Page 52 of Dirty Dancer

“I panicked because I’d never told you about some of the scars. Then I remembered how bad some of them are and that I don’t know where they came from. Especially…”

Eyes closed, he deepened his breaths as we stood under the spray of the water. Bit by bit, the wild pound of his heart began to slow to a more even tempo. When his eyes opened again, he seemed calmer.

“Been practicing breathing exercises. Learned them in one of my trauma groups.”

Group sessions. He still didn’t like them, but he’d discovered that they were useful. That had happened over the summer as part of one of his therapy courses and dealing with troubled youths. He’d attended at first for understanding. Then stayed because he actually learned.

“I’m still really proud of you about that,” I reminded him.

His smile was sheepish and his face flushed. But that could just be the hot water in here. “I kept thinking, okay just one more and now…”

“Now you’re starting to help lead them.”

He lifted his shoulders. “The kids in these groups, some of them are a lot like me. They hate themselves so much. They blame themselves for everything that happened and I thought that was kind of bullshit. I mean, I didn’t hate myself except…”

I raised my brows and waited.

“Except you know, I did.” That confession had come a month earlier. Was it possible to be so desperately sad and happy at the same time?

Probably.

“I get it.”

“I know you do,” he murmured. “You’re the biggest help of all. You listen. You ask questions. But you’ve never judged or looked at me differently.”

“You don’t with me,” I said. “Confession is our thing.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it is…”

“But you were saying,” I pulled him back to earlier before his breathing had grown so ragged.

“You also don’t let me get away with shit,” he said, this time his grin was pure open joy. “A fact I deeply love, but don’t tell the guys or they’ll think it’s something I want them to do.”

I laughed as he dropped a kiss on my lips. “Stop stalling,” I nudged him.

“We’re having a moment here,” he teased before he pressed another kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Working on having a lot more.”

“Hmm-hmm. Go back to the scars, Freddie. You want to tell me something so we can push past the freaking out.”

“I really do love when you get bossy, Boo-Boo.” His low groan was a decadent little stroke of sound. “But, you’re right.” Shoulders squaring up, he locked his gaze on mine. “Especially the scars around my dick. They aren’t pretty. I used to think it left me a little deformed, but it’s just places I was burned or they did whatever they did.”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but we both knew better.

“I panicked because I thought it would upset you and I couldn’t explain them and I hadn’t said anything. Then it was just…blind panic.”

When I raised my arm to show the feather decorated tattoo on the inside of my forearm, he nodded.

“Yeah, just like those. Mementos of ugly moments. Only, I can just speculate for most of them on what they are from. I’ve never wanted anyone else to see. Always avoided being nakedaround anyone else. Even the guys. When I couldn’t avoid it, they always made a point to not look at me.”

“It helped.” That wasn’t a question.

He nodded once. “It’s why I could rub myself off on your ass. Or why I liked the lights off when I would feel that beautiful mouth on me. I could pretend that I was normal.”

He was killing me.

“But I don’t want to pretend anymore.” He dropped his hands back to my hips and took a step back. “I never want to pretend with you again.”

I licked my lips. “So it’s okay if I look at you?”

---