Dakota stares at the bed for a long moment, then pulls me out and into her bedroom. Pushes me onto the bed, then crawls next to me. I’m shivering now, and she pulls the covers over us, then curls by my side.
I lift my arm, so she can press her body to mine and rest her head on my shoulder. Fuck, I’m exhausted, but I feel calmer with her there. I feel warmer.
“Why aren’t you scared of me?” I mutter, my eyes closing. I don’t get it. Erin almost never saw me like this. I bet she’d have run away if she had.
“Why should I be? You never hurt me, not even when you flash back to bad things in your past. I think, deep inside, you know you can trust me.”
Do I? Maybe I do. “This happens a lot,” I warn her.
“You barfing in the toilet?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yeah.”
“Flashbacks?”
“Too.”
“Okay then,” she says, pushes up just enough to kiss my cheek and lies back down. “I can live with that, as long as you let me hold you afterward.”
It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep after that, her words playing over and over in my mind, and when I do, I’m still grinning like an idiot.
Chapter Twelve
Dakota
Zane is standing at the kitchen counter, dressed only in draw-string pants, making coffee. As for myself, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, getting an eyeful of his long, strong legs, his muscled ass, and his bare, inked back.
The sight never gets old.
I savor it, even as the images of last night replay before my eyes, and I shiver. Zane’s strangled shouts from the other bedroom. The sound of the bathroom door slamming open and him retching. The way he crawled away from me, as if he didn’t recognize me. As if he was seeing someone else.
He has to talk to someone about this, I think, as he turns and places two mugs of coffee on the table. What he revealed about his memories is horrifying. He should see a specialist, someone who can help him.
Because I don’t know how. Don’t know if I can. All I can do is hold him and tell him he’ll be okay. I have a feeling he doesn’t believe it, and it’s important he does.
Last night he told me he hasn’t mentioned this to anyone else. About the nightmares, or the memories of how his back was burned. Never had to explain all this to anyone before, because he never had a girlfriend before.
Am I his girlfriend? Is he my boyfriend?
“Sugar, no milk,” he says and pushes one mug toward me.
“How did you know?”
He shrugs. “Good memory. I remember stuff.” He swallows hard, and my heart breaks for him. He shouldn’t have to remember certain things at all. They shouldn’t have happened to him. He deserves to be happy.
“Thanks.” I sip at the hot liquid. It’s strong even with the milk, and I grimace. “What else do you know about me?”
He stands at the counter, mug halfway to his lips, considering my question. “You mean, apart from yellow being your favorite color, your fear of water and falling, your preference for strawberry popsicles and lollypops and the fact that you need to see my face when we’re together?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Apart from that.”
He shakes his head and gulps down some coffee. “Your family lives out of town. You study graphic design. You are good friends with Audrey. You like orange juice and fruit loops.” He hooks his thumb at the fridge. “Have you checked out the popsicles? I hope they’re the ones you like.”
A silly grin is spreading over my face. “You got me popsicles?” I want to check the fridge, but don’t dare move, not when he might open up to me a bit more.
He shrugs. “You said it was a condition for you coming here.”
A condition for staying here, but I don’t correct him, my chest warm because he thought of me. Because he bought me stuff to make me stay. “What else?”
He looks up and gives me a sexy grin. “You love it when I eat your pussy and fuck you with my fingers.”
I choke on my coffee and slam the mug down as I cough.
Zane winks at me. Ten points to the hot guy with the Mohawk. Damn.
I can’t deny it. I do love it. Heat seeps into my cheeks and spreads through my body. “Is all that in the folder you have on me?”
He doesn’t answer, but chuckles instead, a deep, throaty sound that makes my toes curl.
I drink more coffee, trying to gather my thoughts—not easy when he’s around. “You like your coffee black, no sugar. You like the color blue, and your favorite food is seafood spaghetti.” I asked Erin. So sue me. “You care for your friends as if they’re your brothers and sisters. You don’t like water and hate having your back touched during sex.” He shifts uneasily, and his lips press together in a line. “But you like watching me lick popsicles. You like having me half-dressed, without underwear. And you love being inside me.”
The corners of his mouth lift, and his eyes darken. “I do.”
Warmth spreads on my cheeks, and I bow over my mug. “I, um. You never told me why you hate water so much.” He says nothing, and I forge on. “That day, at the park, when the guys dropped you into the lake, and you…”
I lift my head to find him staring at me, his face pale. His eyes are flat and empty. Oh God, why am I asking this now, after the bad night he’s had?
“Go on. They dropped me, and I went batshit,” he grinds out. “That what you meant?”
Damn. I shift on my seat and turn the mug in my hands. Time passes. He’s still standing at the counter, gazing at me.
“I don’t hate water,” he says finally, and I nod, because God, I’ve gone too far, and I know it. But he sits down across from me, holding his mug, and says quietly, “I used to love it.”
Caught by surprise, I search for something to say. “What changed?”
He winces and pushes his mug to the side, so he can fold his arms on the table. “There were some kids in a group home I was staying at. I must have been ten or so. They tried to drown me in a bathtub.”
I open my mouth, then snap it closed. Try again. “Are you serious?”
He looks up and just stares at me, a tired expression on his face.
My chair screeches as I push it back and march around the table. I know better than to hug him from behind, so I lean in his side and put my arms around him. He looks startled and stays still as I hold him.
“You were not joking,” I murmur into his shoulder. “You were serious.”
“I don’t joke about such things,” he says, then reaches and encircles my waist, pulling me into his lap. “Why would I?”
I shake my head and tighten my hold, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel like he came close to dying, came close to giving up many times. Like there is so much pain inside him, and I’ve only just scratched the surface.
I hope he won’t give up. I hope he’ll let me hold him when he feels like he’s falling.
“What about you?” he asks after a while. “I think my folder may be incomplete. What do you hate?”
He wants to change the topic, and I let him without protest.