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Get a goddamn life.
Ash reaches for me. “Let’s get you up.”
I jerk away, knocking back into Manon who’s knelt down behind me. “I’m okay.”
He’s not fooled. His eyes darken and nostrils flare, and he sucks in a sharp breath, but he lets it go, thank God. “Fine.”
I’m held back by a thread—by a small hand on my shoulder, a touch that shouldn’t fucking happen, that means nothing to her and everything to me.
“The guys will be going on to Halo for drinks,” Ash is saying. “You two,” his gaze flicks over me to Manon, “should come along.”
“Oh, I can’t—” she begins.
“Not tonight,” I say with finality. My muscles are twitching, my hands are shaking, my head hurts and I can’t think straight with her so close. “I’m gonna hit the sack, I think.”
“Need help—?”
“No.” A pang of remorse hits me at cutting him off like this, ’cuz Ash and the brotherhood has always looked out for me, like he just did, and he doesn’t deserve my rudeness—but hell, I hope he can cut me some slack tonight before I fall apart completely. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
“Sure, man.” He shrugs, cuts another look at Manon and backs away. “Call me if you need anything. Take care.”
“I’ll make sure he gets home safe,” Manon says, and I’m too tired to argue with her.
Too exhausted to fight fate, even if tonight for the first time in years I would.
***
Finding my walking stick in the chaos that is the party is an impossible mission, so I end up with my arm around Manon’s slender shoulders as I hobble out of the shop. She insists she can take it, and it really seems she can. I keep forgetting how much strength is hidden in that slender frame.
The fresh evening air slaps my face, takes off the edge. Lets me breathe more freely and let go of my helpless anger—for now. Hard to be angry when I’m pressed to her, her sweet curves melting into my harsh angles. Easier to forget myself for a while, imagine I deserve this, deserve her, and that she wants me back.
Easier not to think at all, to let her guide me to her car, help me inside and drive me home. I stare blindly out the window as we enter Saturday night traffic, thinking how perspective is everything. A year ago, recently released from prison, living on the street, I’d have given everything for what I have now. I’ve have given anything for Shane to be spared the pain, to find a home. Even if it meant I had to stay behind.
Now here I am, with an apartment to return to at night, with a dream of becoming a tattoo artist—if I ever manage to stay long enough out of the hospital to fucking finish my training—and friends. Brothers. Shane is fine, or seems fine on the outside at least, we are both healthy—mostly—and here’s a pretty girl driving me home.
I should be grateful. Optimistic. Full of hope. Fucking happy.
Instead I find myself drowning in the dark. Reliving my past every night in nightmares. And wishing for what I can’t have.
“Will you tell me what happened at the party?” she asks.
We stall at a traffic light, and I glance her way, catching her gaze on me. Her eyes look black in the dimness, the greens and golds lost in the night.
I turn back to the uninteresting view outside. “He shoved me. I lost it.”
I feel her gaze linger on me, a warm touch. “This isn’t like you.”
“What isn’t?” Losing it? Because yeah, it’s been a while since I lost control like that.
The traffic light changes, and she puts the car into gear. “It isn’t like you to look so sad.”
I start, shocked. Try to hide it. Try not to t
urn to look at her, read her face. “I’m not sad.”
“You’re not smiling, either.”
“I can’t.” I’m not even sure what I’m telling her. I can’t smile? Can’t talk about it? Can’t be here with her?
