I don’t know how to admit it, or say it, but I don’t want her to go. I prop my head up on my arm and turn to face her, the blanket falling to our waists. Her sweater has shifted, the scoop neck exposing the curve of her neck and shoulder, enticing me to caress or kiss…

Her gaze moves to my arm, which is bent between us. “Can I touch your tattoos?” she asks.

Hiding under most of my ink is bumpy, scarred flesh that a blind person could probably interpret into some strange language. No woman is going to want to feel that.

“Sure.” I force the word out, confident this will be the first and last time she’ll ever touch me.

Her hand slowly moves along my forearm, her fingers trailing over the art, and she pushes my sleeve up farther so she can see—and touch—my shoulder. When her small hand closes around my bicep, I can’t help but close my eyes and enjoy her touch for more than what it is.

“Your arm is so big and hard.” Of course, she has no idea what she’s saying—sexual innuendo isn’t something she understands—but that doesn’t change my body’s reaction to her soft-porn commentary as she squeezes my arm.

“Mmm…” is all I can manage to mumble.

“What do the designs mean?” Down to my wrist her hand moves, slowly tantalizing me.

“They’re mostly how my fucked-up brain felt at the time…abstract flowers, monsters, and words.”

“It’s all beautiful. Like a book, only better.”

“I was pretty high when I picked most of those designs out. The ink on my back is a better representation of me straight and sober.”

Her hand stills. “You do drugs?”

“Not anymore, but I had a wicked bad habit. That’s how I crashed through a glass wall and almost sliced my own head off.”

“Oh.”

Hello, surprise and horror. I knew you’d show up and take away that sweet voice of hers.

“I’m totally clean now, Holly. I have been for years.”

“Is that what happened to…” She halts herself, afraid to ask.

“To my voice?” I finish for her. “Yeah. A piece of glass severed part of my vocal chords.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I deserved a lot worse.”

“Ty…how can you say that?”

I stare at her across the blanket, our faces just inches apart. Being this close to her lying down in the forest is much different than being this close to her standing up in my workshop or in my kitchen. Resting in the same space, our bodies under the same blanket, spins an entirely new intimacy level between us.

“Because it’s true.”

Her eyes are wet with the start of tears, and the heavy feeling in my chest returns. I don’t want to talk about my past right now or see her upset. All I want is to lie in my favorite spot with her, beneath her magic blanket, and for her to keep touching me and looking at me without pulling away.

“You don’t deserve anything bad.”

“No, I really, actually do. I was a junkie. I stole money from my family to buy drugs. I treated them like shit. The night of my crash I had a fight with my dad.” I clear my throat, which is choking me. “He wanted me to go to rehab. I refused. I left the house in the middle of the night, high and drunk, on my bike.” I swallow hard. “He chased me down the driveway and had a heart attack. That was the night he died. Because of me. My mother found him in the fucking driveway. Then I choked someone to death without a second thought. Once a month I go to private fight rings and let people punch the crap out of me, then I beat them to a pulp and walk out with a pile of cash I don’t even want. I ride around with masks on and stare at people at red lights. I hide in the woods and scare the shit out of hikers. I’m a fucked-up freak.”

And let’s not forget how I used to fuck the crazy fans in the alley after the fights, with my rubber horror mask on, blood from my battered face leaking out from beneath it and running down my neck and chest. And how the fear in their eyes and my blood smeared on their ripped clothes fueled all the fires of hate and dysfunction in my drugged-out mind as a nameless and faceless fetish fuck.

Her body trembles as she listens to my tirade. “You saved my life. You make beautiful jewelry. You help save lost animals. You decorate Christmas trees and created a myth for little kids to love…”

All of that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not when the reflection of my father chasing me in the mirror of my bike is branded into my brain along with hazy memories of being a deviant pig.