Rook snaps on a pair of latex gloves and turns his back to us to ready whatever he needs to work on the tattoo. Hawke’s eyes flick over to mine and a chill prickles down my spine. I immediately recognize the emotion behind Hawke’s multicolored eyes—anxiety.
Severe anxiety.
Hawke is afraid of getting a tattoo? No, that can’t be right. He has dozens of them. Did he bring me here because he’s afraid and needs someone with him?
Instinctively, I reach out and caress Hawke’s arm, trying to reassure him with a small smile. His eyes dart away from mine and he woodenly tugs the shirt up over his head, quickly arranging his body on the strange chair without ever looking back at me. Hawke sits on a pad about the size and shape of a bicycle seat and leans his chest forward on another pad, resting his head on a special headrest designed specifically for this purpose.
Once he’s settled, my eyes rake over his exposed skin, eager to take in all those muscles and tattoos. That’s when I figure out exactly what Hawke is afraid of. He isn’t afraid of getting a tattoo, and not just because he’s covered in them. Though each one is beautiful in both design and placement on his body.
No, it’s not the tattoos that hold my attention, as much as I want to study every swath of ink. It’s not his toned, lightly muscled physique that catches my eye either. Instead of gawking at his beautiful torso like I planned on doing, I suddenly feel sickened by the sight in front of me.
Hawke’s entire body is covered in faint but visible scars. His gorgeous skin riddled with tiny white lines from top to bottom, up his arms, his sides, his back… There’s not a single spot untouched.
What happened to him?
I’ve seen ghastly, appalling things at the counseling center, so I should think I’d be prepared for anything. But damage to someone you’re close with, that you know personally, is much, much different. It’s more like a punch to the gut versus a slap to the face. It reminds me of how it felt every time Nick hurt himself in some way. Thinking about my past has blood roaring in my ears. The lights in the room flicker in my field of vision.
Jumping from the chair, I run from the sterile room with a hand over my mouth, making it to the tiny bathroom just in time to get violently ill.
Hawke
“Fuck!”
I slam the door to the apartment closed and throw my keys at the wall. The clatter they make when they hit and fall to the floor is unsatisfying, so I grab the nearest object I can find, which happens to be an empty beer bottle, and fling it across the room. It explodes into hundreds of pieces, the brown shards catching the overhead light as they spray out in an arc.
“What the hell?” Gavin runs in from his bedroom, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low. I recognize the dazed look in his eyes, the swollen lips, and I realize Gavin has male company in our room.
Son of a bitch!
All I want to do is put on some music, grab a bottle of vodka, and hide out in my bed until I pass out. Now I can’t and I’m too angry to think rationally.
My skin itches to the point I want to scratch it off, and not from my new tattoo. The urge to harm myself barrels through me like a freight train, its power nearly overwhelming. Anxiety grips my heart in its cold fist, squeezing until my breath is stolen away. The room sways from side to side, so much that I lean back on the door to stay upright.
I have to get out of here.
Instead of arguing with Gavin, I grab my keys off the floor, ignoring the bits of glass crunching under my boots. As I storm back out, I hear Gavin calling my name.
Fuck it. I know what I need and it isn’t here. The vodka was really just an alternative to keep from doing exactly what I am now. The ride to Ross’s house to grab my surfboard seems to take forever when in reality it’s only about twenty minutes. The drive to the beach is longer, and I can’t help but replay earlier today in my head.
The look on Abby’s face when she saw my scars. Shit. She was disgusted by them. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking bringing her with me to Rook’s shop.
I wasn’t fucking thinking. Not with my brain, anyway. The problem is, I like being around Abby. She makes me want things I never thought I could have in my life. A real relationship, a connection beyond physical. The uncontrollable desire to grab her and claim her as mine is getting impossible to resist.
I’ve only seen her a few times since we spoke at the after-party, but the electricity between us is still as intense as it was the first time we met. I catch myself finding any little excuse to touch her—the brush of fingers here, bumping hips there, a hand on her arm or leg—I’ve come to crave those tiny, stolen moments. I don’t know why it happened, or why Abby, but I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. I already knew she was too good for me, but after seeing the look on her face when she saw my scars?
Shit. I’m crazy to have thought she could deal with me.
Now, Abby can’t stand the sight of me. Yeah, she said she was fine, that her stomach was just upset from something she ate earlier, but I know she lied. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what a fucked-up disaster I am or why she bolted for the bathroom the second I took my shirt off. Or hell, why she couldn’t look me in the eye after.
Who am I kidding? The tattoos might cover up most of the physical damage, but mentally, I’m still as fucked up as ever.
I pull into the empty parking lot at Zuma Beach, where it all started, and turn off the car. Determined to purge the blackness eating at my soul, screaming nonstop in my head, I get out and strip down, not worried in the least about anyone watching. It’s nearly midnight in the middle of the week and the lot is poorly lit. Once I’ve tugged on my wetsuit, I unhook my surfboard from the roof rack and start toward the beach.
The second my feet hit the sand, my lungs constrict in my chest. Without realizing it, I’ve walked directly over to the spot on the beach where I woke up four years ago after partying with Lila. As I stand there with the soft grains of sand sifting between my toes, the area looks benign. Unremarkable. Just a small square of beach out of miles and miles of coastline. For me, it’s not benign, it’s a tumor on my soul. It was the last place I remember feeling whole before my entire world collapsed in on itself.
Breathe—in, out, in, out. I walk down to the edge of the water where the icy cold tide lapping at my feet does nothing to deter me on my mission to forget—to feel more and feel nothing at the same time. The inherent danger of what I’m about to do lets my perpetually tortured mind detach from my body. My mind seems to float away, taking with it the horrific memories and pain. Everything I keep in my head—my past, my present, my agonizing fucking future—all lifts off my shoulders, unburdening me for a few moments of bliss.
The waves fight hard as I paddle out into the endless expanse of dark water. When I struggle to get past the break it nearly topples me sideways. Adrenaline floods my veins, bringing me the euphoria I crave. The euphoria I need to stay somewhat sane. The euphoria I need to get up every day without losing my goddamn mind.