Page 19 of Dust to Dust

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”

“I swear, I prepared for this. I watched a ton of Youtube videos, so I know the basics of how to do it. But I’m having some sort of a block.”

“I’m sure even if I don’t ask, you’re going to tell me why you have a block.”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically. “You see, I don’t have a lot of experience with men. I’ve only dated two guys, and they’re what my sister swears are totally vanilla. I’ve never even had an orgasm. I mean, with a guy. Obviously I’ve given them to myself.”

Although I shouldn’t have, I couldn’t help asking, “Not even when they went down on you?”

“Nope. Not even then.”

“What kind of pussies have you been dating that can’t get you off?”

Isla’s eyes bulged comically wide when she finally realized her admission. “Oh God, did I really just tell you I’d never had an orgasm with a guy?”

“Aye, you did.”

With a shriek, her hands came over her face. After a few seconds of shaking her head back and forth, she removed her hands and gave me a tight smile. “Can we just forget I said that?”

“I can try,” I mused.

“Good. Anyway, what I meant to say, before I got horribly off course, is I’m not sure how to properly perform a lap dance to your liking.”

“I see.”

“You could teach me,” she suggested in a soft voice.

I eyed her curiously. Had my own hang ups about my appearance caused me to have preconceived notions about her? Or was she just playing the innocence card to try and convince me to give her another try.

“To be clear, your earlier aversion to performing wasn’t about you being scared of me and my scars?”

Isla frowned. “Why would I be scared of those?”

I cocked my head at her. “They seriously don’t intimidate you?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like you can help them, right?”

“No,” I mumbled.

“Are they terribly painful?” When she reached out to touch one on my face, I jumped back before smacking her hand away. Her blue eyes widened in horror. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

As I tried to stop my erratic breathing, I glared at Isla. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Nothing. I swear.” When I remained glowering, she added, “Although there’s absolutely no excuse, I’m a molecular biologist. Well, I mean, that’s what my undergrad is in. I’ve studied hypertrophic scars. Actually, it was more about the treatments like laser or cryotherapy.”

“My scars…interest you?”

She nodded. “If I had to wager, I’d say they were from burning. Am I right?”

Although I should've been intrigued by her ability to guess, it also slightly unnerved me that she was able to know me so well. “I’m not one of the guinea pigs in a lab for you to poke and prod, Ms. Vaughn.”

Before I could answer, she rushed on, “It’s not just about science. My grandfather had shrapnel scars on his chest and stomach from Vietnam.” Her expression grew sad. “Years and years later they would still ache.”

I opened my mouth to bite back that I didn’t give a shit about her grandfather’s fucking scars. But then I quickly closed it.

And then the realization rocketed through me.

There was a woman standing in front of me who wasn’t repulsed by my scars. While there was empathy, she hadn’t pitied me. She wanted to understand my pain.

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