Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

As Kate’s voice rises in anger, I panic, my gaze darting around the room filled with hardworking students. “Jesus, Kate. Be quiet. No, we didn’t have sex. He didn’t do anything to me. Can we please just study? I worked at the center all day and I’m tired.”

Kate sits back, pulling the ends of her long ponytail through her fingers as she eyeballs me critically. “Fine. But if he hurts you—”

“He won’t. Besides, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Kate presses her lips together. It’s obvious she’s struggling to let it go. Being the good friend she is, she’s super protective of me. When she begins to flick through her notebook, I exhale, grateful to be let off the hook.

It’s difficult enough for me to deal with knowing Hawke is suffering with his demons alone. There’s no way I can talk to Kate about the damaged man who’s somehow stolen my heart without me breaking down in a puddle of tears. Caring this much about Hawke is likely going

to destroy me. It will pull me through the wringer, twisting and crushing my soul, only to spit me out broken on the other side.

It’s going to wreck me, and I can’t find it in me to care.

Hawke

Kate drops onto the sofa in the dressing room, jostling the cushions so much I almost tip over. I have to throw my arms out to the sides to hold steady.

“What’s going on with Abby?” Kate barks in her clipped East London accent.

My pulse speeds up at the thought of the tan, sexy blonde I haven’t seen in over two weeks, when I made the spectacularly stupid mistake of bringing her to the tattoo parlor. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

I wish something was going on. For some reason, my body craves Abby’s touch and my mind misses her sweet words, her shy smile. I’ve never been more comfortable with anyone before in my life. It sounds ridiculous, but I feel better when I’m with Abby—the demons inside don’t shout as loud.

Kate’s eyes narrow and she purses her lips, not believing a word I say. I’m not telling her about fucking up with Abby. How I all but kicked her out of my car after getting my tattoo and then ignored her calls and texts for the two weeks. Call me a coward, but I’ve seen what Kate can do to Adam when he’s gotten on her bad side. No way do I want to be at the receiving end of her quick and accurate kicks honed by years of playing soccer. If I told her I’ve been avoiding her best friend? Hell, Kate would literally kick the shit out of me. I know Abby didn’t tell her, because if she did, I’d already be a dead man.

“You better not fuck with her, Evans,” Kate hisses. “She’s a great person and a brilliant mate, and all this bullshit?” Kate waves her arms around, indicating the entire band, “Is not really Abby’s thing. Slags flinging themselves at you blokes every night.” She makes a rude noise with her mouth. “Abby is better than all this.”

As if I don’t know that. And then ignored it to spend time with her anyway.

“I’m not fucking with her, Kate. Jesus.” I hold my hands up in a sign of defeat when she glares at me again. If looks could kill… “I swear. We hang out, that’s it.” Until I screwed everything up, that is.

“Hmmmm.” Kate taps her lips. “What’s the problem, then? Don’t you fancy her?”

What?

“I…” My mouth gapes open as I try to get my brain up to speed with Kate’s schizophrenic change in conversation. “You… you just told me to stay away from Abby, now you want to know if I like her? Is this a joke?”

Kate sighs, exasperated with me for some unknown reason. “Don’t be so bloody thick, Hawke. I’d be ecstatic if you two got together. What I don’t want is for you to shag my friend and treat her like some random slapper you picked up at a show.”

“Christ, Kate. I’m not discussing this with you. Go talk to Adam if you want to gossip.” My face flames up, but Kate’s warning not to use Abby validates my decision to stay away from her. I don’t want Abby to see herself as another random hookup. I need Abby to trust me to not use her. Need her to be confident I see her differently than all the other girls I’ve been with. The danger is that if she trusts me, I could end up breaking that very trust.

“Fine. For your information, Abby should be here any second,” Kate informs me. “She’s coming directly from her internship at a youth counseling center so I told her to meet me here.”

Fuck. I have no choice but to face Abby tonight, knowing that she’s seen my scars, that she’s seen how utterly damaged I am underneath my clothes, tattoos, and glasses. Will she look at me with pity? Disgust? Hatred? I was hoping to put this moment off longer… like maybe forever.

I tap my fingers on my knees. The familiar itchy, anxious, creepy-crawling sensation spreads out under my skin like an army of ants. Usually, when I feel this way, I take off, go do something, anything to take my mind off the morbid, self-destructive thoughts and overwhelming anxiety that seeps into my blood. Tonight, I can’t. I’m stuck. We go onstage in less than thirty minutes.

Feeling twitchy and restless and pretty much freaking out at the thought of coming face to face with Abby, combined with the fact that I want her but she saw a part of me I never intended for her to see, is too much to bear.

I jump to my feet, startling Kate, who lets out a tiny yelp.

“I’ll be right back.” Without explanation, I bolt out of the dressing room, ignoring the odd looks from my bandmates and Kate’s confused expression as they stare holes into the back of my head. Down a short, cramped hall filled with amplifiers and other gear, I find the back door of the club and slam through it. I scan the ground, propping it open with a broken brick that is obviously here to do exactly that while people smoke in the tiny alley.

Thank god I’m alone back here. Otherwise, I would probably lose my mind. It’s not often I’m tempted to hurt myself this way, but the overwhelming weight of my past, combined with wondering what Abby thinks of me or what she might say to me tonight, has me digging in my pocket to finger the lighter I keep in case of emergencies.

This is an emergency.

My hand is trembling when I wrap my fingers around the small canister. Before I can torture myself with second guesses, I pull it out and roll up my sleeve, exposing my forearm. Tiny, pale cuts slash across my skin, creating a faint spiderweb-like pattern. Ink from my tattoos covers some, but I haven’t decided what design to get to hide the rest. I rotate my forearm back and forth, choosing a spot with a large swatch of dark red and black ink. Perfect to disguise my sick compulsions.