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“Back off.”
He doesn’t. He’s glowering at me, a flush going up his neck.
Goddammit. Way too close. He’s crowding me. He’s got a few inches on me, and with the Mohawk he looms over me. I shove him back, my breath short. “Stay the fuck out of my face.”
He stumbles, caught by surprise. “What the hell, man?”
“Stay away from me. Just… stay the fuck away.”
I lean back on the counter, cross my arms across my chest and try to pretend my heart isn’t pounding in my ears and that cold sweat isn’t running down my face.
Damn. I thought I was over that evening when I got my scars. I mean, come on, I wasn’t even a kid. It was only a couple of years ago. I thought it hadn’t affected me, hadn’t scarred anything more than my arm, but in moments like this, or when Gage cornered me in the kitchen, I realize it has. It’s carved deep into my mind.
Zane is still, one hand gripping the back of his neck, watching me like a hawk.
Boom, boom, boom. My heart is hammering, knifing through my chest.
“Sit down, fucker,” Zane finally says, grabs my arm and drags me to his work stool. I let him, mostly because my legs feel weirdly weak. Then he sticks his head out of the booth and roars, “Tyler! Get your butt in here.”
Great. I scowl and brace for round two of whack-a-Jesse.
“What’s up?” Tyler walks inside, and damn, that’s too many men and too much testosterone for a booth. Maybe I can escape outside long enough to draw a real breath.
But Tyler decides to stay in the entrance, blocking it.
Figures.
My breath whistles in my chest. I scratch at the scars on my arm. Need to get out, dammit.
“Man, I told you.” My voice echoes in my ears. “I didn’t kiss Cassie. Don’t know what else to say.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Tyler says. “Admittedly, this one was fucking stupid, but—” He takes a step forward. “You okay, J?”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I whisper, because I need to
say it. “I didn’t do it.” My hands are shaking like an old man’s.
He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Have you ever been attacked?”
I flinch, my heart racing away. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Why are you rubbing your arm?” Tyler sits on the counter next to me, crosses his legs at the ankles. “How did you get those scars?”
Zane leans on the counter across from me, giving me an illusion of space. It’s almost working.
I suck in a long breath. “I was attacked… years ago.” The words drag through me like rusty nails. “In a back alley.”
Tyler nods at my arm. “That all the damage?”
I nod, even as memories assault me—Simon’s stench of rank sweat and alcohol, his hands on me, pushing me down, to my knees. Any attempt to draw oxygen into my lungs fails, the images, the sensations pummeling me into pulp.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I barely register Tyler’s voice or his hand closing around my arm, but I stumble after him.
We cross the shop. He opens the door, and we are outside, Zane on my other side. The sun peeks through stray clouds. My head clears as we walk down the street, going God knows where, and my heart slows.
The tiny Edward Klief Park is just around the corner, and Tyler leads us to a bench under a tree. The shade is cool, and I sink down on the wooden seat with relief.
“Better, fucker?” Zane asks after a while, and I force my zoned-out brain to return to the now. “Thought you were gonna pass out in there for a moment.”
