by Jo Raven
I kiss his lips, willing him to kiss me back, to touch me more.
But he’s already pulling away, releasing my cheeks, ripping himself from my hold, his eyes wide and wild.
“Fuck,” he breathes and stumbles back. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
And with that, he turns and staggers out of the room. His steps echo in my ears, mingling with my racing heartbeat and my hitching breaths.
Somewhere in his tiny apartment, a door slams.
Whoa. What the hell just happened?
I lift a shaky hand to my burning, tingling lips. His taste lingers on my tongue—fiery and salty with a touch of sweetness. My breasts ache, and there’s a maddening throb between my legs. Why did he turn around and leave me here?
He’s sorry.
An embarrassing burn starts at the back of my eyes. All this time I hesitated to even touch him because he’s my friend, because his friendship, his presence means so much to me. I’d hit on a guy this hot within two minutes of meeting him, but I never hit on Shane, because I thought he didn’t want me—and now he goes and kisses me, then escapes and shuts himself up in his bedroom.
Even worse, what does that mean for our friendship? I can’t bear the thought of not seeing him around, not shooting pool with him and having beers. He’s the one person I feel comfortable with, the one I trust, the only one who stood by me and didn’t condemn me.
Crap on a stick, how did it come to this? I pass my arm over my eyes and refuse to cry. I’ve cried enough over the past few months for my bad choices, but this? This isn’t on me. He’s the one who kissed me.
“Shane.” I force my voice to be steady and strong. “Shane! I’m going, okay?”
No reply.
Of course. He’s made his point by apologizing and leaving. It was a mistake. Maybe he just wanted to see what it was like, kissing the girl everyone kisses, and let’s face it, he was piss-drunk, and I knew it from the moment I saw him at the bar. He didn’t really want me. He wanted a warm body, and I was there, available, easy.
Always easy. Always available.
Jesus Christ. I can’t be that girl anymore. Things need to change. I need to change. I only wish I knew how. How to be happy without an easy fix, without a random man in my bed and alcohol in my system.
No wonder everyone’s disgusted with me.
Shane probably too. I bet what happened tonight just served to confirm his fears that I’d kiss anyone who shows the slightest interest in me, because I am that pathetic, that lonely. That eager.
He’ll never know he’s different. That I haven’t kissed anyone or slept with anyone in a long time, his face the only one I see when I’m alone.
It doesn’t matter. Manon thinks wanting Shane is a lost cause, and it looks like she’s right.
***
As I turn blindly around to go, my hand closing around the handle of the apartment door, a crash reverberates through the apartment, jerking me out of my self-pity party.
I whirl around, my heart in my throat. “Shane?”
He’s drunk—the kiss is proof of that. What if he fell and hurt himself?
Waiting at the door, I strain to listen. It’s quiet. Maybe he dropped something. Nothing important. I should be on my way.
Another crash rings through the apartment, and I start toward his bedroom before I even know I’ve made up my mind to check on him. I hurry across the living room, past the bathroom, and pound on his bedroom door. “Shane. What’s going on?”
When he doesn’t reply, I push it open and walk inside. The light is dim, the bulb overhead weak, so that I squint as I take another step, trying to make sense of what my eyes see.
An overturned chair. A lamp in pieces by the bed. Shane’s jacket thrown on the mattress.
Shane sprawled on the floor, his long hair fanning around his head like a pool of ink. His hands scrabble on the beige carpet, and he’s muttering something under his breath, his eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling.
“Shane?”
He hisses as if in pain, his back arching off the floor.
Holy shit. A thousand possibilities flash through my mind as I try to figure this out. An epileptic fit? He fell and broke a bone? He hit his head?
“Hey.” I approach slowly, carefully, crouch beside him. “You okay? Shall I—?”
“Please,” that one word from his mouth comes out loud and clear as he struggles for breath. “Please.”
This is no epileptic fit, that much is clear. His face is pale, sweat shimmering on his brow and cheeks, running down his neck in shiny trails. A vein in his jaw ticks rapidly.
“What’s wrong?” I lean over him. “What happened?”
His eyes flick in my direction, and he jerks away, hitting his head on the floor with a thump that makes me wince. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, scrambling to shift away from me, those dark eyes so wide his pupils are black pinpoints in the white.
It’s as if he’s afraid of me.
Jesus. This isn’t normal, right? Never happened before. Of course, I’ve always seen Shane in Halo or at parties. Never on his own turf.
“Say something,” I whisper, my breath catching when he cries out and throws himself sideways, crashing into the bed. “Shit. Talk to me.”
Yeah, this shit isn’t normal, and my presence isn’t helping. I’m so out of my depth here. So frigging scared for him, and no clue what’s happening.
“Shane.” I draw breath to say something more, to ask again, but nothing comes out.
He curls up on the floor, muttering again. I lean closer to hear.
“Stop,” he’s saying, over and over. “Please stop.”
“Stop what?” I put a hand on his shoulder, shake him a little.
He thrashes, knocking against the side of the bed again, his breathing coming in shallow gasps.
God. He’s breaking my heart.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, because it’s obvious he can’t really hear me. He’s caught in a terrifying daydream, and I’m making things worse.
I should call someone.
Seth. I should call Seth. He’ll know what to do.
But I don’t move, because somewhere deep inside my mind, inside my memory box, something is stirring. A nudge, a poke. Something feels familiar about this, but I don’t know what. I only know it makes me scared and sad and desperate.
And that Shane’s drifting away from me, caught in a nightmarish memory that won’t let him go.
A dissociative flashback.
My own memories swell, overtake my thoughts like a great dark wave. Angel. His night terrors. His fears.
Jesus.
Swallowing down bile, I fight to gather my wits, push down the terror that lurks at the back of my mind, waiting to drag me down—because Shane needs my help. He thinks he’s trapped in the past, in a moment when the whole world let him down. He thinks he’s alone fighting a losing battle—and I need to let him know I’m here.
Somehow.
Anchoring techniques. Think, Cass.
My mouth dry, I reach for him, then retract my hand. No touching. No wonder he freaked out when I put my hand on him.
Okay. You used to know how to deal with this. With Angel, when he lost himself in his past.
“Shane,” I say. Need to keep calling him, calling him back. “Shane, it’s me, Cassie. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
He’s facing away from me, tremors going through his body, and the need to touch him is overwhelming. I fight it. It’s not what he needs.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask him. “This is your apartment. It’s just you and me. The door is closed. You’re safe.”
I keep telling him that. I repeat it again and again. You’re safe. You’re okay. Shane, can you hear me? It’s me, Cassie.
But I’m not getting through. Not yet.
He whimpers, tries to shift further from me. Begs me to stop. I don’t know what he’s seeing, but his body is doubled up, muscles tense, and I don’t know if it’s physical pain he�
�s feeling, or only fear.
Christ, I really should call Seth. They’re close and having someone he knows well beside him will help more than I am.
But as I dig in my pockets for my cell phone, Shane moves. Uncurling from his spot on the floor, he throws a hand up, grabbing the bed for support, and crouches across from me.
Time stops.
He’s staring at me, long hair hiding his face, and my heart is banging against my ribs like it wants out. He looks… feral. Beautiful.
Lost.
He’s looking at me but doesn’t seem to really see me. His face is ashen, his eyes too wide. I have no clue what he’s seeing, or thinking. He’s shaking. His gaze flicks to the door and back as if he’s trying to decide how to reach it and bolt.
How do I anchor him, when I didn’t even know he has flashbacks a minute ago? For Angel, Mom would have things like a photo album with old photos and music that calmed him down. The psychologist treating him had suggested it, and it seemed to work.
So we thought, at least.
“Can you hear me?” I lick my dry lips, trying to figure out what to do next. “I promise you’re safe. You know me. Cassie. We play pool together in Halo.”
His gaze returns to me, and he frowns.
“Shane. You’re okay. You’ll be fine.”
Slowly he rocks back until his back meets the bed, and slides to the floor. His ragged breathing is very loud in the quiet. He fists his trembling hands at his sides, and tries to curl up again, pressing back into the bed.
How can I make him feel safe?
A blue quilt has fallen to the floor. I reach for it, pull it closer. Angel liked to hide in the dark when things started making sense again.
No clue if Shane can see me now, or if he’s still lost in his memories.
“I’ll call Seth,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from talking for so long and from the lump stuck in my throat. “He’ll help you.”
“Cassie.” God, his voice’s hoarser than mine, rough like sandpaper.
“Yes. It’s me. I’m here.” Dropping my phone, I crawl closer to him, then stop again, unsure. Don’t want to spook him more. “I’m right here.”
He draws a ragged breath, his eyes too bright. He’s shivering in his thin T-shirt and jeans.
“Can I touch you?” I wait and wait until he nods, then pull the quilt with me as I scoot to sit by his side. “Okay.” I smile up at him, and he blinks, his lashes wet.
God, it’s so hard seeing him like this. I wish I knew what he flashed back to. Easier to decide what might help.
But for now… “Here.” I pull the quilt over our legs. “Would you like to get into the bed?”
He shivers again, says nothing, so I lean into him, settle my arm lightly over his stomach and rest my head on his shoulder.
“This okay?” I ask, and he just sighs, his heart pounding under my ear. Crap, maybe I should pull back, hold his hand or something until I’m sure he’s one hundred percent here.
But then he wraps a muscled arm around me, holding me against him, and buries his face in my hair, and I know it’s going to be okay.
At least for tonight.
***
Much later, he draws away from me and stumbles to the bathroom to piss. I meet him at the door when he comes out and take his hand. He blinks down at our tangled fingers. He’s so quiet, more than usual. When I tug on his hand, he follows me to the sofa. I settle him there and go make him something hot to drink.
I can’t find cocoa, and I vow to buy him some of my favorite brand. Instead, I make him a hot black tea with lots of sugar and carry it back to the sofa.
His face’s still too pale for my liking, and his expression empty. I give him the tea and go grab the quilt from his bedroom. He glances at it when I drag it over his legs, then looks up at my face.
“Let’s watch some TV,” I say. “Something fun. A cartoon or something.”
His hands clench on top of the quilt, his long hair falling forward like a curtain, hiding his face from me.
I hesitate. “You sure you don’t want me to call Seth?”
One of his hands sneaks out and grips my arm. “Stay.”
I guess I have my answer. Fighting a tiny grin, I turn on the TV and zap between channels, looking for cartoons as he takes a gulp from his tea and sets it down on the table.
This used to work for Angel, and the thought sends a pang through my chest. Breathing around the ache, I check a couple of channels and chance upon Finding Nemo.
That’s good. Lowering the volume to minimum, I curl up against Shane and pull the quilt higher up, to our chests, drag his hands below, hold them in mine. His are cold, and I rub them lightly as the movie plays. His palms are hard, the hands of a manual laborer.
That’s right. He works at that construction site where he had the accident. I never gave much thought to how he earns his living. Somehow in my mind he was already a tattoo artist, but both he and Seth are still apprentices.
I knew this, and yet I pushed it to the back of my mind. After seeing him so distressed, I’m worried about everything that might hurt him, and the thought of him climbing scaffolds and ladders in the wind and falling snow makes my teeth grit.
My fingers curl around his, squeeze, then trail up his wrists, where dark ink covers the skin.
And I freeze.
Scars. Thick, raised scars running up the inside of his forearm. Holy God. A sense of horrible déjà vu hits me like a truckload of rocks.
Like Angel. Oh crap, this is Angel all over again, and I don’t know how to handle this. Don’t know if I can.
If I won’t freak out, too, and run away screaming.
What am I doing? I ask myself that question over and over as force my hands away from his scars and put them around him, pulling him close. He resists a little at first, then relaxes and slumps against me. The movie unrolls, Dori keeps forgetting where she is, and my throat closes.
How can I help you, Shane?
I cajole him until he curls up on the sofa, his head in my lap, and I run my fingers through his soft, long hair as he dozes. My heart swells with fondness. It’s like I want to wrap myself around him, keep him close always, keep him safe from harm, from the demons hounding him.
It scares me—I’ve never really been fond of a guy before—but not as much as the scars and the flashback. I need to know what happened to him. Need to understand, piece the picture together. Really know him.
There’s only one person I trust to have the answers—and I’ll get them out of Seth if I have to sell my soul in exchange.
Part II
Shane
Nine months ago the girl I’m crazy about kissed another guy. Now she’s kissing me, and I don’t know how the hell to keep her. I have no fucking clue…
How to not get the girl: A guide for boys
Be dark and silent and impenetrable. Don’t ever open up.
Don’t tell her you need her or that you love her. Big no-no.
Shove her against the wall and be a violent asshole instead of admitting you can’t live without her.
Have prettier hair than her. Use a good conditioner.
Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable for her—and that’s rule number one.
Chapter Seven
Shane
There’s a rock knocking about inside my head, trying to crack my skull open. When I lift my head off the pillow, it hurts so much I moan out loud.
Goddammit.
Can’t recall what nightmare woke me up this time. A faint image of a laughing face flashes through my mind, then is gone, leaving behind an aftertaste of fear.
I’m lying on my sofa, the TV playing on low—a kids’ show with marionettes. I blink at it stupidly, waiting for the pain in my head to go down a notch, let me think.
Let me remember.
My stomach twists dangerously, and I throw my legs off the couch, struggling to get up. The room spins and swirls as I lurch to my feet and cross the living room. The bathroom door is open. I hear
a voice calling my name, but I’m too focused on not puking on the floor. As it is, I barely make it, crashing to my knees in front of the toilet and lifting the lid just in time to toss my cookies.
Fuck this shit. Puking, throbbing head… Drinking. Downing so much Jack after a couple missed lunches obviously wasn’t my brightest of ideas. Why was I drinking?
Ocean. The bar.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand¸ the throb in my skull intensifying as I struggle to pull the threads of memory together to form a coherent story.
Ocean wanted to drown his sorrows, he said, and I went with him—to drown mine or to keep him from drowning himself, who the fuck knows.
Then Seth had shown up, and Cassie… Cassie, oh shit.
Kissing Cassie, pushing her against the wall, wanting her like nothing else in the world, and then… A blank, a black hole.
No, not entirely black. Snatches of memory blink in the back of my mind like ghosts. Images from prison, from the real nightmare, with Christoph and Marco, and the pain and screams and motherfucking fear—
“Shane.” That voice from before I stumbled into the bathroom, soft and light.
I turn toward the door, and she’s standing there.
Cassie.
She’s here. So that part was real. She walked with me, came inside with me, I kissed her. And then…
And then I lost it. In front of her. I remember her calling my name, covering me with the quilt. Stroking my hair.
I’m staring at her, numb, unable to form words. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen, and it fucking did. That I’d lose it. Scare her away. Make her pity me.
Dammit. Story of my life.
“How you feeling?” she asks, and I close my eyes and turn away, because, yeah.
Exactly that.
“Fine.” I push myself upright, grab at the wall not to fall when dizziness hits me. “I’m fine.”
“Made you some more tea and toast.” She shifts from foot to foot, clearly uneasy, and why wouldn’t she be after witnessing my total breakdown?
Fuck.
“Don’t worry about me,” I grind out, still trying to decide if I can stop hugging the wall or if I’ll faceplant the moment I push away.
