Bleed Like Me (12 page)

“Ricardo can. And working the Skilsaw isn't a requirement of the job.”

“It is if you have to build bullshit birdhouses,” I mumbled.

Dennis's nostrils flared. “No more discussion. Tools away and you better be back here this weekend to work the sale.”

I opened my mouth to argue more, but Dennis held up his hand. When the hand came up, I knew Dennis was really pissed. I shut my mouth and moved to the storage garage. What did I care anyway? I had nowhere else to be.

The lights flickered as I stood surveying the piles of wood and tools littered along the floor. I sat down and started collecting nails, putting them into the tiny, labeled boxes Dennis
housed them in. The door to the storage garage creaked open and my head whipped up.

Brooks. Heat I hadn't felt in days surged into my body. My hands trembled and I clenched them into fists.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He took a tentative step toward me. “Rehab.”

“Really?” My hands unclenched and my eyes scanned his body as I got to my feet. He'd gotten thinner, and something about his face looked not quite right.

“Yeah. Sue found some E in my duffel and sort of overreacted. I think fucking Ray tipped her off about it. She told me I needed to pull my shit together and get clean if I wanted to stay with her.”

He moved closer to me, and his hand reached out to trace the hoops in my ear. I shut my eyes for a second and allowed his long fingers to figure-eight around the silver before I shook him off.

“You could've called me or returned my texts. It's been thirty-five days. Longer than a month.” My breath came in short bursts, squeezed from the hole in my throat that had been shrinking since the moment he left.

His fingers moved to the now completely faded hickey on my neck. He circled it, his thumb brushing over the smoothness as he stared at me, took all of me in with his too-keen eyes. Butterflies fluttered around my stomach. Then he dropped his
mouth to my pale skin and sucked hard. My insides coiled; the butterflies stilled. I released a long shaky breath.

“They took my cell, and it wasn't the kind of rehab where you get to make a bunch of phone calls,” he said, nipping me with his teeth.

“Are you going to apologize?” I grabbed at my last vestiges of logic and pushed him off my neck.

“I don't do apologies,” he said, and his hands circled my waist before he plunged his mouth onto mine. His tongue traced my bottom lip, pressing me to open.

Part of me wanted to push him away. Drop him before he bailed on me all over again. Make him beg for my forgiveness. But seeing him in front of me, practically vibrating with want, made everything fall out of my head. It was like an IV of ecstasy pumped directly into my heart.

I clung to his neck. His hands slid beneath the back of my shirt, moving up and down my spine. I raked my fingers through his hair and opened my mouth wider. My entire body trembled with how much I'd missed him.

He pulled away for a second, dropping kisses along my jaw before whispering, “Does the door lock?”

I nodded, drawing in a quick breath. Dennis had installed a lock on the inside of the door a month after he realized how much time I spent alone working there.

Brooks released me and went to shut and lock the door.

“Let me see you,” he said, stepping toward me and lifting me onto Dennis's worktable. He moved his hands to the bottom of my shirt.

I stilled for a second and then helped him pull my shirt off. His hands shook a little when he lifted off the next layer, my thin tank top.

“You're shaking.”

He grinned at me. “Anticipation.”

The lump in my throat got bigger. “Really?”

His hands moved over my stomach, sliding over old scars. “Really. It's been a long thirty-five days.” His warm breath tickled my neck and his hands dropped to the belt loops on the hips of my jeans. “I want to see
all
of you.”

His fingers moved to the button on my fly and I dropped my hands on top of his for a second. I stared into his dark eyes, trying to figure out all the emotions held in them. Trying to figure out what I wanted.

“Please,” he whispered.

One word and I was undone. I released my hands, slipped off the worktable, and kicked off my shoes. He knelt and peeled off my jeans. His eyes scanned my entire body.

“Gorgeous.” He breathed into my stomach, fingers continuing to trace the pattern of my scars. His hands dropped down to my legs. He smiled. “And unmarked.”

“I told you I wouldn't cut,” I whispered, then reached for
him, dropping to the ground. I kissed him, teasing his mouth open and trying to push all my overwhelming feelings into him. But my body remained tense, unwilling to allow the emotional assault to break through. I kissed Brooks harder and dug my fingers into his neck.

He pulled away from me, searching my face. “What's wrong?”

“N-nothing,” I stuttered.

“Yes, something is. What do you want?”

“I need, I need . . .” I looked away. I couldn't grab hold of my racing thoughts. It was too much, and the familiar shutdown teased the edges of my consciousness.

Brooks reached past me to the worktable. He snatched a black object and held it behind him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said again.

I shivered. The cold cement floor had too many points of contact with my bare skin. I even felt it through my thin underwear. Brooks hauled himself up and grabbed a painting tarp with his free hand. He dropped it next to me and spread it out with his feet before shifting me onto it.

“Anything. I'll give you anything. Just tell me what you want.”

Goose bumps formed on my arms and legs, but I knew they weren't from the cold. “It's too much. Seeing you. It's too much. It's been too long. I can't do this. I need—”

My throat closed up. I couldn't say it. I curled into a ball and reached for my shirt. Brooks stopped me. He moved his hand from behind his back and revealed a utility knife. My body unwound from the inside out.

“This?” he said, sliding the blade out of its casing.

I looked away from him and nodded.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Gannon. Look at me right now.”

I brushed away the tears in the corners of my eyes and met his gaze. His fingers traced a path along my face. He slid the knife back into its black shell.

“If we do this,” he said in a low voice, “I need you to tell me when to stop. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Say it.”

“I understand,” I whispered. “I'll tell you when to stop.”

He pulled his shirt off and inched closer to me, kneeling next to my legs. The blade of the utility knife slid out and my heart thumped faster. I reached to touch his nipple ring and he moved his mouth to my stomach. He licked a small circle around my belly button and then replaced his tongue with the blade.

The first cut barely grazed me, but I moaned. It'd been too long since I'd cut. Brooks dug the tip a little deeper and a hiss escaped my mouth. He pulled back.

“It's okay,” I said, drawing him back in. I rolled over and guided his hand to the back of my thighs. “Here. Cut here.”

My stomach and chest pressed against the coarse paint tarp, but I didn't even notice because he was suddenly behind me, his legs straddling my waist, slicing. It was too much. Too deep. But I couldn't say the word. Emotions poured out of me, layer upon layer spilling onto the floor.

“Christ,” he whispered. But then he made another cut next to the first.

Agony. Blood dripped down the back of my leg in sticky lines and tears pricked my eyes.

“One more,” I said, half command, half plea.

The knife dropped from his hand and he snatched his shirt and pressed it to my bleeding thigh. “No. We're done. I shouldn't have—”

I rolled over and sat up. I grabbed the shirt from him and tied it around my thigh in a makeshift tourniquet. “Don't. You will
not
start in with the regrets. I asked you to do this.”

He was silent. He pushed his hair out of his face and stared at me. “Is it better, then?”

I slipped into his lap and kissed him with everything I had. The cut on my stomach stung when it touched his body, my thigh burned, but none of it mattered. I teased the buckle on his belt and then helped him take off his pants. He fumbled with his wallet and pulled out a condom. We rolled back onto
the tarp, and for the first time in forever I felt free. I shifted back and circled my fingers in patterns across his chest. He smiled his boyish grin at me.

“My turn.”

I lifted myself up, wincing as the shirt tourniquet rode up my leg. “Your turn for what?”

“My turn to get what I want.”

He pulled me back onto him and then there was nothing between us but skin and hands and mouths and tongues and blood and want.

I hobbled through my front door hours later. My body felt like it had been assaulted by a bear. Everything ached and I was grinning like an asshole. I smelled like sex and sweat and blood and Brooks.

“What happened to you?” Mom asked as soon as I walked in the door.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You're limping.” She squinted her eyes at me.

“I had to put away all the tools. I banged the back of my leg on Dennis's tool shelf.”

She pursed her lips. “Let me see.” She stepped toward me, but I waved my hands and retreated.

“I'm fine. It's a little bruise. I'm just tired from work.”

Before she could say anything else, I bolted up the stairs,
taking them two at a time even though pain ripped through me. My pants were covered with blood by the time I got to my room. I stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I snatched hydrogen peroxide and large bandages from the medicine cabinet. Thank God for my constantly injured, destructive brothers.

The peroxide stung when I blotted it on, and more blood dripped from my leg before I could place the bandage. I ended up scrubbing drops of red off the oatmeal-colored tile, then balling everything into my jeans and sneaking into my room.

I lay in the dark, my hands roving over the new marks on my body. I shut my eyes and remembered the look on Brooks's face when he slid inside me. He'd whispered sweet words in my ear so the pain wouldn't be so bad. It hurt, but it didn't matter. Every part of me had been branded as his.

•  •  •

I stood staring at the numbers on my combination lock for too long. My phone pinged in my pocket.

Ali:
I need to talk to you.

I ignored her text and spun the lock again. I couldn't gather my thoughts. They all revolved around Brooks. Then he was behind me. Kissing my neck as if he'd heard me thinking about him, wanting him, needing him.

“I missed you.”

I snorted. “You saw me less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Too long.” He pulled at my shirt and kissed my collarbone. “I have something for you,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But you'll have to wait for it until after school.”

I swatted him. “Tease.”

He licked his lips and kissed my cheek. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“I have to finish cleaning up the storage garage. Dennis is pissed. He called this morning and read me the riot act. Said my ass better be there this afternoon or he'd fire me for real.” I smiled. “Also, he wanted to know where his paint tarp went.”

Brooks chuckled. “Did he check the Dumpster?”

I eased my books into my bag and slammed my locker shut. Brooks kissed me and grabbed my bag. “What're you doing?”

“Walking you to class.”

I stared at him sideways. “That's sort of chivalrous.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well, I told you I missed you.” He ducked his head, but not before I caught a tiny blush on his cheeks.

I reached out and grabbed his hand. So not my style, but I couldn't help it. “Me too. But my class is right here.” I pointed to the room in front of us.

“Oh. Okay. Well, meet me before you have to go help
Dennis.” He slung my bag over my shoulder. “I promise it'll just be for a few minutes.”

I bit my lip then nodded. “Okay. In back of the store at four o'clock.”

He traced the hoops on my ear and then walked away whistling. I wanted to follow him, stay with him, drown in him. But the still-sane part of me turned toward class and steeled myself against my too-real feelings.

•  •  •

My English teacher asked me to come by after school to discuss my unwillingness to live up to my potential. She blathered on about seeing something special in my writing and wanting me to explore it, while I stared at the clock and occasionally nodded at her. My teachers had been discussing my lack of academic effort since I'd started high school. I wasn't a horrible student. I wasn't a great student. I was a student who got by. Putting forth a lot of effort in school was stupid. I was bound for community college at best. My parents had raided my college fund to adopt the boys, and with all the therapy they hadn't been able to replace any of the money. Mom had looked guilty when she'd told me, but Dad had said he'd managed college without funds from his parents and it was unrealistic for schools to expect generous donations from parents.

“Amelia, I'm saying that you have a gift. Maybe you could
put it to good use,” Mrs. Simone said for the third time.

“Thanks,” I said, hoping unresponsiveness would get me out of this and back to Brooks.

“Have you ever considered the literary magazine?”

I choked on a laugh. “Umm . . . I don't think so. I'm not really a joiner.”

Her flaky lipsticked lips dropped into a frown. “It'd look good on your college applications. You should start thinking about your future.”

I slid my hand underneath my thigh and pressed lightly. A bite of pain and so much relief. “Yep. I should. Well, thanks for the advice. I gotta go.”