Page 60 of Extracted

They put their empty food containers in the trash and tidied the table. He brushed his teeth and exited the bathroom as she entered. Then he plugged in his phones and peeled off his shirt and pants, keeping his briefs on. He pulled back the covers as Gemma came out of the bathroom. She crawled in on the other side.

“Want the light off?” he asked, hovering his hand near the lamp.

She wrinkled her nose again. The expression was becoming too damn cute for his self-preservation. “Nah. I’m not too tired yet.”

He shrugged and got into bed beside her. “We can chat if you want. Unless you feel like we’ve done enough of that.” He was aiming for wit, but the fact that he’d shut down her questions and she’d been turned off by his didn’t bode well for further conversation.

She turned onto her side and pillowed her cheek with her hand. “I always want to talk to you. We can keep it light this time. Tell me about your tattoo.”

He lifted his arm. “Which one?”

She shook her head. “The one on your back. I’ve always wondered what all the water meant. It’s waves, right?”

He turned around so she could see. “Yeah, waves.” His voice turned thick. He couldn’t think about the beach without remembering that day. “You couldn’t have picked a tattoo that has deeper meaning if you tried.”

Her eyes rounded. “Oh. You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He’d pulled away once. He wouldn’t do it again. He had the chance to open up a little about himself without, hopefully, exposing old wounds. He lifted his arm, and she scooted to his side. Maybe a little tear from his past wouldn’t hurt so much with Gemma as balm.

“Okay, so what inspired the waves? I always assumed you surfed but never got around to asking.”

“Well, as you know, we didn’t do a whole lot of talking.” He gave her a squeeze and she chuckled, moving her hand to rest on his chest.

“I kind of regret that.”

He glanced down at her. Hesitancy clouded her eyes—as if she wanted to say more but had already said too much. His stomach muscles bunched. For the first time in his life, he questioned his career. The lucrative job that came with travel and freedom was something he’d never imagined parting with. Why the hell would he want to? What else could he do anyway?

A woman like Gemma couldn’t be with someone like him. Someone who broke the law in nearly every country he visited. She didn’t even know the half of what he did. Maybe if she did, she wouldn’t look at him like she felt sorry for him.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He sighed. The ink of the tattoo that stretched from the column of his neck to the middle of his back burned almost as much now as it had when he’d had it done. The memory was so tied to the imprint that his skin throbbed.

“You asked about my parents earlier. I can’t really tell this story without talking about them. My dad was an alcoholic. He beat the shit out of my mom almost daily.” Ah, hell. His voice had become heavy with gruffness already. Goddamn his dad. And his mom, for letting all four kids witness what their father did. “It sucked. Cole and I were getting older and we started to intervene, which only made him turn on us, lock us out, or beat her harder.”

A choked sound of sympathy erupted from Gemma’s throat, and she rubbed the bare skin between his pecs. He stilled her hand, not wanting the distraction.

He coughed. “Eventually, it didn’t matter. They abandoned us when I was ten. My dad dropped my brothers and me off at a group home. He said he’d be back in a few hours and never returned.”

The air conditioner kicked on with a whir, but other than that, only silence beat through the room, giving the tension a heartbeat.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “How could they—”

“I never figured it out. But they did.” He rolled back his shoulders but his muscles stayed tight. “Anyway. Cole and I knew what was happening. Dare had a suspicion, I think . . . but Nash. God, he took it the hardest. He was only six. He must have known Dad wasn’t coming back because he hung on to the window of the truck as he pulled away. I don’t think he ever let go of the hope they’d return.”

“That’s so awful.” Gemma’s voice was gritty with tears.

He hated being a downer. Hated making her feel sorry for him, for fuck’s sake. But if she wanted to know the real him . . . she was in for a rude awakening.

“Anyway. Back to the tattoo.” He forced the angst from his words. “We lived near the beach.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “It was probably the highlight of our childhood. We spent our days at the water. Cole and I would raid the fridge or steal from the grocery store before getting Nash and Dare and taking them for the day.”

“That sounds nice.” The fact that she didn’t comment on him stealing warmed his heart a little. They hadn’t had much choice. Not if they’d wanted to eat.

“On one really hot day we were sitting on the sand. I was watching the younger ones—”

“How old were you?” she interjected.

“Hmm. Maybe nine or ten? Nash was about five or six. Dare would’ve been seven or eight.” He cleared his throat. “I was getting lunch together and Cole was out in the water.” Nostalgia pulled at his vocal cords. “That damn kid had an ax to grind with God.”

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