Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

My heart is pounding so hard I feel it beating against my ribcage. Despite the gentle breeze and temperate weather, sweat is already dripping down my back. I grip the lighter, flicking my thumb on the tab, but my hand is shaking too much to make it work.

“Fuck.”

I breathe deep, leaning against the brick wall to steady myself. Jesus, it’s been a while. I used to carry a pocketknife everywhere I went so I could make small cuts along existing scars. It was just too messy, too noticeable to everyone when you’re always covered in bloody bandages. I hate the questions, the looks, the inevitable pity. Burning is so… clean.

It takes three more frustrating tries to spark the lighter. I shove my arm over the flickering blue flame, holding my breath in anticipation. Exquisite, white-hot pain scalds my skin. The heat blooms from the small spot and flows out through my veins in a rush of euphoria. I exhale, groaning in pleasure, letting the fears, the guilt, the crushing pressure of the ever-present burden on my shoulders, burn away with the scorching flame of the fire.

When my field of vision begins to shimmer at the edges, I breathe in. Immediately, I taste the sharp tang of charred skin and hair. Shit. Startled, I drop the lighter and it clatters on the ground. The enormous blister on my arm screams angrily. I look at the spot and wince. Damn. I burned deeper than I usually allow. It happens if I’ve let the anxiety and darkness build up longer than I should. That’s when I get carried away.

My phone buzzes and I startle out of my trance. Time to go onstage.

Lightning fast, I roll down my sleeve, wincing when the fragile, singed skin pulls tight, and snatch the lighter off the ground. When I kick the brick away and walk inside the club, I feel weightless, free, unencumbered by darkness and depression, my two consistent companions. My problems with Abby fade away to insignificance, and I wonder why I ever worried.

When I catch sight of Abby standing in the dressing room with Kate, I grin. Instead of freaking out, I pretend the distance between us never happened by greeting Abby with a hug. She sinks into my arms and I inhale her familiar scent. It hits me hard because I’m still buzzing from my self-inflicted high. When I finally release her to step back, the damaged skin catches on my shirt and I stifle a cry from the excruciating pain that shoots up my arm. Abby notices something is wrong. Her beautiful smile falters and her kind expression turns confused. Beautiful blue eyes glisten wetly.

The look on her face, knowing I put it there, has the darkness roaring back in. Abby deserves so much bette

r than me—a guilt-ridden, fucked-up loser with serious emotional baggage and a death wish. I proved it when the second she got a glimpse of my true damage, I literally kicked her to the curb. Ross was right to institutionalize me after the accident. Unfortunately, four years later, I’m still as fucked up as I was the day I went in.

Abby doesn’t back down. Instead, she puts a hand on my arm and squeezes gently. She smiles and suddenly, I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m a sick twisted fuck who should be locked up. I don’t care that I’ll probably wreck this perfect, innocent girl with all of my dark shit. She makes life bearable when without her, it isn’t. I don’t know why Abby pushes the demons away, why her smile sends a jolt of happiness through me every time I see it. True happiness, something so rare in my life I can’t help but cling to it, reach out and latch on to its source with all of my strength. I don’t know what it is about Abby that makes me want to live.

I only know that I want her to be mine, even if it wrecks us both.

Abby

I’ve fallen into a routine destined to torture my already fragile ego. Hawke and I are speaking again, but we’re not as close. He keeps me at arm’s length even though we hang out more than we used to. Whenever he asks to get together, I never hesitate to say yes despite the warning bells in my head tell me I shouldn’t.

I can’t help myself. I need to see Hawke, not only because I crave the heat between us, the spark that brings part of me to life, but also to make sure he’s made it through another day unscathed. Hawke doesn’t bring up the incident at the tattoo parlor and neither do I. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll react the same way and shut me out again, and that’s a chance I’m not willing to take.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve reconnected to become pretty good friends. Adam thinks it’s funny, with me being tan, blonde, and brainy and Hawke being pierced, tattooed, and in a band. He calls us opposites. I prefer to think of us as complimentary, each of us bringing something to the table that the other one needs or is lacking.

Of course, Hawke doesn’t know that what I’m lacking is him, physically, that is. He’s completely clueless to my hopeless attraction and clearly doesn’t reciprocate. Every time we touch, either accidentally brushing fingers or when Hawke puts his hand on my back to guide me through a parking lot or crowded room, my body explodes with desire. Heat shoots down my spine in a fiery ripple from my head to the bottom of my feet.

Since Hawke obviously doesn’t feel the same, his touches meant to be platonic, and I’m not willing to risk our friendship, every minute spent with him is pure torture. Being friends means I get to hang out and talk to Hawke, joke around with him, watch his tattoo collection grow, stare at his beautiful face, and then sit back and watch as he hooks up after each show with girl after nameless girl.

Girls who aren’t me.

If I had any experience with men at all, I’d have the courage to simply do what the others do—walk up to Hawke, bat my eyes, whisper in his ear, and disappear somewhere to have some fun. But I have little experience with dating and zero with sex. Having my first time in the filthy back room of some club with a guy I like way more than I should isn’t ideal, but I’d do it with Hawke. He’d have to make the first move, and so far he’s shown no signs of wanting me that way.

So here I am, at yet another after-party. This time at the guys’ apartment, permanently relegated to the dreaded “friend zone.”

“Do you need another drink?” Gavin asks, pointing at my empty cup.

I hesitate, my eyes flicking up to find Hawke across the room, a slutty-looking blonde wrapped around his gorgeous body. My heart trips up, clenching painfully in my chest. No matter what the situation or where we are, I’m aware of Hawke’s location at all times. It’s as if my body is responding to some silent beacon, Hawke pulling my focus like a magnet, even when I wish I could simply ignore him.

“Yes, I definitely need another.” I thrust my cup at Hawke’s best friend, not taking my gaze off of Hawke and his soon-to-be-newest conquest. Alcohol will dull some of the excruciating anguish of watching yet another hookup.

Gavin accepts my empty cup graciously to fetch my drink. “Coming right up.”

That’s it. Tired of being overlooked by the guy I’ve fallen hard for, I grit my teeth in stubborn determination. A quick scan of the room and I notice there are plenty of other men here tonight. Available men. If Hawke doesn’t want me, surely one of them does. Without a doubt I’m not thinking rationally, but I can’t take the torture anymore. Wanting something so badly only to watch someone else get it time and time again is too much to bear. Every time I watch Hawke take off with a girl, a shred of my dignity, along with a piece of my heart, disappears.

Gavin returns with my beverage, a refill of the blue liquid over ice that tastes like a really strong piña colada.

Good. I need it.

With a huge amount of false confidence, I pluck it from his hand and down half of it right away, letting the liquid fire burn its way down my throat. Gavin’s beautiful face falls, his full lips turning down in the corners as I demolish the beverage. I disregard his concern, edging past the confused bass player to approach an attractive guy I noticed earlier.

The guy grins when he sees me, revealing two adorable dimples and a set of perfect white teeth. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, sliding a hand around my waist. It feels strange, wrong. I can tell it’s not Hawke’s touch and my body is very aware of the fact.