Page 85 of Wanted

“Jack and I, our childhood was shit. I’ll spare you most of it, but my parents weren’t much different from yours. A couple of abusers who should have never had children. Our dad, he was a mean bastard, and his favorite way to dole out punishments was with his belt.

“Now, Jack, he was smaller than me by a lot back then. He didn’t start growing until we hit our teens. The day after our dad nearly beat him to death was the day I started volunteering to take his punishments.”

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the whoosh of the brown leather, the searing slap it made against my fragile skin. That sound buried itself so deep into my psyche, I doubt it’ll ever work itself out.

“I don’t regret it. I’d do it all over again if it meant keeping my brother alive.”

She trembles beneath me, and her free hand finds mine in the dark. I entwine our fingers, holding tight as I keep talking, revealing secrets I’ve kept buried in my marrow for so long.

“To get through it, I developed a habit of counting. I’d keep track in my head how long it took to finish his beating. Now he was a mean guy, but he wasn’t trying to wind up in jail for murder. What he did to Jack scared a little sense into him once the school started asking why Jack was gone for so long. So he made sure to hit hard and deep, but he was fast about it. Never went more than twenty seconds if I was counting slow. Enough to leave me black and blue and bleeding, but still breathing to live another day.

“Counting was my coping mechanism to get through the pain. I could stop once the final blow was over. My brain somehow confused itself into thinking the counting meant safety, and I developed an obsession. Counting keeps my family safe. Now, whenever uncertainty creeps in, I count until it goes away.”

Frankie shudders beneath me. “I’m sorry,” she croaks, fighting to keep her sobs locked up tight.

“Don’t.”

My heart splinters at the pain she feels—for me. I don’t deserve her tears or her sadness.

Flipping over, I crawl on top of her, sliding my naked body along hers until we’re face-to-face in the dark.

“Don’t cry for me, baby.”

The tears sliding across her temples glisten in the flashing light. I frown at the explicit sadness twisting her beautiful face.

“You haven’t shed a single tear about your own circumstances since you got here, and I don’t want to be the thing that makes you cry. It was a long time ago.”

“You were doing it ten minutes ago. And an hour before that. And when you were racing up the trail to find me. The physical punishment might have happened decades ago, but, Jude, you’re still affected by it to this day.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I drop my forehead against hers. “I know,” I admit. Feelings of shame pulses through me like a second heartbeat.

“Look at me,” she pleads, her fingers brushing my hair from my forehead.

When I do, she continues.

“You have nothing to be ashamed about,” she whispers vehemently. “And you have nothing to hide.”

Frankie tilts her chin, meeting my lips in a tender kiss. “Not from me.”

Just as I start to get lost in her soft mouth, her hand traces across my back.

I stiffen. “Frankie,” I warn as shame curdles in my gut.

“I’ll be gentle.”

Every muscle in my body grows taut in anticipation of her curious touch. But I don’t deny her. I don’t think I could deny her anything, even if it means exposing all of my ugly scars.

“Trust me.”

The first press of her fingertip against a scar on my scapula sends a shudder wracking through me. I collapse against her with a groan, keeping my weight off her with my elbows and burying my face in the dark warmth of her neck. Her sweet scent envelops me, transporting me away from the acrid smell of pot, and leather, and blood. Grounding me in this room with her.

She moves on, finding the longest blemish stretching from my left shoulder across my spine to my right hip. Questing fingers glide reverently along the puckered skin. The feel of her tenderly touching a place that has only known pain releases something inside my chest. I fist the sheet beside our heads, bucking against her as my mouth finds her neck.

“Frankie.” It’s less of a warning now. Almost a tortured plea slipping off my lips. But I don’t know what I’m asking for.

Forgiveness?

Acceptance?

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