J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

I don’t have a fucking concussion! I’m sitting on your girlfriend’s couch. Probably where you two, oh no. Don’t throw up, do not throw up.

“You sure I can’t take you to a hospital?” There’s a new tone in his voice that I haven’t heard before. Is it . . . worry?

“I’m fine. I just want to go home and sleep—”

“Fuck no.”

My eyes pop open and snap to his. His eyes flame with anger.

“Rex, I can’t sleep here at your—”

“No, you should be at a hospital. But if you refuse to go, you’ll sleep here.”

“Here. At your girl—”

“Yeah. Why not?” He motions to the short hallway that leads to a bedroom I can see from where I am. “There’s a bed, probably plenty of girlie shit in the bathroom, and something to change into. Emma won’t mind.”

Emma. So that’s the bitch’s name. “I’m sure she’ll mind.”

“I’ll crash out here on the couch so I can check on you every few hours, wake you up and ask you shit.”

“No. You don’t need to do that.”

He lifts his pierced eyebrow, and I’m suddenly curious about what it would taste like if I kissed him there. Ugh, stop it.

He shrugs. “You goin’ to the hospital?”

“No, I told you—”

“Right. So you’re here and I’m waking you up every couple hours.” He holds my stare. Seconds pass.

A small smile curls my lips. “If those are my only choices—”

“They are.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I’ve been called worse.” A very relaxed and equally gorgeous smile plays against his lips.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

He nods and leans back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and crossing his arms at his chest. “Settled.” He pivots toward me. “And you call me stubborn. That’s three times tonight I’ve had to beg you to let me help you.”

I study my lap to avoid his probing glare. “I’m not used to people wanting to help me.” Especially the one person whom I promised to help. I could’ve saved him from the abuse if only I’d been smarter, older, more aware. If only I’d asked him, forced him to tell me what he was going through. God, all those men. He was a child, a defenseless boy!

“Mac?”

I peek up at him to see his concerned eyes on me. “Yeah?”

“You’re going green again. I think you need to lie down.”

He’s right. I fantasized about all the things I’d say to him if I finally got him to speak to me, all the things I’d ask if we ever ended up somewhere alone and private. Here I am, and I can’t put together a coherent thought.

I stand and hand him my ice pack. “Here. I think I’m good. You should ice your knuckles.”

He flexes his hand a few times but doesn’t show even a hint of discomfort. “Nah, feels good.”

Feels good? I mark that down on my mental list of things to obsess about, but not tonight. Way too much has happened and I need a moment to process.

“Right, well, it was nice to finally hang out with you. Thanks for saving me . . . three times.”

His face grows serious. Thoughtful. “Hey”—he shrugs—“you saved me too.”

I didn’t. Not when it mattered most. But I’m here to make up for that.

Rex

This night is dragging. Other than a quick run to my place for a shirt, I’ve been crammed on the tiny couch, watching reruns of Tattoo Nightmares, and I’m restless as hell. This place is small. Too many walls. I absently toy with the rubber band on my wrist.

Mac hasn’t made a sound since she went back to Emma’s room to crash. Must be nice to fall asleep wherever you fall.

Me? I don’t do sleepovers or all-nighters, and I hate traveling. The only place I can fully relax in is mine, open space to breathe and visitor-free. A yawn peels from my throat. I’m exhausted, but catching z’s tonight is completely out of the question. The combo of last night’s royal-REM debacle has my head heavy and my thoughts tripping.

As much as I’m itching for the comfort of my place—a hot shower, clean sheets, and my bed—I know this was the right thing to do. Because of me, Mac probably has a concussion. The least I can do is sacrifice a night to make sure she gets through it without slipping into a coma.

I don’t know a thing about this girl, but something about her feels familiar. Maybe it’s her easy-going attitude. She acts more like a guy than a chick. Not what I’m used to at all. Most of the girls that I’ve hung out with whine when the waitress forgets the lime in their cocktail. Even Emma bangs my door down, squealing like kid when she finds a spider in her place. But with Mac there are no high maintenance demands or overreactions that most women are known for. I mean, fuck, she took a hit from a dude and didn’t even cry.

Tough chick.

I bet Mac kills her own spiders, probably with her bare hands.

Funny I haven’t noticed her before. I mean it’s not as if she blends in. Shit. My guess is she’s hovering around five-foot-ten, and her skin is pale, not creepy pale, but the kind of pale you don’t see on females here in Vegas. The combo of her height, light skin, and black hair is eye-catching. She’s a damn knockout.

And those lips. Fuck me. I’ve never seen lips so naturally dark before. Full and the color of a cherry. And that smile. The few times her mouth ticked up from something I said I felt it in my gut. The slight lift of her bow-shaped mouth and her arched eyebrows over those big eyes were sexy and daring like nothing I’ve ever seen. My chest gets tight and I blow out a long breath. And just like seeing it, thinking about it now stirs an energy that makes me feel equal parts curious and disgusted.

Fuck. I scrub my face. My body reacts to a beautiful woman, and I’m disgusted? This shit cannot be normal. My therapist has a hundred different theories, none of which I can stomach. I don’t remember much from my past, so I choose not to spend the time and energy figuring it out. Forward is the only direction I’m headed. And for whatever the fuck reason, getting turned-on also makes me sick. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man. Sex should be on the top of my priority list, right under air and above food.

But no. I squash my needs for as long as I possibly can, throwing all the excess energy into my fighting and my music until I can’t take another second. When I finally succumb to my sick-fuck urges, I get it over with fast with a stranger, usually paid for to avoid the personal connection. Once I’m relieved, I walk away quickly to avoid embarrassing myself, because shortly after I come, I always puke. Every. Single. Time.

God, I’m a mess.

With a sudden urge for a shot of tequila, I get up to ransack Emma’s kitchen, as quietly as I can, in search of anything that comes close. No beer in the fridge. No vodka in the freezer. No bourbon in the cupboard. Nothing.

I brace my weight against the counter. My skin is clammy with sweat. Sleep deprivation and being stuck in this apartment are making me antsy. I catch sight of the knife block that’s not far from my right hand. The knives call to me, beg to mark my flesh. I imagine the feeling of dragging the sharp blades against my skin and watching the blood seep. I groan, and my head drops heavy between my shoulders. The scars on my forearms and inner thighs flare their request. I hook the rubber band around my wrist and snap it a few times. It takes off the edge, but isn’t close to enough.

“This is bullshit.” I push back from the counter and cross the small apartment to Emma’s room. Peeking inside, I see Mac asleep on her side, her hands folded and wedged beneath the tiny throw pillow that cradles her head. She’s on top of the comforter and fully clothed. She looks so peaceful. I’ll wait until I get back before I wake her up for her anti-coma quiz.

I back out of the doorway and close it softly behind me. A quick break in my place should help me get my head back online and where it needs to be. And I have tequila.

I make the short trip from Emma’s apartment door to my own. I push inside, slip off my shoes on the mat, and go straight to my liquor cabinet. Pulling out the Patrón, I pop the cork and down a throat-scorching gulp. I breathe through the burn before taking one more hit and then another.

I’ve never been this close to a beautiful sleeping woman before, and it’s doing fucked-up things to my body. Things I’m not comfortable dealing with. Things that most guys would welcome. But not me.

Snapping the rubber band in a rhythmic beat, the liquor radiates heat through my body. I suck back another shot until it eventually numbs my head. Perfect. I brush my teeth and grab a clean shirt before heading back to Emma’s. After checking on Mac, I should be able to catch a few hours’ sleep with the help of Señor Patrón’s Sleep Aid.

Feeling much more like myself, I lock up and settle back into Emma’s couch. I flip through channels, not paying attention to what’s on, and my eyes droop with sleep. I wedge a frilly pillow behind my neck and—what the hell was that?

I turn and look over the back of the couch toward Emma’s bedroom. Is Mac talking to someone? Probably her roommate called to ask about the bloody biker curled up on her driveway. Her voice filters from the room again, this time laced with pain. Not crying, but a pleading desperation that sounds like audible agony.

“What the fuck?” I hop off the couch and cross the apartment in a few long strides.