Page 51 of Erik

He glides his fingers over the intricate inky pattern sprawling from wrist to shoulder. “This tattoo hides scars from multiple suicide attempts.”

Air catches in my throat as a vice crushes my chest. I whisper, “You don’t have to relive your pain. It takes one to know one.”

“I’ve unlocked this Pandora box; I need to get to the bottom of it.” With a shaky inhalation, he murmurs, “My father used Mom and me as punchbags whenever he got high. When I was twelve, Mom busted her ass doing overtime as a bookkeeper in a restaurant every night. She also had a day job managing a fashion designer store. One night, my father came home, high as a kite. He flumped in front of the TV with a pack of beer bottles. When he got so wasted, he couldn’t get up from the couch, he hollered me to get more beer from the fridge.” He finger-combs the lock of hair covering his forehead, lifting it. “See this scar? He hurled a bottle at me when I told him he’d run out of booze. Blood gushing down my face, I snapped, and lunged at him. We tumbled to the ground, he hit his temple on the edge of the coffee table and died.” He pauses.

I kneel on the floor, lacing my fingers through his, kissing his knuckles. Tears fill my eyes, and I reassure him, “I understand your pain, but it was an accident, baby.”

His throat works a hard swallow. He kisses the back of my hand, shaking his head, before hanging it down. “Panicking, I set fire to the house and escaped to Logan’s.” He snaps his head up, meeting my eyes. The storm of anguish swirling in the depths of his stare pulls at my heartstrings. I brace for impact as he adds, “I didn’t know Mom had come home earlier that night. She used to take sleeping pills when she got too tired.”

The quiver in his last words does me in. Bile burns my throat. Wishing I could wipe away his soul-crushing burden, but knowing no one can, I return to the couch. I cradle his head on my lap, stroking his back, as he bawls, and I sob. When his crying subsides, he looks up at me, I wipe the traces of tears from his strong jaw.

He whispers, “Next morning, the police found me. When they told me both my parents had perished in a fire, I crumpled to the floor, wailing. They never suspected me because I was in real pain. I’ve kept this secret, evaded the law; but became a monster, broken beyond repair.”

I shake my head, cupping his face. “You’ve been hurting for too long, it’s all. Wounds kept secret become canker. Now you’re seeing a therapist, the healing should start soon.”

He lifts his lips in a feeble smile. “It has. But I’m terrified I’ll never be whole.”

“Nonsense. It’s a process. It takes time, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He sits up straight, kissing me with such tenderness, my heart soars. He runs his fingers through my hair as I clutch his shoulders.

With a pained sigh, I draw back. “Remember I told you I lost my dad when I was seven?”

“Uh-hum,” he tucks a curl behind my ear, gazing into my eyes.

The warmth exuding from every cell of his body sustains me. “He got killed during an air strike, shielding me.” I wait for him to articulate the words his lips form, but nothing comes out. “I also mentioned I escaped to refugee camps, roaming around Europe.” The icy fingers of disgust run down my spine. I cast my eyes to my hands. They don’t tremble anymore, thanks to Dr. Perlman’s treatment and prescription drugs. I hold his stare, chin jutting out. “I left out the reason why we had to. More often than I want to count, a creep would sneak up on me while I slept, like they were in the shadows waiting for their chance.”

He brings my wrists to my lips, kissing their ruggedness. His cheeks glow red while his nostrils flare. “I’m so sorry I stalked you in the set like that. I’m sorry I blindfolded you. I get why you freaked out.”

I blow a long exhale. “You didn’t know, and I’m fine now. I promise. Talking about traumatic events help the healing.”

He fists one hand over his stomach. “If you say so.”

I smooch the bridge of his nose, wrapping up the sordid tale. “Some men would grope me as they jerked off. Others would rape me and Mom. The next day, she would move us to a new camp. Until one day, when I was thirteen, five men invaded the hut where we lived. Mom fought them, shouting for me to escape.” His lips silence me when my voice falters.

When he draws back, he shakes his head and pleads, in a soft murmur, “Please, don’t. I can fill in the gaps. I see in your eyes this story tortures you. I can’t sit idle and watch you suffer.”

I stroke the stubble on his cheeks and chin, locking eyes with him. “This is all in the past for me, not in a dark corner of my mind. Dr. Perlman has helped me drag my demons to the light and vanquish them, which is not to say the memories don’t hurt. They don’t paralyze me anymore.”

Like a distant storm approaching, my stomach rumbles until the sound startles me. Chuckling, I press my hands to it. “Sorry. I never got to eat at the event.”

Jitters steal my appetite.

“What are you in the mood for?” He springs to his feet and reaches the hotel telephone in a few long strides. “Yes, hello. I’ll have a double cheeseburger with fries and a beer. Hold on a sec.” He rests the phone on his naked shoulder. “And you?”

I love that he doesn’t order for me. Grinning, I reply, “Just a spring salad. It’s too late for heavy food.”

He glances at his watch. “The lady will have a spring salad, please. Uh-hum. Thank you.”

I point to my costume. “Is there a robe I can borrow?”

He jabs a thumb toward a door on the right. “Check the bathroom in that room. You may use the shower there too while I wash up in mine. Room service will take at least twenty.”

When we return to the living room, I miss the sight of his broad back and brawny chest hidden underneath a terry cloth robe that mirrored mine, except for the embroidered hotel logo. Mine was green; his, yellow.

He pulls me into his arms, and I raise my head to meet his lips in a languid kiss that promises a sweet, long journey into the night until morning. He glides a hand from my cheek down my neck, snakes it under the rough cloth to cup my shoulder.

His sexy male chuckle makes my skin sizzle. “No bra. Hmm. I wonder,” he murmurs, grazing the corner of my lips as his other hand travels up my thigh, around my hip, until his fingers tease my butt crack. “You naughty angel.” I moan when he pushes the robe over my shoulders and down to my elbows. Snapping his head up, a deep crease between his brows, he asks, “Is this okay for you? Too tight?”

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