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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.”
