery network of scars crisscrosses each knucklebone.

  Some are really thick and jagged. I touch one with the tip of my finger. He slams his eyelids shut as if he doesn’t know what to do or how to respond to me.

  “They look like they hurt.” I breathe out, suddenly feeling a ridiculous need to kiss it and tell him it’ll be all right.

  I’m in my junior year of nursing school. I know these injuries would have been devastating when he’d received them.

  He pulls his hand back, and I feel a strange sense of loss. Like he’s opened himself to me in a way he never has with another.

  “They didn’t.”

  Swallowing hard, I start looking for Alex. “How many of those have you had to drink?”

  Looking at his glass, he scrunches his forehead. “Not enough.”

  “Maybe you should stop.” I’m not used to telling people what to do, it isn’t something I’m comfortable with, but my gut is telling me Ryan is headed down a bad path—one that leads to rancid livers if you’re lucky and death if you aren’t.

  “Don’t worry, angel, I only drink once a year.” He taps the table forcefully with his finger, startling me and making me jerk in response. “I fucking hate Valentine’s Day.”

  My mouth pulls down into a frown, empathy for him chokes me. “What girl screwed you up, Ryan?”

  His lips twitch until finally he busts out in a deep belly laugh, knuckling tears out of his eyes.

  “Girl?” He laughs harder but never explains himself.

  ***

  Ryan

  Fuck me.

  I meet a girl and terrify her out of her mind.

  I saw it in her eyes. The way she’d looked at me in the bar.

  God, she smelled so good.

  So I drank and drank, trying to drown out the demons, the voices that singsonged in my head. So good, so good, so fucking good.

  I hate myself.

  Hate everything about me. I want to hit something. Hurt something.

  Alex and Liliana are sitting in the living room. My living room. I hear them whispering low. They think I don’t know what’s going on, and maybe I don’t.

  I feel so out of it. My brain is fuzzy, fried—like I’ve been sitting out in the sun too long. In the bathtub, the water’s running on high heat, and my clothes are still on.

  The water hurts. Hurts so bad, it’s so damn hot, and I know I shouldn’t be sitting here like this. I’ll burn. But it’s not taking the dirty off.

  So I keep turning it hotter until my fingers are blistered.

  Why isn’t it working?

  This is the night, fifteen years ago, my entire world changed.

  When will it stop?

  At this point, I don’t think it ever will.

  Everything inside me is like an exposed nerve. Fucking breathe on me and it brings it all back. They had no idea when I enlisted in the Marines what a nutcase I already was. Because I can lie.

  I can smile and pretend and say all the right things.

  No one knows. Not really.

  Alex knows more than most, but even he doesn’t know everything.

  And when I had a gun in my hand and was told to kill… it was like breathing again. At first.

  When I could pretend each man I shot was him.

  But they weren’t.

  That day, when I’d turned eighteen and had gone to the hospital, I thought I’d finally buried it. But I hadn’t. Not really. I’d only thrown a little dirt on it.

  Closing my eyes, I start to shiver. Not from cold, but from the sweat pouring through my skin, the panic laying siege to my heart. Running through artillery had been easy. Seeing RPGs blow up beside me, cake… So why couldn’t I stop this?

  I have worked my entire life to forget, to fight and forget. To become a man, to never look back. But I’m stuck in a revolving door. No matter how many times I push, all I ever really do is stay in place. I’ve flown halfway across the world but could never outrun Texas. Could never get away, because the dog is always on my heels, always there to remind me who I really am.

  My teeth are clacking, I look at the straight razor beside me.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, a terrible sound draws from my mouth. One I’d never heard before. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t pretend. Can’t keep lying that it isn’t hurting, isn’t killing me a little every day.

  He wins, but I think in the end he always knew he would.

  Picking up the razor, I hold it to my wrist and count slowly to ten.

  Chapter Five

  Liliana

  I keep staring at the door. Alex is on the couch with his arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed, snoring softly. But something feels wrong. In my heart and
soul I know something is off. But I can’t very well go knocking on the door and ask “are you all right?” I don’t know him.

  How would that look?

  Especially with Alex not acting in the least bit concerned.

  At the club I’d managed to convince Ryan it was time to go home. Alex had helped me get him up. He was a lot bigger than he looked, solid muscle with legs like jelly.

  We’d flagged down a cab. On the way home I called my mom, told her where I would be, trying to ignore the guilty feeling I had about leaving Javi without me for so long.

  But Ade had laughed and said Javier was reading his books. He loved his comic books—once he got started it could be hours before I got them away from him. They’re one of the few things that keep him calm, so I don’t normally mind, but I wish he would miss me sometimes.

  Shaking my head, I try to gather my thoughts.

  “Alex,” I whisper. “Hey,” I say louder, touching his shoulder this time. “Wake up.”

  Squinting open one eye, he takes off his baseball cap and lifts his brows. “Wazzup.”

  The water’s still running. We’ve been here an hour already. “Is that normal?” I point behind me to the closed bathroom door.

  “He drank too much, that’s his way of sobering up. Gets totally shit-faced, comes home, and vegges beneath the spray until the bubble guts send him running for the toilet. He’s fine. Relax.” He pats my knee and then resumes his position on the couch. Head back, fingers steepled on his chest, and eyes closed.

  Mouth thinning, I try to believe him. This isn’t my business.

  But I can’t stop my knee from fidgeting, and eventually Alex groans and smiles.

  “Look, if you want, I’ll take you home. Though I’m not gonna lie, it’s kind of nice having a girl around I actually like talking to. But I know you have a kid, so it’s up to you.”

  Biting on the tip of my thumbnail, I shake my head. “No, it’s cool. Javi has a babysitter and he’s doing good.”

  “So you can stay?”

  Not like anyone’s missing me at home. “For a bit.”

  “Good. Then I think…” He slaps his palms on his legs. “I’m gonna walk to the convenience store and get us some sodas. Maybe rent a movie. Sound good?”

  It’s all I can do not to twist around and stare at the door. An awful feeling slinks through my gut. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, not really hearing him just waving him off.

  Standing, he walks to the door and grabs a jacket. “It’ll take me about fifteen minutes. Gonna jog, helps burn off the alcohol. You like comedies?”

  “Actually, horrors.”

  His eyes widen. “Really?”

  “Makes me feel like my life doesn’t suck so bad.”

  Laughing and shaking his head, he shrugs on his coat. “Fine.” Pulling out a cell from his pocket, he rattles off the numbers. “Call me if our boy starts puking his guts out, okay?”

  Punching his number in, I nod. “Yup.”

  Then he’s gone.

  I sit on the couch for two minutes longer before I can’t take it anymore. What if I’m wrong? Maybe all the stuff at the bar was the result of a drunken binge and nothing more.

  But that doesn’t stop me from walking up to the door and pressing my ear against it.

  I hear the spray, but everything else is silent. One of those eerie silences too. The kind where all you can hear is the sound of your heart beating and the ticking of a clock somewhere.

  “Lili, what are you doing?” I mutter under my breath, maybe as a warning, or even encouragement… I’m not sure, but I knock. “Ryan?”

  I wait.

  No answer.

  I knock again.

  “Ryan?” This time I say it louder.

  There are moments in life when a sixth sense spurs you on to consider something you wouldn’t otherwise. Like the time I’d been watching a show and Javi had been a baby. I’d laid him in his crib and he was quiet—nothing out of the ordinary, just our typical routine.

  But a nagging feeling kept pressing in so hard I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I’d walked upstairs feeling stupid, knowing once I got there all I’d see was a sleeping baby. But that hadn’t been the case at all. Javi had turned completely blue. I’d placed a stuffed toy into the crib with him that morning and forgotten to take it out later. I’d not slept much the night before, and it just slipped my mind. The ER nurse said if I hadn’t checked then, if I’d left him like that even another minute, I would have lost him.

  I’ve learned never to ignore the feeling again, and I’m having that feeling right now.

  “Ryan, if you don’t open the door I’m going to have to come in,” I call, louder. “Look, I’m training to be a nurse, so I promise no funny business, but you drank too much tonight and I’m worried. Please, if you’re okay let me know.”

  Waiting and waiting for what feels like forever, I finally turn the knob. To my surprise, it isn’t locked.

  “Ryan?” My voice sounds unnaturally loud, even above the din of the water.

  The curtain is fluttering; I sneeze and then pinch my nose shut as the heat and fog tries to curl its way into my head. It’s hot in here, like walking-through-a-wet-sauna hot.

  “Ryan?” I say again, fearing he must have passed out.

  I didn’t think he’d had so much that he’d entered alcohol poisoning; I’d been monitoring his intake.

  Somewhat.

  Steeling my nerves and squeezing my eyes shut, I grab hold of the curtain and shove it aside, hoping maybe the action will get him to yell or swear at me, anything to let me know he’s okay. I expect to hear him growl any minute now.

  But when he doesn’t, I open my eyes and am stunned into silence by what I see.

  Every molecule in my brain works furiously to try to process the sight before me.

  There’s so much blood.

  Oh my God, and now that I see it I can smell it. The metallic sharpness of it infiltrates my olfactory receptors and I gag.

  I can’t move, can’t reason through this.

  Ryan is still dressed, wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the club, the white shirt molded to his body. But it’s no longer just white; it’s stained a viscous red around the sleeves and edges. The water crashing over him washes away most of the blood. His skin is so red it’s nearly purple.

  Then it all comes crashing back to me, and where I’d been frozen before, I’m now moving on autopilot.

  Turn off the water. Crawl into the tub with him. Press my fingers to the side of his neck.

  Pulse is there, slow, but still steady.

  I slap his cheek.

  “Wake up, Ryan!” I shake him roughly. “Wake up.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  But he’s breathing, though it’s very shallow. He’s cut himself deep, but not deep enough to kill. I hope.

  Leaning back against the tub, I cradle his body between my legs and pull my phone out of my pocket, punching in 9-1-1 immediately.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” The woman’s voice sounds bored and robotic.

  “Please. Please, come quick.” I choke back a sob. “My friend’s bleeding everywhere. He hurt himself.”

  “Okay, ma’am,” she says patiently, “do you know where he’s injured?”

  I pat his body, looking for the source, finally seeing the thick slashes across both wrists. “He slit his wrists….”

  “It’s okay,” she says, her voice soothing. “Now, what I want you to do is apply some pressure. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” A sob rips from me. Grabbing his hands, I take them between my own, but he’s so big and slippery and I’m already holding on to the phone, so I mush them against my breasts. “I did it.”

  “Good. Now, where do you live?”

  “Oh my God, I don’t know. This is their house. Oh please, hurry.”

  “No problem, ma’am. What’s his name?”

  “It’s Ryan. Ryan Cosgrove.”

  ***

  Ryan


  I hear things. Strange sounds. Beeps and whooshes.

  That’s the first thing I notice.

  The second thing is the pain that’s running like fire across my body, but mostly through my wrists. It hurts to move too much, but I do manage to peek. They’re bound and wrapped with hospital tape. Red dots the center of each.

  “He’s waking up.”

  I recognize Alex and I moan.

  “Ryan?” A soft voice. It’s gentle, but the touch against my arm is even softer and it feels so good. I don’t ever want to wake up; I just want to stay in this place, this safe and warm place that doesn’t hurt.

  But I can’t, because I’m awake now and I have to see who’s touching me.

  It’s the girl from the club. Liliana. Her eyes are so green and huge in her small face. Her skin is paler than I remember and there are purple spots under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while.

  Grunting, I glance down at myself.

  There are tubes and wires attached all over me, a heart monitor is hooked up to my chest, and when I flex my hand I feel a needle beneath it. Swallowing with a throat that feels like someone shoved a melon into it, I look at Alex.

  His face is grim and his eyes are pissed.

  “Damn,” I mutter.

  “You damn ingrate,” he grinds out, then turns and walks out the room.

  Liliana glances over her shoulder to where he left. I hate that she looks worried. And it bothers me she’s even here. Does she know what I tried to do?

  Turning back to me, she grabs my hand, and her fingers are so small I can close my entire fist around them. “He doesn’t mean it, you know. He’s just worried about you.”

  She bites her bottom lip and something inside me wants to sooth the frown from between her brows.

  “Angel?”

  She smiles and it’s breathtaking. Literally takes mine away. I could get used to that smile.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She cocks her head, a spill of hair falls around her face like a curtain. Thick and brown, it’s gorgeous, and a part of me wonders what it smells like. I love women’s hair, love the way it smells so good and looks so pretty and hers is the nicest I’ve seen.