by Jo Raven
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“What happened?” His shrewd gaze nails me, and I squirm like a moth on a pin. Fucker knows me too well.
“Nothing happened.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Fuck. You.” Because he knows me well, but not that well, and I wonder what he’s heard about me. Not sure I wanna know.
“Whatever.” He tugs on his shaggy hair and turns to go. “I’ll tell her you’re not coming.”
“Tell her?” My brows draw together as I try to figure this out. “She told you to invite me?” Hope is like a burning cinder inside me. Hurts like motherfucking hell.
“Nah.”
Shit. That one word is a punch to my gut. “Then fuck off.”
Rafe looks at me over his shoulder and winks. “She asked if I heard from you, if you’re okay, and if I know where you are.”
“Why didn’t you say so from the start? Motherfucker.” I shake my head and hide a grin as I bend to gather my tools. “What time is the damn rehearsal?”
Chapter Eight
Dakota
My mind isn’t on the rehearsal. That’s annoying and embarrassing, because I’m the one who begged everyone to rehearse today. I thought it might get my thoughts off Zane and what happened three nights ago. The way he pleasured me, the way he took control, and then the way he gave in to me… The pleasure was incredible and seeing him, feeling him, was breathtaking.
And then I broke his rule and broke him.
Oh God. I bite my lip, my eyes burning. That look on his face made me want to cry. It was as if he didn’t recognize me, as if he didn’t know where he was anymore. He stumbled into the furniture as if he couldn’t see it. Like a wild animal trying to escape. What the hell was that about?
After he left, I sat and thought. I decided to talk to Erin, but she and Tyler were with her parents and their son for the weekend and not in town. Tessa was away with her parents, too. I tried to get ahold of Asher but couldn’t find his number, or Rafe’s, and I couldn’t find Audrey, either. In the end, even though I didn’t know if Zane wanted to ever see me again, I passed by his apartment, but either he wasn’t in, or he didn’t want to let me in.
I wanted to hit my head against the wall.
I bow said head, waiting for Luke and Quinn to tune their guitars, and close my eyes. What are those small scars on his back? Why does touching them freak him out?
What happened to you, Zane?
“Ready when you are,” Rafe says and gives me a drumroll and a wink.
Shooting him a weak smile, I grab my mike. The bass begins its deep, powerful beat, and I close my eyes as I feel the music and recall the words. I open my mouth and let all my frustration and worry, all my sadness and fear, all my need for Zane pour out of me. I scream, and I yell, and I soar, my body weightless, but I don’t fall. I keep rising, flying above it all like a bird.
I see me, and I see Zane. I see the way he looks at me, I see his grin, his cocky attitude and the pain in his eyes, and I know I have to find him and talk to him. I have to hold him, because he’s falling. Why doesn’t anyone else notice?
I break mid-song and open my eyes, staring at nothing. Christ. He’s falling. I have to find him.
Am I going crazy? Is it all in my mind?
This is how he’s always been, Asher said. He has his ups and downs. He has his triggers. What makes you think he’s about to go to pieces because you touched him where he didn’t want to be touched?
But that’s not it, is it? No, there’s something more, and I can’t put my finger on it.
“You okay?” Rafe asks, and I nod, my mind going in circles.
I replay in my mind Zane’s behavior, his expression. The rules he’s been breaking. He never takes a girl home, Tessa had said. Never draws on girls. Never lets them touch him.
‘This isn’t like him. He’s letting you in.’
What does it all mean?
Then Luke clears his throat and says, “Hey, do you know a guy with a Mohawk? He’s been staring at you all this time.”
Zane is here? I glance around the empty bar, and I think I catch a glimpse of a broad-shouldered back and a tell-tale Mohawk. He’s walking out of the bar.
Crap.
“Got to go,” I say and jump off the stage.
“Koko, wait! Remember the party on Wednesday,” Luke calls after me, and I don’t even bother answering.
Zane. Have to talk to him. That’s all I can think about as I run through the bar and out into the dark, without looking back.
“Zane?” My combat boots squeak on the concrete of the small parking lot behind the bar. Cars roar by—the street is only a few feet away—and the sputtering lamp over the door isn’t enough to illuminate the whole lot. “Zane, are you here?”
Maybe the guy Luke saw wasn’t him. Hell knows Zane isn’t the only guy sporting a Mohawk in this town. I don’t like being out here alone. It’s not really cold, and yet I shiver, inching back toward the door of the bar.
“Dakota,” he says from behind, and I almost jump out of my skin.
“Jesus.” I spin around to see his face.
“I liked it better when you called me Zane,” he mutters and gives a faint smile.
I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m a bundle of nerves. I put my hands over my face, afraid the laughter will turn into something ugly.
“Hey.” His voice is soft, a bit hoarse, and then his hands are over mine, pulling them down. “You okay?”
All the things I want to tell him, to ask him, and I can only shake my head. Seeing him feels good, too good.
“Listen, I…” He’s still holding my hands. He turns them over, my hands small in his, my palms white against his ink-stained ones. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” The word comes out like a cry, and I wince.
“I mean it.” His handsome face is drawn in earnest lines, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Sorry I freaked out, sorry I forced you to do stuff you weren’t comfortable with. I… Hell.”
He starts to pull away, and I grab at him, digging my heels in to keep him there. “Wait.”
“Dammit, Dakota, I was such a dick to you, leaving you right after…” He groans. “Shit. Didn’t mean to scare you, or hurt you.”
“I know that.” I do know it. “I wasn’t scared.”
“I hurt you, then.” He grimaces. “I knew this was a motherfucking bad idea. I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sor—”
“Zane.” I let go of his hands and reach up to cup his face, realizing belatedly this could be another trigger. I let them drop, but he doesn’t move away. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
Now his dark eyes widen. “Whatever for?”
Is he serious? He seems to be. “For pushing you. Touching you somewhere you didn’t want to be touched. I’m the one who hurt you. I’m so sorry, Zane.”
He’s breathing hard. His hands tremble, the tremor making its way up my own arms. “You didn’t…” His voice is choked, and I want to wrap him in my arms. Yet I’m not sure he wants that. Not sure what he wants, what might freak him out and make him run away again.
“I caused you pain,” I say. I’m certain of it. I saw it on his face, in his movements that night. Only I don’t know why. “I didn’t realize.”
He says nothing. His gaze is blank, like he’s lost inside his head.
“Just tell me what I can and can’t do. Help me understand.” I lick my lips, desperate to get through to him. Desperate to hold him and comfort him, make up for the hurt I caused, the hurt I sense. “I won’t touch your back. I promise. But if those scars hurt, then you should see a doctor. I’ll go with you. I—”
“Can’t.” He jerks his hands from mine and rubs them over his face. “Told you I can’t do this.”
“Zane…”
His face scrunches up, and he presses a hand to his chest. Crap, this doesn’t look good. Whatever caused those scars seems to scare the shit o
ut of him, and for Zane to be scared, it must have been something terrible.
I don’t know what to say. Silence fills the space between us. I have to do something, or he’ll leave again.
“Stay,” I say, aware that’s what he asked of me the first time I visited him. “Please, stay.”
He takes a step back and another. He’s going, and I just can’t do anything right. I can’t stand it.
“You don’t have to tell me anything. Just…” It’s my turn now for my voice to crack. My eyes burn. “Can I hold you? I mean, you didn’t seem to mind before, and…” Crap, what was I thinking? I wipe a hand over my face, and shit, I find my cheeks wet. “Forget it.”
He doesn’t turn to go, as I expect him to. He doesn’t speak. But he’s still there, looking at me, and for the first time tonight, his beautiful eyes are no longer blank, but lit by some strong emotion.
“Yes,” he says, just that one word, and the air leaves my lungs.
Yes? Does he mean...?
He’s just staring at me, with that uncertain light flickering in his gaze, as I step up to him and slide my hands around his neck, rising on tiptoe to reach him. I’m not short, but Zane is really tall.
He’s still, letting me hug him, not moving a muscle. It’s like holding a statue made of stone, but against my chest, I can feel his heart hammering.
Then his arms come around me. He tucks my head under his chin and crushes me to him so hard I can’t breathe. He holds onto me like a drowning man, and for a long while, I can do nothing but bury my face in his chest and inhale his dark scent.
Truth is, it feels so good to finally feel him, solid and real, in my arms, that nothing else matters. I could stay like that forever, forget about breathing. Who needs air when I can have Zane hold me?
He finally relaxes his hold a fraction, and I suck a deep breath. His head is bowed forward, and when I lift my face, our lips touch. His are soft and hot, and I want more.
I expect him to jerk away and let me go. Zane doesn’t do kissing. Tessa told me so. He showed me so.
But his eyes close, lashes resting on his cheekbones like dark crescents, and he brushes his mouth over mine once more.
Then he pulls back, his whole body tensing, and whispers, “Let me take you home.”
The drive is quiet. Zane is clutching the wheel like a lifeline, and his jaw is tight, a vein jumping in his neck. I try to look away, give him space, but my gaze keeps returning to his dark eyes, his beautiful mouth, and my body leans toward him without any input from my brain.
He reaches for something in the glove compartment, and the movement snaps me out of my daze. I slump back and pretend to be fascinated by the hem of my short skirt. My black tights are ripped, and my T-shirt is old, with a faded band logo. I’ve never given too much thought to how I dress, because this is who I am: the music I like, the style I prefer.
Never thought if it looks sexy or not. I mean, Zane’s dressed in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, and has more piercings than I can count. I think he digs my style, but still… I can’t help but watch, mesmerized, as his strong hands move on the stickshift and hold the wheel, as the muscles in his corded arms swell and shift, as his eyes narrow at the road—and wish I’d pulled my hair up and worn a T-shirt with fewer holes and more cleavage.
He turns into an avenue and parks his truck along some trees planted in the sidewalk. He bows his head, lets out a long breath and kills the lights and the engine. His hands rest on the wheel.
Quiet spreads, and my heart thunders in my ears. Tessa’s building is just a block away. I can see her lit window from here. I should thank him for driving me over, get out and go.
I bite my lip and tug on the hem of my skirt. I gaze out the window, at the street lamps. “Zane, I—”
“They are burn scars.”
My head snaps around.
He’s breathing fast, and his hands are gripping the wheel so hard the plastic casing creaks. “The scars on my back,” he clarifies. “I don’t remember much about them, but I remember pain. The smell of burned flesh. I remember hands…” He swallows thickly. His voice drops so low I strain to hear it. “Hands on me. On my back, and lower… Fuck. Pain and pleasure and goddamn fear.”
My heart is in my throat. I’m terrified of what his memory might mean. I’m frozen, petrified, cold to the bone. His pain hurts as if it’s my own.
“You asked…” He unclenches his hands from the wheel. “You asked what you can and can’t do. Don’t touch my back when we’re doing it. Don’t hug me from behind. Don’t climb on top of me. I’m…” He’s hunched over the wheel, his shoulders bent, as if he’s carrying a heavy weight. “Christ, can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
I can hardly believe it myself. But one thought keeps echoing in my mind: he wants to try. With me. It makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.
“I won’t touch your back,” I whisper, thinking furiously. “I promise.”
It’s the combination of things that triggers the attacks, I realize. Now it makes sense. Like in the park. It wasn’t just the water. It was the combination of being thrown into the water and being held there that freaked him out. And this… the combination of pleasure and the memory of how he got the scars.
Hence his rules. Not holding him down, not recreating the circumstances of an event that scarred him worse than the burns on his back. I can do that.
For Zane.
He nods once, his mouth pressed in a flat line. I can’t imagine what it cost him to tell me all this, open his heart until it’s raw and bleeding.
“But I need to see your face when we’re together,” I say and hate myself for asking more from him. Still, I have to do it. “I need to see you. It’s important to me.”
“Okay,” he mutters and lets his head fall back. He scrunches his eyes shut, and he grits his teeth. “Fuck.”
“I should go.” I don’t want to, especially not now, when he looks so defeated. “But I want something first.”
His eyes snap open. He stares straight at the windshield, then blinks. “What?”
“What do you think?”
His mouth tightens, then twitches. He’s struggling—with his memories, maybe? “Dakota…”
I love the sound of my name on his lips. Breathy. Sexy.
“What do you think I want?”
He frowns. He shoots me a sideways glance, and his gaze heats up. “My ink on you?” He’s hardening as I watch, the crotch of his jeans stretching tight over his erection.
“Yeah.” I take a pen from my bag and give it to him. “All the drawings you’ve made on me have been washed away.”
He licks his lips and takes the pen, his gaze a bit unfocused. He reaches down to adjust himself inside his jeans, and I suddenly feel too hot. God, he’s so sexy I can’t stand it.
“You don’t have any of my ink left on you,” Zane mutters and shifts closer to me, so close there’s a line of heat between our bodies. “That’s fucking unacceptable.”
His gaze rakes my body like a solid caress, stopping on the swell of my breasts, then my skirt and down my legs. I want his hands, his mouth on me, his cock in me, but I just hold my breath when he turns in the seat to face me and trails his fingertips up and down my bare arm.
His face is a study in light and shadow, broad cheekbones, the slight curve of his nose, the straight dark brows over the hooded eyes, the elegant curve of his mouth. His chest rises and falls, stretching the thin fabric of his T-shirt over his sculpted pecs.
He strokes his hand down the inside of my elbow, making me shiver, all the way to my wrist and across my palm. He tangles his fingers with mine and draws my hand to his lap, on his thigh.
The pen glides over my skin, drawing straight and wiggly lines, and I wonder what bird he’ll draw this time. It tickles a little, but his other hand distracts me, his thumb rubbing up and down my wrist, sending electric shocks to my core. My eyes fall shut, and I swallow down a moan.
Soon—too soon—he stops, and
I open my eyes. He’s looking right at me, the pen and the drawing forgotten, his eyes dark pools of desire. His hand travels up my arm once more, and he tugs me toward him.
My first reaction would be to lift my arms to place around his neck, but I stop myself in the last second. Unsure of what to do, I let him maneuver my body. He nudges and pushes me, until I turn my back to him, then he pulls me between his legs so that I lean against his chest. His hardness is thick and hot in the small of my back, the feel of it sending bolts of heat down my belly.
I know why he likes this position—why he prefers my back to him. Like this, there’s no way I can throw my arms around him and touch his scars. No way can I trigger a flashback.
And yet… “Zane, I can’t—”
“I know,” he mutters. “You need to see me. It’s in your folder now.”
What folder? I want to ask, but his breath brushes my neck, and he shifts, one hand circling my waist, then moving to the front, lifting my skirt.
A tremor goes through me, and my head drops back against his shoulder. I’ve dreamed of him touching me again, and even though I can’t see his face, I might go against my own rules and let him do what he wills with me.
One hand presses between my legs, and I splay them, giving in, helpless with need. Fingers tangle in my hair and tug my head sideways. Lips press against my neck, teeth graze my skin, and I shudder.
It’s not Collin. I just have to remember that, trust the knowledge. Besides, Zane’s scent fills my senses, and Collin never held me like this—like he can’t let go.
“Dakota,” Zane whispers, and his lips move up my neck to my jaw. His teeth sink into my earlobe, tugging on my silver hoops, and I gasp, throbbing with need.
Then he pulls away, and his other hand, still tangled in my hair, gently turns my head toward him.
Our eyes meet, and he grins. My heart does a weird little flip in my chest. Then it flips again when his gaze zeroes in on my mouth, and he licks his lips.
I want him to kiss me so badly.
