Page 70 of Sinful Like Us
He combs his inked fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
I nod once.
“Your eyes were glazed back there.” He touches his dangling earring. “It’s none of my business, and prying is not my favorite thing but I just remember you saying you only have nightmares.” Farrow Keene has become one of the only people on the team I feel safe enough to talk with about PTSD, because he’s experienced some form of this shit too.
I nod again. “I don’t know what happened,” I admit.
“Okay.” Farrow thinks for a second. “Could you tell if there was a trigger? A sound or maybe a feeling?”
“I don’t know for sure.” I curl longer pieces of my hair behind my ears. “Could’ve been me getting punched. But I’ve been hit before and not been thrown back like that.”
He rubs his lip piercing, tilting his head from side to side.
“What?”
“You let O’Malley hit you.”
I’m quiet.
Farrow nods a couple times. “Have you dropped your hands before?”
Not like that.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Your natural instinct is to survive.” Farrow stands off the stall. “Putting your body in a panicked state could potentially throw you back.”
Makes more sense, and this fog starts clearing. He didn’t have to come in here and talk to me, but I appreciate it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He’s scrutinizing my face.
I skim my tongue over my swollen lip.I taste blood.Glancing at the mirror, I clearly see that I busted my fucking lip open.
Farrow sticks a new piece of gum in his mouth. “That’s not healing in four days, by the way.”
Fuck. Shit.“Mannaggia,” I curse out loud, and I rake my hand across my unshaven jaw. The twin switch—I can’t pretend to be Banks if I’m the one with a visible wound. This isn’t a bruise I can conceal with makeup.
I should’ve been thinking.
An apparent, unspoken solution hangs between Farrow and me. My muscles flex and eyes tighten. “I’m not punching my brother.”
Farrow chews his gum slowly. “Will he be thrown back if you do?”
I take a beat. “No. Banks doesn’t have PTSD.”Just physical pain.My brother still hides his frequent migraines from everyone. Hell, he covers up most injuries.
Just then, the door cracks open. Banks slips inside the bathroom, concern cinching his brows.
“I’m snapped to,” I tell him.
He nods, and I explain how Farrow doesn’t think my lip will heal before I fly out.
Banks cuts me off midway through. “Those idiots are as sharp as marble—they won’t be able to tell a difference if we both have busted lips.”
Yeah.
“So someone needs to hit me in the mouth,” Banks states.
I barely nod, neck stiff.
