Beneath the Burn Read online

  Stooped over her bent knee, she picked at the black polish on her big toe where it poked through her sandals. Was he thinking about the note he left in her oatmeal squares, wondering if she was going to answer it? Her gaze floated back to his.

  He smiled down at her, arms outstretched, waiting for his dance.

  “Swing Life Away” she murmured and pressed play.

  “Rise Against. Great band.” His face transformed into sweeping bowed lips and white teeth and shining eyes. The beauty of it cartwheeled the distance between them, filling her with longing.

  The instrumental intro carried her to her feet, around the counter, and toward the arms of the man who loved her enough to cease his proposals. In return, she wished she could give him her name, her story, and above all, a Yes.

  A counter’s length away, he stretched his arms wider.

  She hummed with the vocals, etching the moment in memory, never looking away from his eyes. Freedom was forward. A freedom she couldn’t have. Still, she reached her arms toward it, toward him.

  A board creaked, paralyzing her. The walled entry way blocked her view of the front door. Oh God, did he not lock it? Was it a customer? She wouldn’t wait to find out. Where was her bag? Her gun?

  She lurched to move around the counter, and her gaze skidded across the room, slamming into hard eyes deeply set in a familiar face. The horror that bolted through her locked her legs, stripping away four years of freedom, every moment of happiness. The scrap of hope she’d harbored in the depth of her chest shriveled behind her galloping heart and fell away.

  Toxic energy buzzed from his taut posture. He raised a pistol, a silencer extending the barrel, intent scorching from his glare.

  Her heart stopped. “Noah!”

  A pop whistled through the room. Noah’s smile collapsed, as did his legs. She spun back, leaping, falling atop him as he dropped. He stared at his hand clenched on his stomach.

  Blots of red stained his white button-up, blooming beyond his spread fingers. Her vision fogged. Blood roared in her ears. “Noooo. No, no, no. Oh God, Noah, look at me.”

  He writhed beneath her and wheezed through shallow breaths. She patted her pockets. Her phone…where was it? Oh fuck, he didn’t have much time. His eyes rolled to the side, and she followed his gaze.

  A shadow fell over her, and the silencer pointed at his lolled head. She repositioned her body, caging him, shielding him.

  The music fell quiet, signaling the song’s end. Oh fuck, her fucking phone was plugged in behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Kilroy Tattoo, Charlee? Roy doesn’t appreciate your humor.”

  She loathed that rasp, the cruelty in his eyes, and the strength of his fist. She used to call him the Craig. She’d called them all Craig. This Craig was Roy’s right-hand.

  “Fuck Roy.” Her shout was venomous, distorted with tears. “And fuck you.”

  Hang in there, Noah. Please, please. She kept her back to the Craig, blocking Noah’s body, her hands moving frantically, searching pockets, front and back, his ankle holster, shoulder holster. Empty. Empty. Empty.

  Her bag, which held her gun, sat behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, so fucking stupid.

  Blood collected beneath them and filled the grout between the tiles. The stench of sewage and copper pervaded the air. His stomach was leaking, leaking…so much blood. Christ, it wouldn’t stop.

  She shoved a hand under his jacket, bumped into the weight of his phone in the inner pocket. Oh, thank God. She wrapped trembling fingers around it.

  “Bad idea, Charlee.” The Craig’s boot shot out. A direct line with her head. Sharp pain stole her vision and darkness stole the pain.

  4

  The thrum in Charlee’s head was a small thing compared to the agony crushing her heart. Oh God, Noah. She rubbed her eyes, her hands stiff with blood, though she was surprised to find them unbound.

  Flashes of light passed the car window. The crunch of tires on neglected pavement vibrated the leather seat beneath her. The wide bench stretched across the black interior, a standard feature of all the SUVs in Roy’s fleet.

  She’d never successfully escaped one of his vehicles. The tinted bulletproof glass didn’t roll down. The doors never opened from the inside. And they traveled in a procession of three. She would be in the center one.

  An unfamiliar Craig drove. The other occupant—the Craig from her shop—tilted his head. With a phone pinched between chin and shoulder, he shook a water bottle with one hand. “Yes, sir.” His other hand gripped her jaw, turning it. “She’s just waking…I understand.” He dropped the phone in a breast pocket and held out the bottle.

  “I’m not thirsty.” Not for Valium, Xanax, Ambien, or whatever sedative he was offering.

  “We can do this the nice way or the Salvador way.” The manner in which he whispered his name flared old wounds, surfacing memories of the flex of fingers, the whistle of parting air, and the crack of her jaw beneath his fist. The Salvador way.

  She swallowed. “What’s in the water, Craig?”

  “Don’t be ‘Craig’ing me, bitch. I’m not your father.”

  Craig Grosky was the first and the worst in a long line of Craigs. She glared at the ear of the Craig beside her, the one missing the lobe. Last time he called her a bitch, Roy relieved him of that bit of flesh.

  He glared back. “Rohypnol keeps you out of trouble.”

  Roofies. Roy wasn’t taking chances. “Is Noah alive?”

  The intensity in his gaze agitated. “If you want to live, you will not let Mr. Oxford hear you utter that name.”

  If there were a chance he survived the wound, reminding Roy and the Craig of that possibility was counterproductive. Anything could’ve happened after she lost consciousness. Perhaps Noah’s gun was at the small of his back. Maybe the Craig tossed her over his shoulder and ran out with a volley of Noah’s bullets at his heels. She grasped onto that thought, wrapped it around her, and nested into it. Then she grabbed the water, a promise to behave while she scrambled for options. “Where are we going?”

  “Airport. We’ll be at the tower when you wake.”

  Roy’s private jet. Roy’s tower penthouse. Back to San Francisco.

  Fear, a living tangible thing, erupted in her stomach, grew in strength and size, and boiled through her throat. She folded at the waist and heaved. Bile splashed the floorboard, her sandals, and the door.

  “What the fuck? You got that shit on my shoes.” He yanked a Taser out of his pocket. “This or the water. Choose now or I’ll choose for you.”

  Her stomach plunged. He’d choose both and would probably do so with a hard-on. She leaned back, wiped her mouth, and came to grips with her destination in three long, drug-laced gulps.

  5

  It had only been two hours since Jay watched Charlee walk away. Two hours wandering the empty St. Louis streets only served to echo his loneliness. What if it took too long to become the man she deserved? What if she got pregnant or married in that time?

  A stab of pain shafted through his heart, and he stumbled on the sidewalk in front of Lewey’s Uptown Bar. When would he be able to see her again?

  Fuck. He was going to be on the road for the next couple months. He could call the shop, couldn’t he? He could keep in contact with her under the guise of coordinating more tattoo work.

  He pushed through the front door of the bar. Since his escape from the van earlier in the evening, the music had deteriorated into a repetitive din of mechanicalistic effects and distorted vocal synthesizers. He scanned the crowd for his bandmates and found them gyrating in a circle of women on the dance floor in front of the stage.

  How could they stomach the noise banging from the speakers? The Burn could produce more rhythm pounding a hammer on a cymbal.

  He weaved through the crush of half-naked, sweaty bodies, dodging the sweep of arms and swaying hips. Too many goddamned people. The sudden tightness in his chest spread to his neck and locked his jaw.

  No way in hell would
he pass through the crowd without a random touch. An elbow, hip, or leg didn’t trigger his memories, but a purposefully placed hand, like that of the girl he was fucking in the back of the van, could bring out a catatonic meltdown.

  What a shit idea. He considered turning around and escaping back outside, but he needed a bathroom and the bar was the only business open within walking distance.

  A hand brushed his ass. He whirled and glared into the glazed eyes of a staggering brunette.

  “Oh mmm, you’re purrrtty.” Hiccup. “S-sexy, too. Wanna fuu…cum?”

  He jumped back from her waving hand and bumped into an entwined couple as they ground their groins together, damn near fucking each other to the thump, thump, thump of the bass notes.

  A familiar clawing awoke beneath his skin. His shadows were digging out. He ducked his head and quickened his pace toward the restroom sign illuminated on the opposite side of the stage.

  “Hey. Weren’t you s-s-singing tonight?” The drunken woman followed him, scampered around him, and looked up out of beady eyes set in a rodent-like face.

  “Get away from me.” He sidestepped her and jogged around the dance floor.

  The persistent gnawing inside him amplified. Chasing the dragon was one way to soothe it, and the brown powder in his pocket was prepped for smoking.

  He raked a hand through his hair. Fuck that. No more drugs.

  The bathroom door swung open, releasing the pungency from within. An older man strode out and clipped Jay’s shoulder before he could spin out of the way. His heart raced.

  Inside, fluorescent lights cast a bleached glow on the white tiles, the scuffed concrete floor, and the two men at the urinals.

  They didn’t look up as Jay sprinted into the private oasis of the only stall, latched the door, and leaned against the wall. After a few calming breaths, he fished the heroin out of his pocket and spun the small folded paper between his fingers and thumb.

  The fix wasn’t a daily habit, and he never used needles. He smoked it when his memories became too much to hold in, often before he went on stage or when he anticipated an encounter with a handsey crowd.

  He wasn’t an addict. He was a self-medicating nut job.

  Deep breath. Another. He was about to find out the truth of his denial. Could his propulsion to be clean and deserving of Charlee bowl over any romance he might’ve had with chemicals? Could he be normal for her?

  He dropped his head against the tile wall. Normal. His childhood hadn’t created an affection for normal. He was young when his parents died. Too young to remember their faces, their voices, their love. In fact, he would never know if they actually loved him.

  Sometimes, he would imagine what being loved felt like. It might feel robust and exotic like the harmonic minor in the key of A on his Martin Acoustic. Or maybe it shared the beautiful monotonous strength of the glissando slide between short appoggiatura notes. Was it warm and soothing? Powerful and protective?

  In his twenty-four years, he had never experienced closeness with another. Had his parents’ death scraped the part of him worth loving right out of the marrow of his soul?

  Their death might’ve hollowed him, but the years that followed their plane crash nearly killed him. In a way, that year in his aunt’s custody had.

  Enough. He unfolded the paper and held it over the toilet. He couldn’t unlive his childhood, but maybe if he faced it, if he actually looked at the scars it left behind, he could overcome it.

  What had Charlee said? Celebrate it, not bury it under bullshit? A smile stole over his face. Now that he wasn’t overwhelmed with anxiety over her touching him, he let himself retrace her beauty.

  She’d teased him about touching but had respected his physical space. Every time she’d smiled at him, she’d done so without intention, without wanting anything in return. Christ, she had navigated his freakishness with the patience and experience of an old soul. Perhaps she was the missing element of his soul.

  Heat spread through him at the memory of her penetrating blue eyes. She’d looked at him as if she had the power to see through his clothes, his flesh, and his scars. Crazy how she didn’t flinch at what she saw. Rather, she seemed to reflect it. Beneath her grin and her spunk, she carried a burden, a preoccupation, something that guarded her eyes and kept her focused outwardly.

  His smile fell. And he’d been such a fucking dick to her. That would change, too.

  He tilted the fold of heroin and poured the powder into the stool, his hand shaking. The condoms from his pocket were next. He emptied his half-full pack of cigarettes last.

  As he stared at his self-loathing habits floating in the rust-stained bowl, he felt a purging rush through him, lift him. His shoulders sat a little higher, and his jaw loosened. Was it that easy?

  Receding footsteps outside the stall were followed by more. The bathroom door swooshed opened, closed, and stillness settled through the room. Finally alone. He kicked the toilet lever, flushed the gear, and exited the stall without a twinge of loss.

  On his way to lock the outer door, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Was he ready for the real reason he’d sought out the bathroom? He hadn’t looked at his scars in years. Would an hour’s worth of ink cover the worst of them?

  He turned the lock on the restroom door and backed up to the mirror, angling his body to look over his shoulder. His chest tightened and tremors gripped him. What if the sight triggered an episode?

  If he didn’t take this opportunity, he wouldn’t get another one living out of a van with three other guys and no mirrors. Could he wait to look until they returned to L.A.?

  “Just do it, you fucking pussy.” He yanked his shirt over his head.

  He choked. No, he wasn’t seeing it right. He strained his neck. As the black outline took shape, a throb erupted between his ears and spread a burn behind his eyes. He backed up until his ass bumped the sink.

  Flames traced the bubbles of his existing burns and danced around simulated scars. The edges of damaged skin, real and not real, were torn and charred and curling away from…

  A sob escaped from deep in his chest. Steel.

  The sketch was a rough black outline, but the new scars had a three-dimensional effect to match the old ones and were drawn as if to peel away from the illusion of steel plates and rivets beneath. She’d created the epitome of beauty and strength in pain. And yes, it fucking celebrated the freedom in survival. How incredible that she’d accomplished as much as she had in one hour.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, shocked to find wetness there. It was cruel that art could be so exquisite and heart wrenching at the same time.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the birth of so many possibilities and thinking about the woman who gave that to him. A pounding on the door eventually pulled his gaze away.

  As he tugged on his shirt and strode to the door, he knew he didn’t just want to be healed. He wanted to be healed by his own inner strength. Charlee had drawn the steel beneath the burns. And the next time he looked into her beautiful face, he would prove to her she had not misjudged him.

  6

  The scent of freshly oiled leather, the creak of bolts twisting in wood, and the sour taste of vomit coaxed Charlee awake. Cold metal rings collared her wrists, ankles, and neck, locking her to three horizontal bars. Each support hung from various heights, suspending her face down, staring at her knees, naked.

  Sixty floors up. Down a long corridor. Last door on the left. Roy’s stockroom.

  Shadows clung to the walls on all sides and concealed the contraptions she knew intimately. She was confined in Roy’s favorite restraint.

  The steel bars connected to the ceiling by chains. The shackles locked her head and hands to one bar. Another bar hung near the floor, spreading her legs at the ankles beneath her bent waist, her feet bound to the ends. The third supported her hips, higher than her head, forcing her butt skyward and vulnerable to the movement behind her.

  A heavy palm settle
d on the arch of one spread cheek. Violent shudders bombarded her body, making the chains groan against the wood beam above as she swayed.

  “I missed you, Charlee.” The voice, oily and pungent like octane, produced a rush of saliva over her tongue. She gagged, retching up water, stringy with spit, on the ebony hardwoods.

  His touch vanished.

  Slap.

  A sting rippled over her butt. It was nothing. He was just warming up.

  Anguish gripped her insides. Any semblance of hope she’d held onto shriveled with that first strike. It was only the beginning of the pain she would endure for the next few hours, perhaps for the rest of her life.

  The palm returned to her hip, fevered and sweaty, sliding over her back, her shoulders, and dipped to cup her breast. “You’ve kept yourself beautiful for me, Charlee, my good girl.”

  She narrowed all thoughts on building her armor. She’d created the mental barrier at sixteen, and over the two years that followed, she thickened her skin with it, layer after layer, training her subconscious to unleash it. If she could figure out how to hold it through the worst parts, perhaps nothing would penetrate it. Not his words, nor his eyes. Not even the cut of his cane.

  The stroking continued, down her breastbone, along her ribs, and backtracked to capture each nipple. Goosebumps trailed the path.

  Her shield sparked in her mind’s eye and shaped an ethereal coat over her body. The invading hand was still there, but the notional space beneath it buffered the sensation.

  Oh God, she didn’t want to be there. She trembled to be back in St. Louis with Noah, at his house, in his bed, just like they’d planned. He’d be wrapped around her, protecting her.

  Her stomach bucked. Did he live? Was he angry at her for lying to him? Would she ever feel the tenderness of his touch again?

  Finality coiled around her, constricting and choking. Her life with Noah was over, an unanswered wish. She couldn’t think of him. Not in this place, where no one would be looking for her. Longing for him would destroy her.