Damaged 2

by Ward, H. M.

  Last time we were like this, the idea of being with him scared me, but now I'm curious to see if I could do it, if I'd like it. My body is humming, but no one moves. It's like there's a glass wall between us and neither of us can break it. Peter's lips linger just in front of mine, parted ever so slightly. As his lashes lower, his gaze is singularly focused on my mouth. My eyelids feel heavy when he gently touches me. Peter's hands slip back into my hair and down my neck to my shoulders. He lifts one hand and caresses my cheek again.

  I'm trembling all over by the time he does that. I don't know what I want. For some reason, I still trust him—but I don't. It feels like there are two women living inside my head. One is touch-starved and the other is too independent to want anyone, for any reason. She's fighting me, wildly throwing every image, every misguided memory at me, but I can't move. I don't want to pull away, so I linger, enjoying his touch and the feel of his breath across my skin.

  Peter blinks slowly. Every time his lashes close, I think he's going to kiss me, but he doesn't. My heart pounds harder in my chest, making me feel crazier by the moment. His hand strokes my cheek again, and I clutch the towel hanging over my shoulders harder.

  This time when Peter's lashes lower, he closes the distance. His lips brush against mine so lightly that it feels like a breeze. I tense as he does it, but Peter doesn't deepen the kiss. Instead he pulls back and looks into my eyes. The expression on his face makes me press my knees together to stop the current that's pulsing through my body. He makes me want things I never wanted.

  It feels like I'm coming undone, but I don't feel scared, not this time. I do something crazy and lean in. I brush my bottom lip to his and shudder as I do it. Peter's hands are on my neck again, playing with the edge of the towel. He watches me for a moment and leans forward slowly. When his lips touch the side of my face, I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

  Peter's kiss is so light, so soft that it makes me want more. I blink slowly like I'm half asleep. It feels like I'm floating, and I don't mind so much. It's scary, but the fear isn't choking me the way it usually does. I don't think about anything. I push the thoughts away, because nothing is the same anymore. The way Peter touches me is nothing like Dean…He's nothing like Dean.

  The thought frees me. I rise up on my tippy-toes and take his cheek in one hand as I press our lips together. My kiss isn't light, like his. It's breathless and demanding. Peter's palms cup my face as the kiss deepens. I lose myself for a blissful moment. There are no thoughts, no worries. There's just Peter and his warm, soft lips that are kissing me so perfectly that my knees feel weak.

  When he pulls back Peter is all jagged breaths. His forehead presses to mine as he watches me from under his lashes. I'm breathing too hard as well, but the more I try to control it, the worse it gets.

  Peter's eyes drop to the place where I'm holding the towel around my shoulders. He watches me as he lowers his hand and takes hold of mine. I think he's going to take it away and I tense, but he doesn't. Instead Peter holds it tight and tells me, "Let go. I'll hold it for you."

  His words hit me so hard that my jaw starts to tremble. Tears prick my eyes as I try not to cry. I've wanted to reach up and hold his cheek in my hand and run my fingers through his hair, but I can't do any of that if I'm holding on to the towel.

  Peter realizes what his words do to me. He leans in and kisses my cheek gently. The kiss gives me courage. I'm so nervous that he'll put the towel down, that he'll let it go, but the offer is too much to ignore.

  I'd wanted to touch his face, but when I release the towel and he holds it in place for me, my hands drift down to his chest. I drag my fingers over the toned muscles, feeling him beneath my fingers. Before I drift my hands down his stomach, I rub my thumb over his nipple, feeling the tight little bit of skin under my hand.

  Peter inhales deeply, but he doesn't move. He blinks slowly and continues to watch me as my hands drift farther south. I feel each taut muscle of his stomach until I'm stopped by the waistband of his jeans. I trail my thumbs along his stomach and around to his back. I feel the scar on his side as the pad of my finger moves over it. I wonder if he feels the memory when I touch that spot. Scars never heal, and every time one gets touched, the memory that made it flares to life. I'm like that, but this is so different than anything I did with Dean that there are no memories to recall, no scars of tender touches to try and repress. This is new for me.

  Peter's eyes close as my hand moves over his waist. I know the memory is flashing behind his eyes because he becomes rigid in my arms. I want to make it better; I want him to forgive himself for what happened. When he opens his eyes again, they lock with mine and his sorrow is no longer hidden. It's reflected in his eyes with so much regret that it's difficult to maintain his gaze. I'm no longer blinking or breathing.

  The vulnerability on his face makes me do it. I lift my hand to the spot where he's holding the towel. I take his hand in mine and pull it away. My heart beats harder, but I don't let go of him. Peter doesn't look when the towel slips from my shoulders and falls behind me. I can't hide the tremors that shoot through me. I feel naked in front of him, even though I'm not. Peter's wearing less clothing than I am, but I feel so exposed. If he hadn't reacted that way when I touched his scar, I couldn't have done it.

  But I did, and now I'm standing there in a threadbare shirt with my nipples at full attention. I don't want him to look, but I want him to. As I breathe in, my chest brushes against his. The contact without the towel in the way shoots through me like a bolt of lightning. My breath catches in my throat, and when I look up at him, Peter seems equally speechless.

  His head dips again and he kisses me harder this time. His hands are on my face and then in my hair. They drift over my shoulders and down my back, gliding over the fabric as his tongue does wicked things in my mouth. The pit of my stomach falls down an elevator shaft and hasn't hit the bottom yet. I can't breathe like a normal person. I sound like I ran a marathon even though I haven't taken a step.

  Peter breaks the kiss. Between breaths he presses his lips to the sides of my face softly, gently. His hands remain on top of my shirt. He doesn't lift the hem and slide his hands under. Instead, he presses his body against mine as he kisses me senseless.

  I hold on to him tight, digging my nails into his back so he doesn't fade away. Peter nudges my face to the side as he trails hot kisses down my throat. My head falls back and I close my eyes, feeling each kiss as his lips press into me over and over again. When he stops, I look up at him.

  Peter's lips are parted, and he's breathing hard. "We should stop."

  I nod. "We should." It's something I know in my mind, but my body doesn't want to acknowledge it.

  Peter makes the decision for us and steps away. He runs his hands through his hair like it's torture to stop touching me. When he looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes fixate on my chest.

  I stand there, ramrod straight, and let him look. I know he can see the outline of my excited breasts and the pale skin tones through the shirt. Nerves swirl in my stomach, but I don't move. Peter doesn't look away. His eyes stay glued on my chest.

  After a moment, I manage, "My eyes are up here, Professor."

  Peter's gaze lifts slowly and meets mine as a sinful smile spreads across his face. "Say that again."

  The corner of my mouth tugs up as I lazily point toward my face. "My eyes are up here."

  Peter steps toward me but doesn't touch me this time. He stops within arm's reach. A dimple surfaces on his cheek, and I have the insane desire to lick it. My eyes flutter away from the spot and lock with his. "No, the other part. Call me professor again." Peter looks hopeful, more like the man I met in Texas. The look he's giving me is like the one he had when we were dancing.

  I can't help but smile girlishly. I look up from under my lashes and whisper, "Dance with me, Professor."

  Peter's smile broadens. He holds out one hand and I take it, while the other hand slips around my waist. If he was anyone else, I'd worry abo
ut his boots crushing my toes, but Peter never steps on me. We rock-step a few times before he spins me away. When he spins me back, I twirl into his chest, where he holds me tight. My hands slip around his waist and over the scar. I watch as Peter's eyes fill with memories he can't control. The smile fades like a star in sunlight, until it's completely gone.

  Peter blinks a few times, like he's waking from a dream. He releases me and turns away. When he grabs his sweats off the bed, he bends over and picks up my towel. Peter turns back to me and places it over my shoulders and holds it tight in front until I take it.

  He gives me a sad smile and says, "Thank you."

  I nod slowly, not understanding. It feels like rejection, but in the back of my mind I know it's more than that. He's stuck, trapped in his past as badly as I am, or possibly more.

  "I know there's no future for us," he says. "I screwed things up too badly in the past and I get that, but I really need a good friend right now and I know you do, too. This"—he inhales deeply and gestures between us—"can't happen again. I know that, but—"

  I cut him off. I walk over to him and kiss his cheek before saying, "Peter, shhhhh. I'm your friend at the very least. At the very most, why don't we just wait and see?"

  He looks at me like I'm a mirage. His eyes are so wide, so vulnerable. "I'm not the man I was before. I'm not Pete Ferro anymore." His eyes dip to the scar that wraps around his side. "You don't understand—she changed me in a way I'd never thought possible. I stopped fighting, I stopped doing all the shit that I was known for. Finding the right person is the kind of thing that you only get one shot at, and I fucked it up. I lost her.

  "My life changed that night and no matter what I do, I can't get things back the way they were. Then I met you, and I thought I was wrong." He looks up at me, looking completely lost. "When I saw Dean, something snapped. If the old guy hadn't pulled out his gun, Sidney, I don't know what I would have done. I can't tell if I was justified or not, but every time I see that guy it's like…" He squeezes his hands tightly and swallows whatever he was going to say.

  I watch him because I can't look away. This feels like a moment where everything is bending to the point that it's going to snap. I know what he means; I know it too well. I'm afraid to touch him, afraid to step forward, but I manage. My hand slips onto his forearm. The muscles are corded tight as if they'll break at any moment. Peter twitches when my skin touches his. He gazes down at my hand and then up into my face. "You're not Pete Ferro anymore. I get it. I'm not the same Sidney that walked around Jersey all those years ago, either. What was taken from us, we don't get back, Peter. It's just gone. It's like the land after a fire, charred to pitch black and barren."

  He shakes his head. "No, not for you. Somehow you pulled out of that for the most part. I see it in your eyes."

  "I'm wearing a towel to bed, Peter." I give him a sad smile. "I know I'm mental. I accepted it. I trust you and I still can't drop this thing." I tug the towel tighter around my shoulders.

  "You did before."

  "That was different." I look away. Emotions run through me with an intensity that makes me want to run into the woods and live with my turkey. I step away from him, but Peter takes my hand. The connection doesn't break. As long as he's touching me, it feels like he can see inside my head, and that scares me more than anything. There are monsters in there, memories I don't want to remember.

  "Why?" His voice is so soft and kind. It's like cashmere, delicate and enticing. If I answer him, that voice promises too many things that I thought I'd never have. My lower lip quivers involuntarily. Peter's gaze fixates on the tiny twitch and he lifts his hand and presses a finger to my lips. His eyes flick between his finger and my eyes.

  "Tell me." His finger slides away, leaving my mouth open and gasping like there's no air.

  "I…" I can't say it.

  I want to tell him, but I can't. I close my eyes and look down, but Peter doesn't let me stay that way. His hand slips under my chin, and he tilts my head back. Our eyes meet and the rest of the world melts away.

  I want to be brave for once. I want to say it and see what happens. I've treated him so badly and he was so mad at me. Fear keeps shoving the words down my throat, but they rise up again, rebelling like they have a mind of their own. I feel the sentence on my tongue and then on my lips. "It was different before—I could drop the towel—because I was thinking about something, something I shouldn't." My lips part as I stand there trying to find the right words. "I got lost in the moment."

  Someone sucked all the air out of the room, because I can't breathe. I feel like a fish on a hook with Peter's hand holding my chin up. He doesn't free me; he doesn't take the words and throw me back. Instead he leans in kissably close, and breathes, "Oh? What were you thinking that would make this feel safe enough to trust me like that?"

  There's a knot in my throat that I can't swallow down. He has me reeling, dangling from the end of the pretty pink string, and it's all I can do to not back away. This conversation terrifies me, but it excites me, too. His hand is warm, gentle but firm. It moves from my chin to my cheek. I lean into his touch and close my eyes. "For a moment everything felt right, like things never happened. You seemed to latch on to the girl I was and pull her back. She's not afraid of you, and she's still in here wanting things I don't normally want."

  "Tell me what you wanted, Sidney." Peter's eyes search mine, looking, hoping beyond hope.

  My jaw hangs open, but no noise comes out. It sounded so different in my head. Saying it out loud solidifies the thought and makes it real. Peter brushes his lips over my cheek and pulls back. His eyes drift to my lips like he's thinking about kissing me again. I want to be brave, so I say it and tell him, "I wanted you."

  A shy smile drifts across his lips. "Like wanted me, wanted me?"

  A blush paints my face red. I feel the burn creep across my cheeks and can't contain my smile. I try to look away, but he won't let me. Peter's finger is under my chin again, tilting my head back so our gazes meet. "Maybe."

  "When you say maybe, it usually means yes."

  I grin. "Maybe."

  CHAPTER 12

  The rest of the night passes slowly. I toss and turn on the mattress, but I can't get my body to settle down. Having Peter at the foot of the bed makes me crazy. I want his arms around me, but I'm afraid I'll go nutso and tell him to get lost if he touches me wrong. I roll onto my back and pull the pillow over my face. The towel is a lump under my back, all bunched up and horribly uncomfortable. I'm smothering myself with the pillow when I feel it being pulled away.

  Peter looks down at me with those gorgeous eyes. "Restless night?"

  "Maybe." We both laugh softly. Damn it. I had no idea I was doing that. I make a mental note to stop saying maybe when I'm thinking yes.

  Peter offers his hand. I take it, and he pulls me from the bed. I try to reach back for the towel, but Peter closes his eyes. "Leave it. I won't look." He holds his arms out, open. "Dance with me."

  I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. "Peter, I—"

  "You said maybe. Maybe means yes. But you'll have to lead since I can't open my eyes." Watching Peter, I make my decision. He's bare chested and wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. I can barely see him in the darkness. The streetlight casts a yellow glow through the slit in the curtains. It illuminates his toned body and open arms.

  I step into the space and take his hands. I put one on my waist and slip my palm in the other. Our fingers lace together and we start a slow rockstep. My heart is pounding even though we've done this a million times. In the past Peter was my teacher and my boss. Now he's half naked with his eyes closed. How'd we get here? I never would have thought this is where we'd end up when I first met him that night at the restaurant.

  Just as I calm down, something scrapes the door. It sounds like a nail slowly dragging across the metal. Peter's eyes burst open as I cling to him. I forget about the towel and my ratty pajamas. That sound is just wrong, like a switchblade dragging across metal—
or like Dean's knife. I glance up at him just as Peter looks down at me. Neither of us says anything, and then the sound comes again.

  Peter releases me, leaving me at the foot of the bed. He presses his finger to his lips and waits for me to nod before moving away to look out the slit in the curtains. Peter stands there for a moment, careful not to touch the fabric. He pads back to me and whispers, "I don't see anything. Maybe they've gone." But just as he says it, the horrible sound comes again. It's louder and longer this time.

  My mind is messing with me, throwing me into the past. Glints of silver flash behind my eyes. I press myself to Peter. "That knife, Dean's knife…"

  Peter holds me tight. I can tell he doesn't want to let go, but the sound comes again. Maybe he's carving something into the door. Maybe he'll finish and go away. Peter whispers soothing words in my ears but never takes his eyes off the door. I chant go away over and over again in my mind as if it could actually do something.

  Peter's hands firmly hold me against his chest. We watch the door, waiting for it to fly open, but silence fills our ears. Swallowing hard, I look up at him, ready to speak when something bangs into the door and at the same time the knob rattles like someone is trying to open it. Frantically, I look around the room for something to defend us with, but I don't have anything. My pulse is roaring in my ears, so when Peter lets go of me and strides toward the door, I freak out.

  Peter is livid with testosterone flowing off of him in crushing waves. The scar on his side flashes pure white as he crosses the strip of light on the floor. It flashes over his body like a grocery store scanner. Before I can say anything, Peter hurls the door open. It smacks into the wall so hard that the knob smashes a gaping hole.

  Peter steps outside. "Come out, you motherfucker, and settle this now!" His fists tense at his sides as he walks farther into the parking lot, barefoot. The lights in the room next to us flip on. I see the golden glow on the ground outside their window, spilling into the parking lot.