Caveman (Wild Men 1)

He grabs my chin, pulls my mouth open and stuffs a bunched-up piece of cloth in it. I choke on it and start to cough. It makes my whole body scream with pain. It’s as if I’m being torn apart.

The other man lights a cigarette and sucks in the smoke. Then he reaches behind my neck and stubs it into my skin.

I scream and scream into the gag, tears blurring my vision, and finally, mercifully, everything bleeds into darkness.

No.

I come awake with a jolt, my stomach churning, bile rising in my throat. Falling out of bed, I scramble into the bathroom and lift the lid of the toilet just in time before I puke my guts out.

Holy fucking shit. Goddamn triggers.

Finally, I pull back and wipe my mouth on my arm, slide back and lean against the cold wall. Fuck…

Against my better

judgment, I reach up and touch the burn scars on my back. I swear they hurt like a bitch, although I know for a fact they are old. Very old. Pretty sure I was a kid when I got them.

The dream haunts me, and I try not to think about it too much. I know that dreams aren’t exact memories. I’ve had this one before, and it’s never exactly the same. Though this time it was clearer. More real. The pain still courses through me, enough that I reach back to rub the scars again.

I need to get out of this pit. This dream was the last thing I needed, and I know what triggered it.

Kissing. There’s a damn good reason I don’t kiss, and now I’ve broken yet another rule, and I’m paying for it. I should have seen it coming.

Kissing Dakota.

I drop my head back as the memory of her body under my hands rushes back. The taste of her lips, the sweet smell of her arousal, the tremors going through her slender body… The sounds she made while I fucked her mouth with my tongue…

Hot damn.

My dick twitches, and I push down on it with my hand. My body is willing, but my head still isn’t in the right place. I rub my face as the images from the dream crowd in again. The hands. The smell of burning cigarettes and scorched flesh. The blinding pain.

Too fucked up.

Kissing her felt damn good, so why’s my brain turning on the bad shit? I don’t want to remember my past. I want to live now. Make out with Dakota. I want to give in and trust her, get over my shit and have a chance with her.

Christ, listen to yourself, Zane. You think kissing her means you’re now married or something? That she’s your girlfriend? Jesus, you go berserk and scare the crap out of her on a regular basis. She sure tried, keeping still, letting you fuck her, kiss her… Doesn’t mean she wants more of it.

Right? How am I supposed to know? Never been here before.

What was I thinking? Giving her my number. Kissing her. Telling her about the memories. Letting her get closer than anyone before.

I groan, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. I set myself up for this trap. I never wanted a girl to come after me, and now I can’t stop chasing after her, hoping she wants to stick around despite everything.

Hope is a bitch. This is a train wreck waiting to happen, and I don’t think life insurance covers this sort of thing.

Nothing can.

I’ve just finished a tattoo, a Maori-style eagle with spread wings that reminds me of Dakota and the drawings I make on her skin, when my cell vibrates with a text message.

Pulling off my gloves, I set about cleaning my tools and tidying up my work space. It’s late, and I’m beat. No clue how I’ll last the rest of the week—and the idea of the weekend scares the living shit out of me.

My hands shake, and I stare at the ink stains on them.

How long until you break?

Only I can’t. Not allowed to. Can’t afford it. Emma can’t afford it. I can’t let her down, not now.

Christ.