The Scars Between Us

by Schiller, MK

  Somewhere in the midst of this, Amy woke up and begged him to stop. He did and told me to go to bed. I should have known better. Never believe a monster. He even tucked me in. Then he lifted my mattress, rolling me right off it. It was painful. Not as painful as his leather belt, and definitely not as agonizing as the leather belt when the shiny silver buckle was attached to it. But the surprise of being tossed from my bed made me pee my pants. That happened a lot…being flung off the bed and peeing my pants. Eventually, I learned sleeping on the floor is safer. Even today, I get my best sleep when I’m lying on the ground.

  In some ways, I’m grateful the memory came to me as I lie on the floor. It’s easier to distance myself from Emma when I think back to my childhood. It reminds me we come from two different worlds—not that either of us is normal.

  She is the girl who lost everything.

  I am the boy who never had anything.

  I wake up in the middle of the night, the memory fading away…dying and distant. Emma is lying next to me. She must have draped a sheet over me while I slept.

  I shake her awake, demanding an answer. “Why are you on the floor?”

  “You were having a nightmare. I didn’t wake you up this time, but I didn’t want you to be alone, either.”

  “It’s over.”

  “I know.”

  “Get off the floor.”

  “I want to sleep here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is where you are.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “Maybe I will if you stop waking me up.”

  “Go. To. The. Bed.”

  “No.” Her back is to me. She shivers. “You could at least share the sheet, though.”

  I sigh, throwing the cover over her, trying to summon annoyance I do not feel. God help me, I put my arms around her. She smells of vanilla and rum and sour apple Jolly Ranchers. I bury my face in the silk of her hair. This isn’t real, I tell myself. I am still dreaming. I can do what I want in a dream.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  She’s still on the floor, pressed against me, when I wake. My morning wood stands at attention for her. I shift away. Down, boy, down, I beg.

  She stirs, but she doesn’t wake. Once I get a hold of myself, I lift her gently, depositing her on the bed. She stretches and mumbles something about rum as I tuck her in. I should walk away. Instead, I lean down and kiss her forehead. Her skin is warm against my lips. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t kiss foreheads. I barely kiss at all.

  I head down to the hotel gym and run on the treadmill at top speed until every muscle rebels with an aching burn. Emma may not be a virgin, but she’s definitely innocent. I am not. On some level, that distinction attracts me to her, but on another much darker level, I want to steal her innocence. To devour it so whenever she mourns the loss of her purity, she’ll think of me.

  She’s sprawled on her belly fast asleep when I return. “Get up,” I say, opening the blinds. The sun hits her hair in such a way that the gold and red strands almost glow.

  She stirs but doesn’t wake.

  “Up.”

  She puts the pillow over her head.

  “Get up. Get up. Get up.” I say, bouncing on the bed.

  “Why are you being mean? Let me sleep.”

  “I’ve let you sleep for hours. It’s ten a.m.”

  She rolls to her back. “You look sweaty.”

  You look tasty.

  “I was working out. I’m going to shower.”

  She yawns, sitting up and stretching her arms. “I’ll get our stuff ready.”

  “We’re spending another day here.”

  She leans up on her elbows. “Why?”

  “Because we’re in L.A. You have this world is my oyster thing going on.”

  “Okay, Cliché King.”

  “Point is, maybe you won’t come back here. Maybe you never get to do all the things in this brochure.” I throw the pamphlet at her. “We can do anything today, be anything. Obnoxious tourists, or beach bums, or explorers—the normal people.”

  “Aren’t we normal?”

  “Are we?”

  She thinks about my statement for a minute. “I guess not. I’m really good at faking it, though. I think you have a harder time.”

  “Wow, way to ruin the mood.” Why don’t we address my inner-child now, Emma?

  “Let me finish. I’m good at faking it, but I don’t feel the need with you, Aiden. I’m glad you’re my friend. You don’t have to fake it with me, either.”

  Fuck me.

  “Trust me, Emma, there is no faking when it comes to me. Do you want to do this? I really want us to have this day. I think we both need it.”

  “This short detour is taking a long time.”

  “Are you in a hurry to get to where we’re going?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  Neither of us has mentioned getting another room. We also don’t talk about the night before, proving my point that we are not the normal people.

  Chapter Twenty

  Aiden

  We observe the Hollywood sign from the Griffith Observatory. I don’t really get the allure of staring at a sign, but whatever. We go to Madame Tussauds. The wax figures are cool. I discover Emma is crushing on Hugh Jackman, or at least his character, Wolverine. She makes me take at least ten pictures of her posing with the statue. As funny as I find it, I’m a little embarrassed that I’m jealous.

  We tour the USS Iowa. Her idea. I think she suggests it because she notices the way I keep flipping to that page in the brochure. I always wanted to explore a WWII battleship. Then she insists on taking ten pictures of me at various spots of the self-guided tour.

  But that isn’t my favorite part.

  My favorite part is the Hollywood Walk of Fame, if for no other reason than the photo I’m staring at now. She’s sporting these obnoxious sunglasses with her hair parted in two braids. She wears a white tank top and cargo shorts. These are the cute kind of cargo shorts they make for girls that are completely impracticable, because you can’t carry any damn cargo in them. But they give me a very nice view of her long, long legs. Her toes are painted pale pink and she’s got on kryptonite—or at least my kryptonite, which, it turns out, is a sexy sandal. Who knew? I always thought the female body was beautiful in the most obvious way, but with Emma I’m noticing all the subtle, intricate nuances. She poses in front of Marilyn Monroe’s star, one hand resting on her bent knee, the other blowing me a kiss while sticking her ass out with exaggeration.

  Get off it. You’re more Norma Jean than Marilyn any day. And it really sucks for me because I have a mad crush on Norma Jean.

  Now we’re here at yet another club. It’s smaller with a more refined crowd. Emma’s in the fucking red dress again. She had it dry-cleaned and pressed back at the hotel this morning. I swear that dress is taunting me.

  I almost drop my phone when Emma comes back from the DJ station.

  “What song did you request? Is it about boners and douche?”

  She laughs, swigging back the rest of her drink. She’s a fucking sailor, this girl. Truthfully, we’re both too buzzed for our own good. “Shut up and Dance.”

  I shoulder bump her. “You shut up and I don’t dance.”

  She cracks up harder. “That’s the name of the song. It’s by Walk the Moon.”

  “Oh, gotcha.”

  “So you really don’t dance?” she asks.

  “That’s right.”

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “No.”

  “You can just stand there.”

  “Emma, I don’t dance.” Especially not with you. I can’t control my dick around her as it is. It’s already growing at the thought of being close to her.

  “Because we could—”

  “Emma, you can do whatever the fuck you want, but leave me alone.”

  Shit.

  She straightens her shoulders and st
ands. “Aiden, your random acts of dickishness are really getting on my nerves.”

  She gives me a wounded look before walking off. I could blame it on the bourbon, but bourbon only enhances the asshole, it doesn’t create it.

  A girl slips into Emma’s vacant seat. Her knees rub up against mine.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asks.

  “I’m good,” I say, staring as some dude spins Emma around. She’s not into it. I wonder if that’s because I’ve upset her.

  “I’m Pandora,” she says.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask, but my eyes remain on Emma. The guy’s hands are on her hip. What are you doing, Emma? Tell him to get off you.

  “Yeah, damn hippy parents.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hey, are you into her? You keep staring at her, which is sad because I’m worth a good stare or two myself.”

  I turn my head to Pandora. “Sorry.” The girl is sexy with long blonde hair, and enough makeup to keep a third world county employed. Just my type. “I’m not with her.”

  She gives me a onceover, obviously pleased with what she sees. She talks a lot. Apparently, she’s been in a hair color commercial. She says a lot of other things, too, but I don’t really retain them. My eyes keep darting back to Emma.

  “Ten minutes with me and you’ll forget her name.” Okay, now that I hear.

  “Does that line usually work for you?”

  “Every time.”

  “It would be a shame to break such a perfect record.” After all, masturbation isn’t working for me. I need a stronger distraction from Hurricane Emma. She surrounds my every thought.

  The girl keeps talking. Her voice is pitched so every other syllable is higher than the last. It gives me a headache. I hear about half of what she says, but at least I can rip my eyes away from Emma. At least I can have a reprieve.

  “I have the keys to the manager’s office upstairs. No one will bother us.”

  “How did you get those?”

  “She’s my best friend. Actually, she saw you before I did. We were thinking maybe you might want both of us. She’s a brunette, and I already know you have a hard-on for brunettes, the way you were looking at that other girl.”

  I almost correct her and say that Emma’s hair is threaded with many colors, but, well, apparently I speak fluent Dick, so I decide to limit my conversation.

  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you? I thought I saw you once.”

  “Just a guy in a bar.”

  She laughs. “Strong, shy type, I get it. It doesn’t matter, I’ve already got confirmation.”

  “How?”

  She holds up her phone, enlarging the text on the screen with her thumb and index finger—my stats page.

  “This is why God invented the internet,” she says proudly.

  I start laughing. She doesn’t. Oh…not a joke.

  “I want to fuck your brains out,” she says.

  Oh good, then we’ll be a matching set.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says before I can tell her I have to pass.

  I finish my drink, but I don’t see Emma. Where did she go? I need to stop searching for her. Maybe I should just fuck someone else’s brains out to try to get my head on straight.

  The only reason I’m into Emma…fuck, infatuated with her even, is because we’ve spent every waking second on this road trip together. But as soon as I grasp that thread of reasoning, it unravels on me. I’m into Emma because I like her. Because she’s thoughtful, funny, sentimental, intelligent, and beautiful in every way a person can be beautiful. She makes me feel like I can be a better man.

  Somewhere in the midst of my mental chaos, the blonde returns with her friend the brunette. She introduces me. They make no qualms about what they want. They start making out with each right at the table. This…isn’t this every man’s fantasy? Hell, it’s my fantasy. Okay, I am a red-blooded American male and girl-on-girl action is not something I would ever pass up. So I’m surprised when I feel nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. All I can think about is how annoyed I am that they are blocking my view of Emma.

  I’ve pushed Emma away, telling myself it is for her own good. But even though it hasn’t been that long since she came into my life, I feel a deep emptiness when I imagine a life without her.

  What the fuck am I doing? These girls are going at it so hard other dudes are gravitating toward our table. My dick gives me the silent treatment. In fact, the only thing growing is my conscience. But it’s my heart that starts beating out of my chest with fear. Fear of losing her. I don’t want anyone else.

  I stand. They stop groping each other and make a beeline for me. “Oh, we didn’t mean to ignore you. You’re the main attraction.”

  I back away. “Ladies, I’m flattered, but I’ll have to pass.”

  “Oh, come on,” the blonde says, pouting. “Let’s go upstairs for a private party.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Don’t bail on us,” Panchea or Panda or whatever says. She jerks her head toward the dance floor. “She doesn’t mind if you have some fun.”

  A cold dread sinks into the pit of my gut. “What do you mean?”

  “I ran into your friend in the ladies’ room.”

  I feel sick. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “What did you say to her?”

  She is silent.

  “What did you say?” I repeat, my voice eerily calm even though my blood is boiling and my heart feels like it might just rip though my chest.

  She shrugs. “Just that we were going to have some fun. I invited her to join. She is pretty cute, after all. She wasn’t interested, but she said she didn’t give a fuck what you did. See, you don’t have anything to feel guilty about.”

  Shit.

  I walk with quick steps in search of the one girl who makes me feel everything. The crowd has grown. Waves of people block me. I hear lyrics that can only be to the song Emma requested. But where the fuck is Emma? I’m tall, but people are jumping. No matter how much I scan the area, I do not see her. I run though the whole place twice, even standing on the raised platform of the DJ area, but she is nowhere. I head toward the bathrooms and ask a girl to check if she’s in there. It feels like half-past forever when the girl finally comes back out. No Emma.

  The DJ plays another track. “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls. It mocks me how much it reminds me of her—of us.

  Did I just gamble away the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Emma

  I pack the urn first, carefully putting it in my backpack.

  Mom, your ex-stepson is a real dickhead, I think but don’t say out loud.

  There are certain things you just don’t say to your mom, no matter what.

  My phone is buzzing with texts and voicemails. I pick it up and look at a few. They are all from Aiden.

  Where are you?

  I need to explain. I’m looking for you.

  I’m so sorry. Please call me so I know you are okay.

  I’m on my way back to the hotel.

  The last one almost makes me rethink what I’m doing.

  Don’t leave me, please.

  I throw a bunch of clothes into my duffle bag. I scrawl a note telling him I’m going to the bus station.

  Meet me in Linx if you want. I can’t travel with you anymore.

  I should be in Linx already. In fact, I’d be on my way back now, if not for the broken, rocky detour that is Aiden Sheffield. I thought that my emotions couldn’t twist any more since last night, but seeing Aiden with those two girls cuts like a knife in my back—or more accurately, my heart. The one girl cornered me in the bathroom, introducing herself as Pandora. I was already seething from seeing her with Aiden. My hands were gripping the porcelain sink, as I tried to hold in my nausea. She wasn’t even there to use the restroom. She was there to talk to me. She enjoyed telling me about their plans to have some kind of orgy. Hell, she even invited me to it, all the while giving me the signatu
re mean-girl smirk. How thoughtful of her.

  My hands shake as I toss clothes in the bag with no sense of organization. I asked the DJ to play two songs for me, actually. I had to practically beg for the second because it’s not really club music. He agreed to my request, though.

  The Goo Goo Dolls’ song “Iris.”

  I wanted to dance with Aiden, and tell him all the things I’d held back. That I changed my mind. After he held me last night in his strong arms, I couldn’t ignore my feelings for him. The day we spent together had been perfect, too. He’d done that for me. I didn’t care if we were short term, or if it was a crazy idea. I wanted to experience everything with him.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  I hear him jiggling the key card, swearing to himself before the door finally opens. “Emma,” he says, breathing hard. His hair goes in every direction, and I almost wonder if he ran here. We had taken a cab to the club. It’s not a long walk, but it’s not short, either. He slams the door and moves toward me.

  “Thank God, you’re here,” he says, more to himself than me.

  “I’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

  He looks around at the clothes on the bed.

  “We finish this together. You can’t leave.”

  “I can’t do this push and pull thing you have going on. I know what I said last night, but I figured you’d respect that I have these feelings for you. But instead, you rub it in my face. I’m a silly, stupid girl.”

  “Don’t say that. Nothing could be less true. You are the most amazing woman—person—I’ve ever met.”

  I laugh, stuffing more clothes in the bag. He takes them back out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I choke, throwing the clothes back in. He does it again.

  “Let me explain. Nothing happened.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it implies you don’t care. I know you do. I am a bastard for the way I acted tonight.”

  “No, not you, anglerfish,” I say in my snarkiest voice.

  He rubs my arms. I hate the way my skin prickles at his touch. “Just talk to me, please. You believe me, right? Nothing happened.”

  I already know this. I saw Aiden get up from the table as I left. But he still contemplated it. I have never been so jealous in all my life. The feeling of it overpowers me—it’s too raw, too humiliating, too hurtful to watch someone you have feelings for with another woman—women. I cannot deal with it so I’m leaving.