I study my lap to avoid his probing glare. “I’m not used to people wanting to help me.” Especially the one person whom I promised to help. I could’ve saved him from the abuse if only I’d been smarter, older, more aware. If only I’d asked him, forced him to tell me what he was going through. God, all those men. He was a child, a defenseless boy!
“Mac?”
I peek up at him to see his concerned eyes on me. “Yeah?”
“You’re going green again. I think you need to lie down.”
He’s right. I fantasized about all the things I’d say to him if I finally got him to speak to me, all the things I’d ask if we ever ended up somewhere alone and private. Here I am, and I can’t put together a coherent thought.
I stand and hand him my ice pack. “Here. I think I’m good. You should ice your knuckles.”
He flexes his hand a few times but doesn’t show even a hint of discomfort. “Nah, feels good.”
Feels good? I mark that down on my mental list of things to obsess about, but not tonight. Way too much has happened and I need a moment to process.
“Right, well, it was nice to finally hang out with you. Thanks for saving me . . . three times.”
His face grows serious. Thoughtful. “Hey”—he shrugs—“you saved me too.”
I didn’t. Not when it mattered most. But I’m here to make up for that.
Five
The evil comes after my body
With strokes and whispered words.
I yell for death to take me
But my cries all go unheard.
--Ataxia
Rex
This night is dragging. Other than a quick run to my place for a shirt, I’ve been crammed on the tiny couch, watching reruns of Tattoo Nightmares, and I’m restless as hell. This place is small. Too many walls. I absently toy with the rubber band on my wrist.
Mac hasn’t made a sound since she went back to Emma’s room to crash. Must be nice to fall asleep wherever you fall.
Me? I don’t do sleepovers or all-nighters, and I hate traveling. The only place I can fully relax in is mine, open space to breathe and visitor-free. A yawn peels from my throat. I’m exhausted, but catching z’s tonight is completely out of the question. The combo of last night’s royal-REM debacle has my head heavy and my thoughts tripping.
As much as I’m itching for the comfort of my place—a hot shower, clean sheets, and my bed—I know this was the right thing to do. Because of me, Mac probably has a concussion. The least I can do is sacrifice a night to make sure she gets through it without slipping into a coma.
I don’t know a thing about this girl, but something about her feels familiar. Maybe it’s her easy-going attitude. She acts more like a guy than a chick. Not what I’m used to at all. Most of the girls that I’ve hung out with whine when the waitress forgets the lime in their cocktail. Even Emma bangs my door down, squealing like kid when she finds a spider in her place. But with Mac there are no high maintenance demands or overreactions that most women are known for. I mean, fuck, she took a hit from a dude and didn’t even cry.
Tough chick.
I bet Mac kills her own spiders, probably with her bare hands.
Funny I haven’t noticed her before. I mean it’s not as if she blends in. Shit. My guess is she’s hovering around five-foot-ten, and her skin is pale, not creepy pale, but the kind of pale you don’t see on females here in Vegas. The combo of her height, light skin, and black hair is eye-catching. She’s a damn knockout.
And those lips. Fuck me. I’ve never seen lips so naturally dark before. Full and the color of a cherry. And that smile. The few times her mouth ticked up from something I said I felt it in my gut. The slight lift of her bow-shaped mouth and her arched eyebrows over those big eyes were sexy and daring like nothing I’ve ever seen. My chest gets tight and I blow out a long breath. And just like seeing it, thinking about it now stirs an energy that makes me feel equal parts curious and disgusted.
Fuck. I scrub my face. My body reacts to a beautiful woman, and I’m disgusted? This shit cannot be normal. My therapist has a hundred different theories, none of which I can stomach. I don’t remember much from my past, so I choose not to spend the time and energy figuring it out. Forward is the only direction I’m headed. And for whatever the fuck reason, getting turned-on also makes me sick. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man. Sex should be on the top of my priority list, right under air and above food.
But no. I squash my needs for as long as I possibly can, throwing all the excess energy into my fighting and my music until I can’t take another second. When I finally succumb to my sick-fuck urges, I get it over with fast with a stranger, usually paid for to avoid the personal connection. Once I’m relieved, I walk away quickly to avoid embarrassing myself, because shortly after I come, I always puke. Every. Single. Time.
God, I’m a mess.
With a sudden urge for a shot of tequila, I get up to ransack Emma’s kitchen, as quietly as I can, in search of anything that comes close. No beer in the fridge. No vodka in the freezer. No bourbon in the cupboard. Nothing.
I brace my weight against the counter. My skin is clammy with sweat. Sleep deprivation and being stuck in this apartment are making me antsy. I catch sight of the knife block that’s not far from my right hand. The knives call to me, beg to mark my flesh. I imagine the feeling of dragging the sharp blades against my skin and watching the blood seep. I groan, and my head drops heavy between my shoulders. The scars on my forearms and inner thighs flare their request. I hook the rubber band around my wrist and snap it a few times. It takes off the edge, but isn’t close to enough.
“This is bullshit.” I push back from the counter and cross the small apartment to Emma’s room. Peeking inside, I see Mac asleep on her side, her hands folded and wedged beneath the tiny throw pillow that cradles her head. She’s on top of the comforter and fully clothed. She looks so peaceful. I’ll wait until I get back before I wake her up for her anti-coma quiz.
I back out of the doorway and close it softly behind me. A quick break in my place should help me get my head back online and where it needs to be. And I have tequila.
I make the short trip from Emma’s apartment door to my own. I push inside, slip off my shoes on the mat, and go straight to my liquor cabinet. Pulling out the Patrón, I pop the cork and down a throat-scorching gulp. I breathe through the burn before taking one more hit and then another.
I’ve never been this close to a beautiful sleeping woman before, and it’s doing fucked-up things to my body. Things I’m not comfortable dealing with. Things that most guys would welcome. But not me.
Snapping the rubber band in a rhythmic beat, the liquor radiates heat through my body. I suck back another shot until it eventually numbs my head. Perfect. I brush my teeth and grab a clean shirt before heading back to Emma’s. After checking on Mac, I should be able to catch a few hours’ sleep with the help of Señor Patrón’s Sleep Aid.
Feeling much more like myself, I lock up and settle back into Emma’s couch. I flip through channels, not paying attention to what’s on, and my eyes droop with sleep. I wedge a frilly pillow behind my neck and—what the hell was that?
I turn and look over the back of the couch toward Emma’s bedroom. Is Mac talking to someone? Probably her roommate called to ask about the bloody biker curled up on her driveway. Her voice filters from the room again, this time laced with pain. Not crying, but a pleading desperation that sounds like audible agony.
“What the fuck?” I hop off the couch and cross the apartment in a few long strides.
My hand grips the doorknob just as her scream spears my ears.
I fling the door open and find her in a similar position to the one I left her in earlier, but now she’s balled up tight. With a knee on the bed, I lean over. She’s not on the phone.
“Mac, wake up.”
Nothing. Her body heaves. She whimpers, but doesn’t respond.
I reach out and grab her shoulder, probably a little tighter than
I should, and she jerks from my grip but stays in a tight ball. She’s mumbling in that same voice I heard earlier. Nightmare.
“Mac, it’s okay. Wake up. You’re okay.” I risk another touch, and she flinches, but doesn’t pull away completely. “It’s me, Rex. You’re safe. Wake up; it’s okay.”
She mumbles something again, the last word sounding like my name. Her body rocks back and forth. Still asleep. Her chin’s tucked in tight to her knees so I can’t see her face. She groans.
“What? I . . . I can’t hear you.”
A sob rips from her chest. “I thought I lost you.”
Huh? Okay, so definitely dreaming. I rub her back, coaxing her to wake up. Even through her shirt, the heat of her skin on my palm makes my gut twist. “Wake up, Mac. You’re dreaming.”
Her breathing slows and the muscles in her back relax a little. “I couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh, it’s okay.” This entire situation feels so fucking familiar, and yet, all wrong. It’s like déjà vu, but . . . not. I might have had one too many shots on an empty stomach.
She rolls to her back and I find her eyes in the dark. They’re wide and searching.
“Mac, you—ooh!”
“You’re here.” Her arms wrap tight around my waist, and she buries her face in my chest. “This is real.”
I hold my hands up and away, making sure not to touch her even though she clearly doesn’t have the same issues with personal space. “Yeah, um . . . you were dreaming and—”
She releases me in an instant and crab walks backwards until she hits the headboard. “Oh, Rex, I’m so sorry. I . . .” Trembling fingers press against her lips and she shakes her head.
“Nah . . . it’s cool. You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you up in the thick of it.” Yeah, she probably thought I was whomever she was dreaming about. It’s my own selfish fucked-up ego that made whatever she said sound like Rex in my ears. There are a lot of names that sound like Rex. Such as, Tex . . . and uh . . . huh. Did she say my name?
~*~
Mac
“How’d you know I was having a nightmare?”
He rakes one hand through his messy black hair and shrugs. “I, ah . . . heard you.”
Heard me? Panic floods my chest. I’m thankful that we’re mostly in the dark so he can’t see the blush from the heat rising in my cheeks. “What did I say?”
His eyes fix on mine for a second before he looks at his boots. “Not sure. A lot of mumbling. Something about being sorry.”
He heard me dreaming about him.
Oh no, oh no, oh no!
“That it?” I try to clear the panic from my voice. “I mean, was I yelling?” I’ve shot out of bed before at the sound of my own screams. Something must’ve brought him in here. I pray it wasn’t that.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, you were.”
I drop my chin and groan. “How embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice is soft, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “The brain-shake you got from taking that hit tonight is enough to fuck with your dreams. Probably having nightmares ’bout being chased by a chubby pink bear with a goatee.”
I giggle despite the heavy weight that settles in my chest. If he only knew my nightmares were about him, that my guilt plagues me even in my sleep.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been planning for this moment—to get close enough to Rex again so that I can unload my burdens. But now that I’m here, I don’t know if I can. My intention has always been revenge first, absolution second. Here I am, sitting a foot away, holding information that I thought would bring Rex the peace he deserves, but watching him over these last few months, it seems he’s doing much better than I am. This is a mistake.
“I feel better. I should probably go home now. I don’t think I’m a coma risk.” I shift to swing my legs off the bed when his hand lands firmly on my thigh. My gaze swings to his, and even in the dark, I can see the flash of panic in his expression.
“Don’t go.” His fingers flex slightly as if to confirm his words. “Just, um . . . you’re tired, it’s late, that fucker’s probably crashed at your place, and you don’t know what you’ll be walking in on.”
All my thoughts focus on his big hand resting on my thigh, and my words clog in my throat.
He tugs at his silver lip ring with his teeth, rolling it a few times before releasing it. “I know what it’s like to have bad dreams.” His whispered words carry the scent of liquor and mint.
I lean in a fraction of an inch and inhale.
“When they’re bad, you wake up; it’s no fun being alone.”
My head bobs in agreement.
“Stay.”
I study the angular lines of his jaw, his full lips, and the brightly colored dragon tattoo that skates up the side of his neck: claws, teeth, spikes, and a fierce looking snarl on its face. “What do you dream about?”
He moves his hand and I instantly regret asking. It just slipped out, but the last thing I want to do now that I have him here, talking to me, touching me, is push him too hard and lose him again.
A quick snapping sound draws my attention to the elastic band around his wrist. “Dreams are nothin’ but crap. Leftover shit from the day that festers in our heads.” The snapping gets louder. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“I agree.” I don’t, but the tension radiating off his body forces me to lie. It seems to work and the snapping stops.
“What do you dream about?” His voice is soft, desperate.
“Memories from the past. Things I wish I could forget but can’t.” You. Always you.
“Forget.” A humorless laugh, dry with sarcasm, tumbles from his lips. “You think your nightmares would end if you couldn’t remember the bad?”
“I don’t know. I hope they would.”
He exhales hard and his shoulders drop. “They don’t.”
God, what is he saying? He doesn’t remember the bad, but he dreams it? I’m pushing it, I know I am, but he’s opening up, and I can’t pass up the opportunity to find out if he’s okay, if he’s really okay. “You dream the bad, but you can’t remember it?”
“Something like that.”
That’s not possible. “Then how do you know it’s real?”
He drops his head into his hands, gripping fistfuls of his hair. “I don’t.”
And suddenly he’s that boy, the one I met night after night and clasped his hand beneath a door, offering every comfort my eight-year-old self could offer. Singing, fighting tears in order to be strong. For him. All for him.
I scoot forward and place my hand on his back. He goes ramrod straight, eyes forward. My hand freezes as fear pulls me in two directions: afraid to leave it there, but equally nervous to pull it away. Seconds tick by and tension fills the room.
He’s not that boy anymore. He’s hardened by his circumstances, forced to live through a nightmare that still haunts his sleep, unable to escape the devastation of what was left behind. A man broken.
“I’m sorry.” Reluctantly, I drop my hand. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Do you like tequila, Mac?” He’s still looking ahead at nothing.
I shake my head. “Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” And he’s up. He walks out of the room, and I lean to watch him walk through the small living room and out the front door.
His absence clears the muddy thoughts of the past and brings me to the present.
I hop off the bed and race to the bathroom. As soon as I flick on the light my reflection jumps out at me. “Oh wow.”
My cheek is scabbed over and swollen. Blue and purple swirl together below my eye. And my hair. Ugh. I wet my hands in the sink and try to smooth out the frizz that’s pushing its way through the silken strands of my ponytail. Pulling the long ends over my shoulder, I comb my fingers through when I hear the front door shut.
“Crap.” Redoing my hair as fast as I can, I check my reflection. “Good as it
’s gonna get.”
I head out of the bathroom and find Rex leaning against the wall just outside the door.
His tall frame takes up most of the space. Here in the light of the hallway, his blue eyes look glossier than they did before I went to bed. I watch in awe as they travel from my lips to my eyes and down to my cheek. They flare for a moment and then squint before they move to my hair and soften. He tilts his head and dangles a clear bottle filled with light amber liquid from his fingers. He flashes a small smile and lifts his eyebrow that’s home to two small barbells. Heat warms my belly.
“You game?” he says.
“Of course.”
Liquor works like a truth serum. I only hope we’re strong enough to handle what the truth brings to light. I turn toward the living room, but he heads in the opposite direction, back to the bedroom.
He climbs onto the bed, leaning his back against the headboard and crossing his ankles.
My feet are locked to the floor in the doorway, weighted by everything the intimate setting implies.
He turns toward me, but in the dim light I can’t make out his expression. “Change your mind?”
“You want to drink tequila in bed?”
“Is there any better place?” He throws back a healthy gulp and sucks air through his teeth when he’s done. “Come on.” He holds out the bottle. “That couch is for midgets. I just thought it’d be more comfortable in here.”
I’m still stuck in place, the thought of getting drunk in bed with Rex bringing too many images to mind that are as confusing as they are tempting.
I love Rex. I’ve always loved him. Those feelings combined with his rugged good looks, piercings, and tattoos do things to my body that I’m not totally comfortable with and yet are all-consuming.
“Don’t worry, Mac. I won’t touch you.” He chuckles low in his chest; the sound washes over me like warm oil. “Trust me.”
“Flattering. Thanks.” I move around the foot of the bed to slide in next to him. “Nice to know I’m safe from your advances.” I try to keep the sarcasm light, but it’s hard to hide the hurt in my voice. He doesn’t find me attractive. He probably likes the little blond girls, someone like Layla or the dozens of bleached blond groupies that hang off of him like a wet towel. Whatever.
Fighting to Forget Page 6
