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No clue if Shane can see me now, or if he’s still lost in his memories.
“I’ll call Seth,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from talking for so long and from the lump stuck in my throat. “He’ll help you.”
“Cassie.” God, his voice’s hoarser than mine, rough like sandpaper.
“Yes. It’s me. I’m here.” Dropping my phone, I crawl closer to him, then stop again, unsure. Don’t want to spook him more. “I’m right here.”
He draws a ragged breath, his eyes too bright. He’s shivering in his thin T-shirt and jeans.
“Can I touch you?” I wait and wait until he nods, then pull the quilt with me as I scoot to sit by his side. “Okay.” I smile up at him, and he blinks, his lashes wet.
God, it’s so hard seeing him like this. I wish I knew what he flashed back to. Easier to decide what might help.
But for now… “Here.” I pull the quilt over our legs. “Would you like to get into the bed?”
He shivers again, says nothing, so I lean into him, settle my arm lightly over his stomach and rest my head on his shoulder.
“This okay?” I ask, and he just sighs, his heart pounding under my ear. Crap, maybe I should pull back, hold his hand or something until I’m sure he’s one hundred percent here.
But then he wraps a muscled arm around me, holding me against him, and buries his face in my hair, and I know it’s going to be okay.
At least for tonight.
***
Much later, he draws away from me and stumbles to the bathroom to piss. I meet him at the door when he comes out and take his hand. He blinks down at our tangled fingers. He’s so quiet, more than usual. When I tug on his hand, he follows me to the sofa. I settle him there and go make him something hot to drink.
I can’t find cocoa, and I vow to buy him some of my favorite brand. Instead, I make him a hot black tea with lots of sugar and carry it back to the sofa.
His face’s still too pale for my liking, and his expression empty. I give him the tea and go grab the quilt from his bedroom. He glances at it when I drag it over his legs, then looks up at my face.
“Let’s watch some TV,” I say. “Something fun. A cartoon or something.”
His hands clench on top of the quilt, his long hair falling forward like a curtain, hiding his face from me.
I hesitate. “You sure you don’t want me to call Seth?”
One of his hands sneaks out and grips my arm. “Stay.”
I guess I have my answer. Fighting a tiny grin, I turn on the TV and zap between channels, looking for cartoons as he takes a gulp from his tea and sets it down on the table.
This used to work for Angel, and the thought sends a pang through my chest. Breathing around the ache, I check a couple of channels and chance upon Finding Nemo.
That’s good. Lowering the volume to minimum, I curl up against Shane and pull the quilt higher up, to our chests, drag his hands below, hold them in mine. His are cold, and I rub them lightly as the movie plays. His palms are hard, the hands of a manual laborer.
That’s right. He works at that construction site where he had the accident. I never gave much thought to how he earns his living. Somehow in my mind he was already a tattoo artist, but both he and Seth are still apprentices.
I knew this, and yet I pushed it to the back of my mind. After seeing him so distressed, I’m worried about everything that might hurt him, and the thought of him climbing scaffolds and ladders in the wind and falling snow makes my teeth grit.
My fingers curl around his, squeeze, then trail up his wrists, where dark ink covers the skin.
And I freeze.
Scars. Thick, raised scars running up the inside of his forearm. Holy God. A sense of horrible déjà vu hits me like a truckload of rocks.
Like Angel. Oh crap, this is Angel all over again, and I don’t know how to handle this. Don’t know if I can.
If I won’t freak out, too, and run away screaming.
