Page 73 of Hard Rock Fling
Just the usual bullshit.
But Damon's attention was elsewhere. He hadn't noticed his brother run off.
And that look I'd seen on Ian's face…
You should go after him,August had said at Cameron's party.Don't let him be alone.
I bolted from my chair and ran.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ian had almost disappeareddown the hallway. I was about to call out to him when he slipped into the men's washroom. I hesitated. Maybe he wasn't upset after all? Maybe he really just needed a break. I still wanted to talk to him and make sure he was okay. I waited.
Swearing and cursing came through the washroom door. Ian's voice. I paused for a brief moment — this was the men's washroom, after all — before pushing open the door. I hoped there was no one else inside. That would be beyond awkward. There was row of stalls and empty urinals. I turned the corner to find Ian standing in front of the mirror over the sinks.
My heart stopped.
Ian's fingers were covered in blood. He pressed a wad of paper towel to his lower arm, near the back of his wrist. His whole body was shaking. The counter was smeared with red. My breath hitched, echoing loudly among the tiled walls.
He whirled around. His eyes were wide and glassy. The expression on his face went from shock, to shame, to anger, all within seconds.
"Get out," he snarled. He pressed harder on his wrist.
I realized what this was, what Ian was doing. It was like a blow to my chest.
"Ian…" I couldn't make myself say anything other than his name.
He growled and whirled around, shoulders hunched over. "I'm fine. The hand dryer had a sharp edge. That's all."
My heart nearly burst out of my chest with a dozen emotions. Fear, worry, nausea. I struggled to push them aside. The last thing Ian needed right now was for me to freak out. I slowly pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and folded them over. I approached from behind on uneasy feet.
"Let me see." I kept my voice steady and purposely soft. He yanked his arm away when I reached for it.
"I told you to get out."
I placed a hand on his back and felt him shaking. "It's okay. Let me help."
"I don't need your help." But despite his words he seemed to deflate, all fight going out of him. I took his limp arm and pulled away the wad of blood-soaked paper.
I winced. A long, thin cut on the back of his arm. Perfectly straight, no jagged edges. It was deep. I was sure it went deeper than he'd planned.
I kept my voice to a near whisper. "Was it a razor blade?"
He swallowed, a thick sound, before taking in a shaky breath. He nodded silently.
I placed the fresh wad of paper towel over the wound and pressed. Ian hissed, jerking away reflexively. I held on, not letting him go.
We were both quiet for long moments, me with my head bowed over his injured arm, him with his face turned away. He stared at the door like he was contemplating making a run for it.
I took his other hand and pressed it over the cut in place of mine. I wet another handful of paper and cleaned his hands and the sink, wiping away the streaks of blood.
"How long has this been going on?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he peeled off the paper towel and showed me.
Dozens of thin scars with ridged skin, silvery-pink. One single line of scabbed over skin. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.
"That time I saw you coming from the washroom. This is what you were doing?"
