by Jo Raven
Those are the exact same words he used when we were little; I’m sure of that. I cherish that memory and have held onto it like a lifeline since the accident.
“Mine are.”
“I don’t believe it. They’re part of you. They mean you survived something ugly, but you’re alive, and you’re beautiful.”
His words bring a knot to my throat. I sit up, covering my breasts with my hands. “I never show my scars to anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone.” A side of his mouth tips up, and his eyes warm up.
He has no idea how true that is. There was only him, always. But still I hesitate.
“If I show you mine,” he says, “will you show me yours?”
Another snippet of memory from our shared childhood. It serves to calm my racing pulse. “I know your scars.”
He sits there, his jaw set. He just stares at me, not a muscle moving, though a vein beats frantically at his neck. “I have new ones since I last showed you.”
Dread settles like lead in my stomach. I have a feeling I know what he’s about to show me. “Are they bad?”
“Bad. Ugly. Unlike yours.” He stands up, reaches back and pulls the shirt over his head, making the muscles on his chest stretch and ripple in a mouthwatering way. His tattoo is breathtaking—a black dragon curling on his chest, the wings spreading on his shoulder and up his neck.
His eyes flutter closed and he draws a long breath, as if bracing himself.
Then he turns around.
Oh god. His back is a map of cruelty—vertical scars, old and new, some fading to white lines, some still purple and painful-looking, from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back, where yellow bruising spreads.
I feel sick. Like I’m going to throw up. This has to have taken years and years. This was happening to him and I didn’t know. No matter if he was cold to me after the kiss, he was my best friend, and I just didn’t know.
The tears run down my cheeks, cooling my skin. By the time he turns around, I’m ready to throw myself into his arms and hug him like I’ve never hugged anyone before.
But he flinches when he sees my face and steps back. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have shown you. I’m sorry, Auds.”
He grabs his jacket from the chair and strides across the room before I manage to formulate a response.
It isn’t until I hear the door slam that I realize he’s left once more.
Chapter Ten
Asher
Standing at the entrance of her building, I pull on my shirt and jacket, then hurry out to the street. The cold bites every inch of exposed skin, but can’t compete with the ice filling my chest.
God, I was stupid, showing her my scars. Her scars may be beautiful to me, but that doesn’t mean mine would be to her. Just because she listened to me when we were kids doesn’t mean she feels the same way I do. I’m not a kid anymore, and neither is Audrey.
I swallow hard at the memory of her breasts. No, definitely not a kid. Why did I think it would be a good idea to show her my scars? I wanted to put her at ease, and it worked when we were kids.
Right. See again point one. We aren’t kids anymore. Fuck, the devastated look on her face... The horror. I can’t stand it.
So okay, I lied. I do think scars are ugly. Mine are. Not hers. My scars are a mark of my inability to fight back, to win the fight between me and my dad. My weakness. My failure. I hate them. I never show them to anyone.
But Audrey isn’t just anyone, a little voice in my mind throws my words back at me, mocking me.
Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. Now she won’t look at me again like she did before my act of idiocy—with desire; with need.
All that’s left is horror. Pity. Revulsion.
I walk faster, jamming my hands in my pant pockets. God, she’s so pretty. Her face, her eyes, the freckles on her nose—and her body... Christ, her breasts! Full and fitting perfectly in my hands. They drive me crazy.
Stop thinking about her.
The town seems empty. Everyone is at home with family, celebrating.
Dammit, that sort of happiness isn’t meant for me. I can scarcely remember what it’s like. I felt so good for a while back there, in her apartment, in her arms, that I forgot this little fact.
Hell, I’d give anything to stay with her, be with her—not just today but every day.
Audrey doesn’t hate me. She said that. Can I believe it? And she kissed me back, this time I’m sure of it. The girl wants me. But would she hate herself come tomorrow if she made out with me? Today she might be lonely—but tomorrow with her friends at college, would she still look at me that way?
And when she finds out about my plans for the future...
Screw this. Better nail this day in my memory for future reference with a step forward—a step toward my new life.
I cut through the quiet neighborhood toward downtown. Festive multicolored lights flash in the shop fronts. The Bulldog, the illegal fight club, is tucked in the basement of a run-down block of offices. A rusty sign sighs with the icy breeze. Dirty steps lead down to a massive metal door.
Nobody answers for a long while, long enough that I think about leaving. Maybe they closed for Christmas?
Then a lock unlatches and the door swings open. “Yes?”
I try to see who’s behind but there’s only darkness. Damn creepy. “I’m here to see Marty,” I say, nerves making my hands shake. “Name’s Asher.”
“Marty ain’t in today. He’s with family. No business on Christmas day. Come back tomorrow.”
Marty has a family. Huh. Who’d have thought? Even in this world of thugs and death dealers, I’m an oddity. “All right.”
“Who’s that?” another male voice asks from inside, and a pair of eyes glint in the opening.
“He says name’s Asher.”
“Asher?”
I nod, not sure what this is about.
“And you’re here because you wanna fight, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“You look way too young for this.”
“I’m twenty-one,” I lie. “I’ve fought here before. Marty knows me.”
“This isn’t a place to fuck around, boy. Here’s the big fish. Men wanna see blood and a real fight.”
“Got it.” My heart is in my throat. “I can do this.”
“All right. Come back tomorrow evening. We talk then. If Marty’s not here, ask for Carl.”
And before I can speak again, the door slams closed.
Okay. That went well. Probably.
This last guy sounded wary. I hope he isn’t going to throw a wrench into my plans. This fight club is my only real chance to get out of the rut of my shitty life. My last hope.
I suddenly feel very tired and old. Too old for my eighteen years. I set my head against the cold wind and head back to Zane’s apartment.
***
Next morning, I borrow Zane’s running shoes and go for a jog to calm my nerves. I always run when I can. Helps order my thoughts and let out some of my anger.
Loping through the town, I pass the entrance of the fight club. Closed and quiet. Business is done late at night. I know fighters can make good money in such clubs, if they manage not to get killed or get a debilitating blow.
I can do this. I’ve been trained by one of the best, both in clean and dirty fighting. But I’m not naive. I know what I’m getting into: illegal shit, underground mafia, drugs and violence. You sell your soul for money, beat up people you don’t know, people who are there because they’re as desperate as you for some money, some ray of hope.
It all comes down to this, doesn’t it? Time and again. Hope.
As I run, I replay my time in Audrey’s apartment in my head—her gaze, her taste, her voice, her words. How warm I felt in her arms.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t see her again. I’d give anything to be with her, and that is the one person I shouldn’t be with. Not unless I want to drag her down with me.
So instead I run and run, eating
the distance, punching the air, letting out steam. The cold clears my head.
I need to pass by Dad’s. I have to grab some stuff—clothes, shoes, my papers, my cell phone. And I’m ready for him this time.
I run, a stitch in my side, all the way to the house I used to call home. My stomach twists as I approach the familiar porch and see the familiar peeling paint of the front door.
Slowing down, I come to a stop at the front steps. Bracing my hands on my knees, I bend over, panting. Getting into the house may prove tricky, as my keys stayed inside with my wallet and phone, but I have my ways. I wonder if Dad is home.
I walk around the house, trying to see inside. No movement. No sound. Maybe my luck has taken a turn for the better just this once and he’s out, drinking with his buddies.
There. Tyler’s bedroom window is my usual way in. I’ve sneaked inside that way before, when I forgot my key. There’s a trick with the latch and I carefully push the frame to the side and up, until I feel it give.
The window slides open and I pull myself up and into the house. It’s dark and dusty. The air has a musty smell I know well, but also a subtle stench I can’t place.
No matter. I’m not planning on investigating, or staying long enough to find out. I tiptoe into my room, grab a duffel bag and stuff it with my clothes and some books. I snag my shaving kit, toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, and head to the front door. The smell hits me again and I wonder if a rat died in the pipes. A cleaning lady comes in once a week. She’ll take care of it. I’m not sticking around any longer than I have to.
I stop in the hallway. Wincing, I stare at a small pool of dried blood on the floor. Probably mine, where I fell. Christ.
My cell phone is there, cracked open. I hope to god I can put it back together. I also find my wallet, lying on the floor a few feet away.
My chest aches. My heart’s going into overdrive. I glance over my shoulder, fully expecting to see my dad standing there, fists raised to knock me out cold.
I’m so outta there.
Grabbing my stuff, I shove everything into the duffel and open the door. Wary, I look outside but see nobody. I step out and close the door quietly behind me.
Done.
I’m done with my dad and my life there. Time to turn a new leaf.
***
Night has fallen by the time I climb the stairs to Zane’s apartment, still jittery with nerves—from what happened at Audrey’s, then my visit to Dad’s house, and the thought I should get ready for The Bulldog tomorrow.
Other people dress up to go to their job interviews. I’ll have to look badass tomorrow tonight to receive the go and enter the cages to fight. I’ll cut my hair short. Maybe leave the top longer and spike it with gel. I’ll borrow Zane’s hair trimmers. He won’t mind.
I’m tugging on my hair with one hand, fishing in my pocket for the keys with the other, when I realize someone is sitting on the steps leading up to the next floor.
I stop still. That red hair, the wide green eyes... “Auds?” I swallow hard. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” Looking uncertain, she stands up, smoothing her hands over her black stretch pants. God, she has great legs. “I was waiting for you.”
“Why?”
Her mouth goes flat and tight, and anger flashes in her eyes. She marches up to me, hands on her hips. “Why do you think? You showed me...” She huffs. “Showed me yourself and then left, just like that. I wanted...” Uncertainty returns to her gaze.
“You wanted what?”
She shrugs and her eyes fill up. But the expression on her face isn’t disgust or hatred. I can’t place it.
I have no clue what she wanted to do, but whatever it was, it made her come over to Zane’s apartment, wait for me here.
I look down at the keys in my hand. This is a bad idea. Another one on a long list of them. This girl makes me want things I shouldn’t, hope for things I can’t have.
And still I make the wrong decision, because I can’t help myself. “Come on in.”
She walks ahead of me into the living room, her hands twisting together. I draw the curtains shut and light the lamps around the main area with the sofa.
“I think there’s tea,” I say, and head toward the kitchen, because I’m not used to playing host and I need a moment to collect myself. “I’ll heat the water.”
Her footsteps follow me. “Why did you leave?”
“You were upset with me.” I fill the kettle with water and plug it in, but don’t turn it on yet.
“No, not with you.” She stands behind me and her hands slide over my hips. “I’m angry with myself for not knowing this.” Her fingers travel up my back and rest over the scars.
I shiver. “I only wanted to make you comfortable.”
“I know. You always did that. Always managed to make me feel good about myself.”
A knot forms in my throat. “Before I made you hate me.”
“That was why you left the previous time, isn’t it?” Her warmth seeps into the back of my body. She smells of something floral and sweet. “After you saved me from those guys at the campus and Tessa came.”
“You told her...” I bite my tongue. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I know what she said I told her. If you’d stayed, you’d know I replied that I never hated you. God, Ash, it’s the truth.”
I clench my jaw, still trying to wrap my head around that. Trying to believe it in my heart. It isn’t easy, after all this time.
“So what are you here for?” I’m not sure where we stand at this point. I only know my body is reacting to her presence, same like every time, and my jeans are getting tighter and tighter. Soon I’ll need to adjust myself and I still don’t know what she wanted back at her apartment. What she wants now.
“You showed me your scars. I’ll show you mine,” she says.
I still. “You don’t have to. It was a terrible idea.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Her hands slip down, to my lower back. “I’m glad you showed me. I needed to know.”
“No, you didn’t.” Anger flares inside me, a spark of heat. “You don’t need to know anything like that. You’ve had enough on your plate and I didn’t mean—”
“Ash.” She moves away from me, and I can’t help but turn.
I have to see her face, have to see...
Fucking hell. She’s undressing. Right in front of me, in the dimly-lit kitchen, leaning back against the wall. She’s lifting the hem of her long blouse, revealing her lacy black bra. The lace hugs her breasts and they threaten to spill over, round and soft, white skin like silk. I can see her nipples through it, faintly darker circles, and I step toward her, unable to stop myself.
She lets her blouse drop to the floor. The pants are the same ones she had yesterday, elastic, hugging her curves all the way up to her waist.
She pushes the pants down to reveal matching black panties.
I’m aware of my breathing, growing more ragged by the second. My dick throbs desperately, and I reach into my jeans to adjust it. Just one touch and I’m so close to bursting.
“Auds...” I want her. Desire crashes into me like a wall, almost bringing me to my knees. “Fuck.”
“Here,” she says and I take a step closer, my hands fisting. I don’t know if I can control myself and not grab her and slide into her, feel her all around me.
My dick twitches.
“What?” Even my voice sounds strange, hoarse and breathless.
“My scars,” she says.
It’s like a dash of cold water, clearing the haze from my eyes. Her scars. She’s showing them to me. She came over for that reason. Trusting me.
Focusing on where her hand is pointing is difficult. My eyes keep straying to her breasts, down to the shadowed place between her smooth thighs, barely covered by lace.
She grabs my hand and places it over the horizontal scar marking one side of her belly—from the top of her hipbone almost to the navel. It’s a pale p
ink.
Then she moves my hand down to her thigh, to the vertical scar there.
But then I glance up into her eyes, and I see fear and pain and the trust her actions are hinting at, and I can’t look away. “Scars aren’t ugly,” I say.
She bites her lip. My mouth goes dry.
“You’re...” I can’t find words. I’m not good with them. But I have to tell her the truth. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
Her cheeks flush, and her eyes sparkle.
My hand slides up her silky thigh, between her legs. I stroke my thumb over the lace and she shudders. God, this girl sets my blood on fire. I have to finish what I started at her apartment.
Will she stop me? She looks amazing in her black underwear, giving me glimpses of what I know is underneath. I remember the taste, the feel of her breasts in my mouth.
I grab her waist and steer her toward the table. Her eyes are wide as I lift her, sit her on the edge, and tug down her panties.
God, she looks amazing.
“Open for me,” I whisper, and the flush spreads on her neck and the mounds of her breasts. I place my hand on top of her leg, then slip it down between her legs, to the soft, red curls there.
“Ash...” She’s breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.
Losing control now is easy—and I shouldn’t. I want to give her pleasure. I need to taste her, touch her, hear her cry out my name.
No girl has ever made me feel this way before.
She shudders when I tease her seam with my forefinger and splays her legs wider, giving me access. Swallowing a groan, I press my finger inside of her.
Slick and warm and wet.
“Take off your bra,” I say through gritted teeth. I’ve never had trouble keeping myself back before, but I feel I’m going to come in my pants as if I were twelve or something.
At first I think she’ll resist my demands. That she’ll chicken out, that I’ve gone too far. I long to undress her, but I don’t want to stop what I’m doing—touching her where she throbs, where she’s burning with desire.
