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 *.” 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 settled 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.