Page 19 of Driving Whiskey Wild
His gaze dropped to her dress, and he uttered a curse. “I got dried blood all over your dress. I’ll buy you a new one.”
She’d forgotten she was even wearing it, and as important as it had felt earlier, now it seemed almost insignificant. She could buy a new dress, but he could never erase the tragedy he’d witnessed tonight. “It’s okay. Give me your shirt.”
He flashed a cocky smile.
“Is there ever a time you don’t think about sex?” she teased as he tugged off his shirt and leaned his butt against the railing.
His eyes locked on hers, instantly dark and serious. Tortured? She didn’t have time to decide as she was riveted by the ink covering his body and the scars that lay beneath. She gasped at the fresh gashes on his abdomen and upper arm.
“Why didn’t you…?” She couldn’t finish her sentence, and didn’t need to ask why he hadn’t had his wounds tended to at the hospital. She instinctively knew he’d been too focused on the family he’d saved and the woman he was trying to console to worry about himself.
Even through his chest hair, it was like his tattoos screamed for her attention and tried to scare her away simultaneously. His left pec was covered with writing. What looked like hundreds of names ran together, overlapping, crisscrossing, some completely unreadable. Two sets of unseeing eyes came out of billowing smoke on the right side of his chest, obscuring two Mardi Gras–like masks, complete with a single black ribbon on either side. Behind each one were darker shades of gray, as if the rest of their heads were missing from the tortured men’s masklike faces. She followed a halo of birds from behind the masks to his collarbone, where the word Blessed was tattooed in script along one side and Destroyed on the other. Each image sent a spear of pain rattling through her like chains being dragged beneath her skin.
She didn’t think as she touched a dark tattooed cave at the juncture of his rib cage. The sun’s rays radiated from his shoulders and the outer edges of his chest, beneath the other tattoos, leading into the darkness. A hulking figure stood like a pillar of strength before the lower edge of the cave, arms extended, its back covered with an evil face. Dark eyes, fanglike teeth, and sharp brows disappeared into wispy drawers hanging low on its hips. Two broken angel wings hung from the shoulder blades.
Her shaky fingers moved down his body to the image of an eagle flying across his stomach, over water and land, a limp body suspended by its talons. On the opposite side, she touched birdcages with people crouched down low inside them, spanning the breadth of his rib cage. She traced indiscernible patterns below his belly button and above the waist of his jeans, where the word Family was surrounded by shields and guns, hearts—broken and whole—and surprisingly, a bed of flowers. The only colors on his torso were red roses and green vines winding around the tail of the F and Y in Family.
The heat of Bullet’s stare burrowed beneath her skin, chasing the pain the images had brought. She was too captivated by the frightening canvas before her to look away. Swallowing hard, she forced her attention to the puckered scars just below his right shoulder and near his ribs. Her gaze trailed lower, to more scars peppering his side.
Her insides ached for what he must have gone through. Not just tonight, which must have been horrific, but for whatever had led to the mural of agony before her. She tried to mask her expression but knew from the worry in his eyes she looked as pained as the images emblazoned on his body.
“I’ll go throw this in the wash.” She reached for his shirt and he reached for her, tossing his shirt onto a lounge chair.
“My shirt’s history.”
His warm hand pushed gently beneath her hair to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer. He widened his stance, bringing her between his legs, and touched his forehead to hers.
“I’m a lot to take in,” he said.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, although it wasn’t fine.
“Finlay, it scares you. I see it in your eyes.”
“Okay,” she relented. “It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. It’s terrifying, but I’m not scared of you. I’m scared for you, for whatever you went through to cause so much pain to be permanently inked on your body. I hurt in here.” She put her hand over her heart.
“Don’t be scared for me,” he said sternly. “There’s nothing I can’t survive.”
That only made her hurt for him more. She gazed into his eyes, which were colder now. His walls were going back up. “Surviving and living, being happy, are two totally different things.”
BULLET FELT THE weight of his and Finlay’s worlds colliding as she disappeared into the house. He pushed from the railing and paced, trying to wrap his head around the look he’d seen in her eyes and the things she’d said when she’d seen his scars and tattoos. He’d never given a thought to his tats around women, but Finlay wore her heart on her sleeve, and he’d seen all the conflicting emotions as she experienced them. The shock, fear, and worry had coalesced when she’d gazed into his eyes, and for the first time, he’d considered what the mass of demons on his torso looked like. It was bad enough that he’d had to bolt out the back door because he’d hit enough triggers tonight to be on edge, and being confined added the likelihood of a flashback if, or when, he told her about the accident.
He didn’t want to chance adding to the darkness she’d already seen, and hoped he wouldn’t need to go there.
Finlay came outside wearing a pink crewneck sweatshirt with FINLAY’S emblazoned across the chest in white script and gray shorts that were made of the same soft material, a matching logo across her left thigh. He’d rather that sweatshirt said WHISKEY’S—or that it was black without the girly script and he could wear it. Because damn, being hers would be amazing.
She set a plate of cookies and cupcakes down on the table and held up one finger, looking deliciously sweet herself. What miracle had occurred for him to deserve this chance with her? He wasn’t the kind of guy who found himself unworthy of a damn thing, but he couldn’t help worrying about burdening her with his baggage.
“I just have to grab the stuff to clean you up, but I thought you might be hungry, and I have a house full of goodies, thanks to you.” She took a step toward the glass doors and turned back, flashing a bright smile. “What can I get you to drink? I don’t have beer, but I have wine coolers.”
“Whatever you’re drinking is fine, but I can get it.” He took a step toward the house and she held up a hand, stopping him.
“No. You stay put and eat some of the hip plumpers you caused me to make.”
He watched her gorgeous hips sway in those sexy shorts on her way back inside, feeling a little lighter than he had just moments earlier. He eyed the treats, but the only thing he wanted to get his hands on was currently carrying a bowl of soapy water outside, a roll of paper towels tucked under one arm, cloth towels tucked under the other. He grabbed the bowl and paper towels and set them on the table.
“I can clean up in your bathroom, Fin. You don’t have to go to any more trouble. I’m doing better now.”
She rolled her eyes. “No way. I just got all this stuff ready. Now you’re going to sit your butt down and let me clean that mess up.”
“Damn, babe. I like this side of you.”
With a shy smile that conflicted with her bossiness, she held up a finger again and darted inside one more time, returning with two wine coolers. He’d never had a wine cooler in his life, but when she handed it to him with that sexy smile, he was so mesmerized by her, so grateful for her, she could have handed him lighter fluid and he would have sucked it down.
She set her drink on the table and pointed to the chair. “Sit down and let someone take care of you for a change.”
He gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted her to touch him, he hadn’t needed to be taken care of in so many years, it went against every fiber of his being to let her do it. She tilted her head with a sweet smile as she dunked a washcloth in the bowl, and his insides turned to frigging mush. He lowered himself to the chair.
She wrung out the cloth and moved so she was standing between his legs. “You have to tell me if it hurts, okay?”
“You can’t hurt me.” Even as he said the words he knew they weren’t true. If she’d let him leave tonight, it would have hurt like a motherfucker.
“Okay, tough guy.” She leaned in close as she gently washed the area around the wound on his arm. Her eyes flicked to his face, then back to the wound. She rinsed the cloth, carefully cleaning the gash. “You okay?”
He nodded.
“But you’re really tense. Are you sure I’m not hurting you? This cut’s pretty deep.”
“I don’t even feel it.”
“Then why are you all knotted up?” She paused her caretaking and looked at him. “Your hands are fisted. Is the water too warm?”
He looked at his fisted hands and made a conscious effort to unfurl them. “No, but you’re perfectly hot in those little shorts.” He ran his hand up her thigh. Her skin was warm and soft, the perfect distraction from her efforts.
She smiled and continued cleaning out the cut, stealing glimpses at the left side of his chest. “What happened to you?”
