Behind These Scars

by Lilah Grey

  “Crouton.” My voice is low and strained as I try not to yell.

  He darts in and out of rooms at an alarming pace for such a large cat. After a few stressful minutes, he comes to a stop at the end of the hallway, next to Luke’s bedroom.

  He sits there, staring at me as his tail twitches. He seems to be asking me if I want to play this game of his.

  No… no, I do not.

  Unfortunately for me, I have no way of getting that message across to him.

  “Crouton!” I’m beginning to lose my temper. “Get. Over. Here.” I wave at him, hoping that by some miracle he’ll follow me. “Now!”

  No dice.

  He remains steadfast, staring at the funny-looking human in a towel, waving her arms like a madwoman. I groan as I trudge reluctantly over to him.

  Just as I’m reaching down to grab him, he spins around and bursts into Luke’s bedroom. The door swings open and I see Luke bending over to pull up his boxers.

  He’s naked. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His legs, his arms, his torso—every part of his body looks as though he’s been chiseled from marble, a living representation of the Grecian Ideal.

  My core floods with heat as I gape at him. His cock hangs between his legs, thick and long and…

  Crap!

  He’s looking at me; the corners of his mouth curl up slowly into a smile.

  And it’s then that I realize my towel is no longer covering me; it’s on the floor around my feet. I grab the towel, clutching it tightly to my chest as I turn to run.

  “Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder. My ass is on full display as I sprint down the hallway.

  Stupid, stupid cat.

  I shut the door to my bedroom behind me, sliding against the door as I collapse onto the floor. My skin is on fire from embarrassment.

  I want to scream. I need release. I finger the rubber band around my wrist.

  Snap.

  Calm slowly returns, my breath becoming less ragged.

  Is it possible to die from embarrassment? Well, I guess I’m about to find out.

  After a few minutes, I pull myself to my feet and grab the gray sweatpants and white shirt that Luke set out for me. I slip both on and fall into bed. It's soft and warm; the duvet feels like silk against my skin. I look down at the scar on my forearm and touch it. It seems to pulsate under my fingertips.

  There’s a light knock on my door, and a few seconds later, it opens.

  I pretend to be asleep—silly, I know. No one can fall asleep that fast, especially after what I just witnessed. My eyes are closed, but I can sense Luke standing next to me. I can smell the fresh scent of his body wash.

  Luke sneezes as Crouton hops onto the bed.

  “Bless you,” I say without thinking.

  My cheeks flush. There's goes my act. Some people do say ‘bless you’ in their sleep… right?

  “Thanks,” Luke says.

  I can feel his smirk through his tone.

  “Can I get you anything? Are you comfortable?”

  I flip over and groan in my pillow. “I’m fine…”

  “It’s alright, Libby.” He sits down on the bed next to me and places his hand on my shoulder, rubbing it through the duvet. “I can remember the first time I saw another person naked.”

  Oh… my… God… did he seriously just say that?

  “I’m sure you’re wondering about what you’re feeling right now, but don’t worry, it’s natural. Completely normal.”

  Fireworks explode in my head. The room may be dark, but I'm seeing red.

  I spring up and start slapping his body. “That’s—slap!—not—slap!—funny.” I slap him a couple more times for good measure.

  I fall back on the bed and glare at him, but he just sits there, laughing, obviously amused with himself.

  I lean forward, readying my next assault, but before I have the chance to unleash cold vengeance on his ass, Luke bear-hugs me, pinning my arms to my sides. I can't move. I consider head-butting him, but I'd probably knock myself out.

  “Calm down, Lippy. It’s just a joke.”

  Lippy…

  It’s been years since I’ve heard that name. I guess the last time I heard it was the night Luke left. He was the only one who called me that. It was his special name for me. I liked it.

  His heady scent overwhelms my senses again, and my body begins to relax in his embrace. His hand slides down my spine and rests on my lower back, heat penetrating my core, throbbing, aching—wanting for his touch. I want to feel his hands all over my body, and I don’t care how wrong it is.

  He pulls back and looks into my eyes. At this distance, his eyes are a pale gray, and I can see them flood with lust. He reaches out and slides his hand across my neck, gripping the back of my head as I glance at his lips.

  Kiss me. Just kiss me.

  I bite my bottom lip, waiting for him to make a move. I want to feel the weight of his body as he covers me, pinning me on the bed.

  But the moment never comes. The lust falls away along with his hand as he stands up and turns to leave. The air in front of me still buzzes with his energy and scent—a specter of him.

  He leaves without saying another word, closing the door behind him.

  I try to fall asleep, but I'm too wired, restless as thoughts of him circle through my head.

  I’m not like him. I can’t push these feelings away so easily.

  I toss and turn, thoughts of Luke torturing me. I can’t get him out of my mind. His perfect body. His perfect lips. His intoxicating scent that still lingers in the air.

  I slip my hand below the waistband of my sweatpants. My breath hitches as my fingers slide over my wet mound. Goosebumps cover my arms and legs as I finger myself, thinking about Luke until I come.

  8

  Libby

  Crouton is scratching the door when I wake up.

  I check the clock; it’s nearly noon, much later than I normally get up. After the day (and night) I had yesterday, I can’t be too harsh on myself. Besides, it’s not like I have a job anymore.

  After wiping the sleep from my eyes, I walk over to Crouton and scratch him behind his ears. He purrs at me with satisfaction, rubbing his cheeks into my palm.

  “You must be hungry! I promise I’ll…”

  Just as I open the door, Crouton shoots out of the room.

  “…find you some food.”

  Alright then…

  The apartment looks so different in the daylight, and I feel like an intruder, an unwelcome guest among the high-end furnishings. Luke’s gone. Crouton’s now sunning himself by the window at the opposite end of the apartment.

  I know I’m alone, but it’s eerily quiet. I’m used to some sort of noise when I wake up, whether it’s Crouton rummaging in my room or Margaret banging around in the kitchen.

  Just as the quiet begins to get to me, my stomach grumbles. I haven't eaten a thing since lunch the previous day. I check the fridge for food, but nothing looks appetizing.

  Well, that settles it.

  I sink into one of the leather couches and decide to watch some television. One look at the remote and I change my mind; it has far too many buttons, and I have no desire to fiddle around with it.

  So instead, I begin to explore Luke’s apartment. If I’m going to be living here for a while, I might as well know where everything’s at. I wander around for a few minutes, opening doors and drawers, peeking inside rooms, but I find nothing interesting. I consider checking Luke’s room but decide against it. I didn’t want to get caught snooping through his stuff.

  On my way back to the main room, I pause at the door opposite my bedroom. It’s closed unlike the rest of the rooms which are all wide open.

  I turn the knob and push the door open, peering inside. The room reeks of paint and chemicals. It’s dark, and as far as I can tell, windowless. I’m about to step inside and find a light switch when Luke reaches his hand across my body.

  I jump backward as he grabs the handle and shuts the door.
>
  “Jesus, where’d you come from?”

  “The store,” he says, turning around and heading toward the kitchen. “I picked up some things for Crouton.”

  Not what I meant but whatever…

  I follow him, a little unnerved by how he snuck up on me, but the feeling fades as soon as I see his haul. There are toys and cat food and litter, along with an assortment of other goodies for Crouton.

  “Wow! Thank you so much.”

  Luke’s thoughtfulness is a welcome surprise.

  I catch a whiff of his scent as I follow him, and it reminds me of the previous night. Before I have to chance to stop myself, the words stream from me.

  “About last night…” I begin, letting the words hang in the air.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, unloading the groceries. “You hungry?”

  He takes out a pan and sets it down on the stove, turning the gas on.

  I can’t believe he’s acting so… normal. As though his mom didn’t just die, as though he didn’t just reappear in my life, as though we didn’t see each other naked last night. Or that we were moments away from kissing.

  It's strange and infuriating, and I can't let it go.

  “What are you doing? What exactly is going on?”

  “I’m making eggs. Would you like some?” A smile crosses his lips, and for a brief moment, I forget why I'm mad.

  He raises the carton of eggs up for me to see, setting it down a half-second later. The crack of an egg and the sizzle of butter in the pan jerks me from my thoughts.

  “That’s not what I meant. What are you doing? Why did you want to bring me here?

  “Well, where else were you going to go?” He shrugs as he cracks a few more eggs into a bowl.

  “That’s not what I mean. You know that.” The smirk on his lips proves it. “You wanted to take me away before…” I pause, feeling a little uneasy. “You know. It happened.”

  “I’ll tell you soon enough. Right now it’s time to eat. Do you know what makes a good scrambled egg?” He points at me with a whisk and smiles.

  I want to knock it out of his hand.

  Nice deflection, asshole.

  He was good at deflecting, never giving a straight answer. His silver tongue would twist words in such a way that it seemed like he was answering a question. He was, just not the one you asked.

  He ignores the fact that I'm glaring at him and continues cooking. The egg mixture sizzles in butter as he pours it into the pan.

  “Control.” The word hangs in the air as his gaze locks on mine. “You have to control the heat.”

  He turns his attention back to the stove, and I can see the muscles in his back ripple under his shirt as he adds a bit more butter to the pan.

  “Keep stirring. When the eggs begin to solidify, take them off the heat but keep stirring. They’re still cooking.”

  My mind returns to last night as Luke’s rough voice washes over me. I feel his hand against my cheek. I see his eyes, filled with lust, dragging their gaze across my skin.

  “And then back on the heat.” Metal scrapes against the iron slats as flames lick the pan.

  “Keep stirring. Don’t stop. Control it.”

  I want him to control me, hold me, take me. My hand unconsciously touches the back of my neck, moving across my collarbone as I close my eyes and continue the fantasy building in my head. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as I breathe in his scent.

  “Then back off the heat. Stir…” The whisk scrapes against the pan as Luke stirs the eggs. He grabs a pinch of salt. “Season…” He grabs a spatula and a couple of plates. They clang against the counter, jolting me out of my fantasy as he shovels eggs onto one of them. “Plate… and serve.”

  He walks to the island, setting the plate down as he beckons me over. “Sit.”

  I walk a few feet to a stool and sit down, eyeing the steaming mound of scrambled eggs in front of me.

  “Enjoy,” he says, turning around to fill his plate.

  “They look slimy,” I say, poking at them with my fork. “They’re not solid like Margaret makes.”

  “That's because they're not overcooked like Margaret makes. I promise you,” he says, turning around with a plate in his hand, “these eggs are perfect.”

  I snort. Perfect. He would think that everything he touches is perfection.

  Even though they look runny and gross, I’m not about to turn my nose up to them; I’m starving.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  My eyes light up as I take my first bite. They're the most delicious eggs I've ever tasted, creamy and salty and... perfect. I won't tell him that though. I don't want to inflate his ego any more than it already is. But of course Luke would be able to cook like this.

  What couldn’t this man do?

  “So are you going to tell me why you dropped in out of the blue?”

  I take another bite of eggs as Luke sits down on the stool next to me.

  “You really want to know, huh?”

  Answer a straightforward question. That’s one thing he couldn’t do…

  “No, I enjoy being left in the dark.” The metal prongs of the fork slide against my lips as I take another bit.

  “Alright. If you really want to know—”

  His phone rings, and he pauses.

  “Just a second.”

  Great.

  Luke scoots away from the island and walks over to the counter. The muscles in his jaw twitch as he clenches them, staring at the screen as his phone continues to ring.

  His greeting and subsequent responses are brusque. He glances back at me over his shoulder.

  “Of course I’ll be there,” he snaps as he ends the call. He tosses the phone onto the counter; it skitters across the surface and falls to the ground with a crash.

  “Leave it,” he growls as I’m bending over to see if it’s broken. “I’ll get another if it’s broken.”

  Must be nice…

  He grabs a cup from the cabinet, fills it with water, and downs it in one gulp. A piece of glass flies off from the base as he slams it down onto the counter.

  Anger issues much?

  Jeez, this was awkward. Can’t I just eat my eggs in peace?

  “So, what was that about?” I ask as I pick at my eggs.

  “Damian.”

  “What about him?”

  “He wants to question me down at the station. I was the last one to see Margaret alive.”

  Luke marches around the island and picks up his phone off the ground. He holds it in front of him, inspecting it. The front is completely shattered, but apparently, it still works.

  He makes a call, but before I have a chance to listen, he disappears around the corner, heading toward his room.

  Crouton bumps against my foot and begins to purr. I look down at the ball of orange and white fluff. “I’m still mad at you, mister.”

  He looks up at me and meows.

  Who am I kidding? Crouton’s way too cute. I couldn’t stay mad at him for more than a few minutes no matter how hard I tried.

  A few minutes later, Luke returns. He drops a leather-bound notebook in front of me.

  “It was Henry’s journal,” he says, his eyes still staring at it.

  Henry was my dad, is my dad. Just because he’s dead doesn’t change that.

  It’s tattered; there are coffee stains on some of the pages, and most of the edges are torn. But it smells of him. I hold it against my chest, closing my eyes as I breathe in his familiar scent. It had been so long since I smelled him, but the subtle scent causes my mind to flood with memories of him.

  “I never knew he had a journal,” I say, opening my eyes. “Where did you find it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he answers gruffly.

  Jeez.

  He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn't mean to snap.” He reaches for the journal, and I reluctantly allow him to take it from me. He flips through the pages.

  “I have a few sections marked. Read the
m. They’ll explain everything far better than I can.” He tosses it back to me. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Help yourself to whatever you need, but don’t leave the apartment.”

  Luke walks out without giving me a chance to respond.

  Well, this just keeps getting better and better…

  I sigh and reach for the journal, flipping to the last bookmarked page. I was never good at reading from start to finish. I always wanted to know the end first.

  The entry isn't dated. It's a single sentence written in my father's hand.

  A sick feeling wells in my stomach and spreads throughout my body. I’m dizzy, light-headed, and I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out or throwing up; at this point, both were equally as likely.

  Numbness saturates my limbs as I read the sentence, again and again, hoping that it changes.

  But it doesn’t.

  Something takes control of me, and I find myself opening drawers until I locate the cutlery. I take out a knife and place it on the counter, staring at its blade. Its sharp, gleaming edge calls out to me as the need for release consumes me.

  I’m not sure I can resist this time.

  9

  Luke

  Five years ago…

  When I finally make it to Emma’s house, she’s on the front porch. The porch swing hardly moves as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.

  I can feel the iciness of her gaze as I walk up the steps. She doesn't say a word, and I don't care.

  Emma’s pretty, but there wasn’t any substance there. There wasn’t heart or fire underneath that pristine exterior.

  Her parents protected her from the world; they gave her everything.

  Just look at the grand Victorian mansion she lives in. Perfectly landscaped grounds with bright gardens that stretch forever. The brand new white Lexus parked in the drive. It’s her second, by the way. She totaled the first and had a new one waiting for her when she came home.

  I’m not envious. I wouldn’t want a life where everything’s handed to me.

  I know when I undress her, I won’t find a single blemish on her porcelain skin. Not a single scar with a story to tell.