Scars (Going All the Way 3)

She remembered him from the diner, a man bigger than life itself, a male more masculine than she’d ever seen before.7“What happened exactly?” Her voice was thick, groggy, like she’d been sleeping for an eternity. She remembered the car hydroplaning, remembered the tree rushing toward the vehicle. But after that, everything was a blur—murky, dark waters.

He walked around the couch and sat on the edge of the coffee table, and that’s when she noticed what he held in his hand. A mug with liquid hot enough that steam billowed out from the top.

He handed it to her and she gave him what she hoped was a grateful smile. After she adjusted herself so she was sitting up more, she took the mug and brought the rim to her mouth, taking a slow sip of what was hot, slightly sweet tea.

“Sorry, it was all I had in the cabinet." His voice was husky and deep, his focus trained right on her. “Hopefully it doesn’t taste like shit.”

She gave him another smile and shook her head slowly. “It’s perfect, thank you." She took another sip and then reached to set it on the coffee table. He took it out of her hands and did that for her so she wouldn’t have to stretch.

A moment of silence stretched between them as he just watched her. Hannah knew he had questions, and she was too tired to try to lie, too tired of life in general. Maybe he could help her. He’d helped a stranger who was in need, who was injured.

Maybe he saw how desperate she was and would take pity on her.

Maybe he was just like her.

Or maybe he just wanted something from her, to use her, like everyone else seemed to want in her life.

She swallowed that thought down, not even about to entertain it. Not everybody was a piece of shit. Besides, he’d saved her life. Who knew if anyone would’ve stopped and helped her.

“What’s your name?”

She contemplated giving him a fake one, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell him the truth, at least just her first name. “Hannah.”

He was silent for a second, still watching her. His gaze was intense, powerful. She felt it everywhere.

“That your real one?” The corner of his mouth kicked up, and she found herself smiling at the teasing note in his voice.

She nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

He gave a sharp nod. “I’m Mickey, but everyone who knows me calls me Scars.”

It wasn’t hard to see why he’d gotten the nickname, not when the jagged mark on his face stood out and made him look even more dangerous.

“You said you didn’t want me to take you to the hospital.” He stared at her with dark, serious eyes.

He didn’t have to say the words at the moment. She knew he wanted the truth. A moment later, he asked anyway.

“Why don’t you tell me why you didn’t want me to take you?”

She shifted on the couch again and looked down at her hands, wondering how much she should tell him. What was the worst that could happen? Would he kick her out, tell her to leave?

Maybe he’d call the police, since that was the best route to help her. She lifted her head and looked at him, took a moment to just stare at him, examine him. He was covered in tattoos, big and rugged-looking, dangerous… violent. He looked like he could crush bone in his hands.

He looked like a man who had seen the other side of the tracks, probably broke every law imaginable. But she found that she… trusted this stranger. He hadn’t hurt her. He’d helped her, saved her life, listened to her when she asked not to go to the hospital.

So Hannah took a deep breath, stared into his eyes, and told herself she was just going to be honest. It couldn’t make matters worse.

“I didn’t want you to take me to the hospital, because I don’t want to be found." A moment of silence was thick between them before she continued. “I don’t want to be found, because I’m running from someone who I hurt, who wanted to hurt me.”

They both stayed silent for long moments, his expression stoic, his gaze unwavering. She didn’t know how much time passed, probably only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before he exhaled slowly and straightened.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.” There was no judgment, no hesitation in his voice after he spoke. He said it in a tone like a man who believed her without doubt and wanted to help.

“Who are you running from?” He leaned forward and braced his forearms on those thick, tree trunk thighs and clasped his hands together.

She didn’t miss how his muscles bunched under the material of his shirt, how they strained under his tattooed skin.

“A man? Someone hurt you?”