Wreck: Hawke Page 5

  Knowing Kate, she’ll waste no time warning Abby away from me as soon as they’re back to their apartment. And why shouldn’t she? I’m no good for Abby. I’m no good for anyone.

  “Well, meet us out front in fifteen minutes. Dax already called a couple of taxis. Adam is predictably, completely pissed.”

  “Okay,” I say. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”

  As selfish as I am, I want to get as much time with Abby as I can before Kate descends, describing in detail why Abby needs to stay far far away from the likes of me.

  Kate walks off after giving us both a confused look. My heart drums against my chest and I use my fingers to tap a matching rhythm on my knee. Abby watches Kate leave before turning her heated gaze on me. I recognize the look in her eyes: lust, desire, the clawing need that you can’t ignore. I’ve never in my life felt how I do when that look comes from Abby. But the fact that she’s giving me that look… it says more about how she feels than any words could adequately describe. My entire body sizzles as we stare at each other. Sparks light up every nerve, and my dick grows impossibly hard.

  I swallow thickly and avert my eyes before I either spontaneously combust or come in my pants. My hand trembles as I hold back from reaching out and touching Abby’s tantalizing skin, from running my thumb over her full lower lip. I should stay away. I know it. I’ll ruin her and probably fuck myself up even more in the process, not that I care what happens to me.

  But the urge to have Abby any way I can get her is too strong. Maybe if she spends enough time around me, she’ll see why she needs to run in the opposite direction. Maybe she’ll figure it out before I wreck her with my demons. I can only hope so, because I’m not strong enough to push her away.

  Abby

  When Hawke called and asked me what I was doing today, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Of course I would say yes to whatever he wanted, not willing to pass up any chance to spend time with him. The bonus of being able to watch Hawke add to his impressive body art somewhat dulls the disappointment of finding out he wasn’t asking me out on a date.

  I shift from foot to foot, trying my best not to let the ache between my thighs and the molten lava flowing through my veins dominate my every thought.

  “You’re not going to pass out, are you?” Hawke smirks, misreading my sexual desire as discomfort over our surroundings.

  I shoot him a glare as he flips through a book of designs at the tiny tattoo parlor in WeHo. My eyes lock onto his mouth when he chews on the small silver stud in his lower lip without looking up.

  “No, I’m not going to pass out.” I manage to tear my gaze away from that sinful mouth long enough to respond. “I’ve seen some pretty gruesome things at the counseling center. This is nothing.” I wave my hand around the room casually.

  Hawke tilts his head away from the book to stare at me, as if he’s mulling over what I said about the center. It’s true. I’ve seen kids so abused it takes every bit of strength I have to not throw up or break down and cry right in front of them. I’ve come close, but somehow managed not to embarrass myself. Yet.

  It’s not easy work. I’ve seen kids who cut themselves, teens in abusive relationships, teens who sell their bodies for a living. Humans sometimes do terrible, awful things to each other, but my job is to fix the kids’ minds, not their bodies, so I force myself to overlook the injuries in order to help heal their damaged psyches.

  Hawke finally tears his eyes away from mine, flicking them back to the book on the counter. “This one.” He stabs a finger at a beautiful dragon with a long, swirling tail.

  The tattoo artist, whose name I forgot but Hawke apparently knows, grins. “Good choice. Where do you want it?”

  Hawke points to his back over his shoulder. “Start at the left scapula with the tail over my shoulder to the front.”

  “Let me go size this and we’ll get started. This is a big piece, it’ll take two or maybe three sessions,” the artist says.

  “That’s fine, man. Whatever.” Hawke nods. The artist picks up the book and ducks into a tiny office next to the front door.

  I turn from the counter to walk along the perimeter of the waiting area, checking out the hundreds of colorful photos lining the walls. Pictures of clients showing off their ink interspersed with different design options hang from random thumbtacks. I spot one of Hawke, his shirt hiked up on the side to show a swath of black text along his ribcage. It’s poorly focused, so I can’t read the text.

  “How many tattoos do you have?” I ask, studying the photo closer. It’s too fuzzy to read the tattoo, no matter how hard I squint.

  “I have no idea,” he replies. Hawke rests his hand on my lower back and I have to bite back a groan. I know in his mind, his touch is meant to be friendly, but I can’t help my physical reaction to him.

  My pulse picks up, thrumming in my ears when he leans in and points to a photo, his warm hand still splayed across my back as his hot breath caresses my ear. “That’s Jimmy Harper, from Viking’s Revenge.” When I give him a blank look, Hawke rolls his eyes playfully. “They’re a metal band. Anyway, Rook knows Jimmy pretty well.”

  Rook, that’s the tattoo artist’s name.

  “Hawke, you’re up.” Rook waves us back and we follow him down a short hall past a closed door. A loud buzzing sound is coming from behind it. When we reach our destination, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s a brightly lit room that reminds me of a doctor’s office. White and very clean, with stainless steel countertops and trays full of shiny instruments, it’s not at all what I expected.

  “You can sit there, gorgeous,” Rook says with a smile. He winks and I feel my face and neck flush.

  “Thanks.” I avoid looking at Hawke, but catch him glaring at Rook out of the corner of my eye. Uncomfortable with Rook flirting with me in front of Hawke, I drop into the extra chair and keep my head down.

  Rook slaps his hand on a weird black vinyl and metal contraption. “Take your shirt off and sit,” he says to Hawke, taking his own seat on a low stool.

  I can’t help myself. I lift my head to watch Hawke undress. I’ve imagined his naked torso dozens of times, wondering what sorts of tattoos he’s hiding beneath the layers of clothing. My mouth is nearly watering when Hawke grips the edge of his shirt and begins to pull it off.

  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 thi
ngs 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.

  A large wave smashes over my head, catching me off balance and knocking me off my board. Gasping at the surface, I flail in the black water, reaching out blindly for my board. Each stroke through the icy darkness finds nothing. My lungs burn and my heart pounds…and I love every fucking second of it. The high is so potent, so perfect, I stop struggling to float on my back and let the moment consume me. The current pushes my body around, moving me with the natural ebb and flow of the ocean.

  The stars are somewhat visible in the murky sky above, blinking behind the smog as if speaking to me in a staccato code only I can understand. What would happen if I let go? If I stopped trying and allowed the icy waves to take me? Another large surge crashes over me, filling my lungs with seawater. I choke, inhaling the water even deeper.

  Will it hurt very much to die?

  Air becomes harder to pull in, the lack of oxygen causing my vision to grow white and fuzzy around the edges. The white gets brighter and brighter, coming into focus as a point of light, until the sharp pain from the shining flare stabs my eyes and bores into my skull. I groan with pleasure at the freeing sensation as my mind and body shut down.

  Then, total darkness.

  * * *

  “You fucking asshole!”

  A loud, wet slap is followed by a fiery sting on my cheek. My eyes are heavy and my throat feels like it was hit with a blowtorch. Another slap and I force my eyes open, blinking back the grit.

  “You stupid motherfucker.” Gavin’s blurry face is hovering over me. I wince at the blinding light shining from his head and hold up a hand to block it out.

  “What happened?” I croak, licking my parched lips.

  Gavin pulls off his waterproof headlamp, the one he bought when I insisted on going caving in Scotland during the year we spent in the UK with Gavin’s mother.

  “What happened?” Gavin shouts, his voice edging toward full-blown hysteria. “I’ll tell you what happened, you fucking dick!”

  I sit up and rub the back of my head while my best friend goes absolutely ballistic.

  “You fucking almost died! After seeing you at the apartment, I knew you were going to do something unbelievably stupid. I called Ross and he confirmed that you picked up your surfboard to ‘go surfing early tomorrow morning,’” Gavin says, making sarcastic air quotes around my lie. “Fuck.” He drags a hand through his wet hair. “I knew you’d come here. You’re fucking lucky I saw you out there, or else you’d be dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Gav—”

  “Fuck you!” he snarls.

  The venom behind his words makes me flinch. Gavin rarely gets this angry and he never, ever shouts. When I meet his gaze, his eyes are glassy and red as if he’s been crying.
>
  “Shit, Hawke. I had to do fucking CPR on you.” Gavin’s armor cracks, and tears begin to fall. “You’re my best friend. I can’t lose you, man. I have no one else. My mom is in London, and my dad… shit. You know he’s a fucking douchebag. You’re it for me. You’re my only family.”

  God. I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

  “I’m sorry.” My hoarse voice shreds my throat and my breath catches in my chest. Is this what it takes for me realize how much my behavior hurts Gavin, a guy who’s already been through enough shit of his own?

  “Don’t be sorry,” Gavin says. “Just… just get some help, Hawke. I’m begging you.”

  I nod, but I don’t know if there is any help for me. Nothing works to take away the guilt, the suffering, the never-ending agony of living every day knowing what I did. Only the rush of danger, the pure adrenaline brought on by pain and fear help to beat back the darkness burrowed deep in what’s left of my soul.

  “I’ll try, Gav.”

  I stand up on shaky legs but am able to trudge back to the parking lot without help. I don’t bother to change out of the thoroughly soaked wetsuit, instead flopping onto the driver’s seat of my car, exhausted.

  “I’m following you home,” Gavin says, leaving no other option. He walks to his car and the bright headlights flood my rearview mirror.

  I’ll try to stop the dangerous behavior. I wasn’t lying when I told Gavin I would. But I’m already convinced that without the escape from my own head, I’ll only self-destruct that much faster.

  4

  Abby

  Twelve days. It’s been twelve long, anxiety-ridden days since Hawke awkwardly dumped me off at my apartment after getting his tattoo. All I got was a brusque “see ya later” as he practically burned rubber tearing out of the parking lot.