Page 36 of Veiled in Brick

He shook his head, murmuring, “Horror freak.”

“You’re damn right,” I retorted, grabbing my cider from the side table to my left and taking a quick swig before returning it.

Liam laughed. It was a deep, gravelly sound that lingered in my ears like none other, and it made me smile in return. He shifted his body, settling deeper into the couch and resting his head back behind him. I found myself doing the same, his movement somehow making me restless myself, and my cheek brushed against his shoulder.

The act was unintentional, and as I moved to tell him as such, I felt his touch on my forehead. His nose traced back and forth softly. The gesture was remarkably intimate, and because it was one that oddly warmed me through, I leaned into it. His gentle exhale wisped out of his nostrils and across my face, and I shivered.

My eyes fluttered closed as I relished in the sensation, and the gentle cupping of his hand warmed the injured side of my face. I looked up at him then, my nose grazing along the stubble of his chin until our gazes locked on each other’s.

I began to whisper, “Lia—”

His lips touched mine gently, and I gasped. The noise that had come forth from me was one that could only be construed as shock, and Liam pulled away from me before the feel of his kiss was able to settle on my mind.

He sat bolt upright as if he were woken from a deep sleep and uttered, “Fuck.”

I brought a hand to my mouth, touching my lips as if I were questioning if the encounter I had just experienced were real.

“Liam, what—”

“I’m sorry.” It came out hoarse. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Liam brought both of his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes so hard that I wondered if he were seeing stars. “I’m—Jesus—I’m drunk. For—forget that I…fuck.” His wide eyes darted around the room, and once they finally landed on me, I spoke quietly:

“You’re sorry?”

He shook his head. “I should get some sleep.”

“Liam—”

Liam stood abruptly, walking around the couch and toward his room. “I’ll, um, come to check on you tomorrow, Zo’.” He called over his shoulder. “Ah—ice your face again before you go to bed—g’night.”

His bedroom door shut without a further word, and I stared at it.

A pit of nervousness bloomed inside of me, my breath turned ragged, and I whispered to myself, “What the fuck?”

The cause of my profanity was a loaded one, and I pondered it silently as I made my way back across the hall to my apartment.

I knew that the sparks were there between us. They always were—we would have to have been fucking blind to not see that there was some sort of a flame between us that we regularly tried to ignore. I had considered in the past what would happen if we were to let our flame burn. It concerned me—no, terrified me—that it would become an inferno and reduce our entire relationship to ash. Now, however, with the match briefly lit and subsequently blown out in the blink of an eye, the sulfur-scented smoke of the memory burrowed in my brain.

And I craved incineration.

Chapter 7

There’s an ice pick buried in my skull.

I grumbled to myself as I fumbled for my glasses on the bedside table, putting them on and watching my world come to focus. I laid there for several moments, praying that the feeling would dissipate, and the memory of Liam’s breath hot on mine flashed through my mind. I inhaled sharply at the reminder. My head throbbed, and I moaned loudly.

Fuck, it’s still there.

I all but stumbled my way through the apartment to reach the bathroom that Claire and I shared. Conveniently for my aching head, Claire had spent the night at Luke’s and all the lights in the apartment were gloriously off. I braced myself as I flipped the switch on the outer edge of the bathroom wall, wincing as the lights seared my eyes.

Jesus, I think I need surgery.

I looked in the mirror, half-expecting to see evidence of the assault that had taken place on my cheek, and found nothing but tired eyes and scraggly blonde hair that damn near stood up straight. I sighed, not-so-silently cursing myself as I went about my morning routine. The usual regime was interrupted with unwelcome thoughts that were so vivid, I could barely distinguish them from reality.

I splashed water on my face. The calloused pad of Liam’s thumb brushed the back of my neck. I ran my hands over my head, running damp fingers through the short strands. His nose traced along my forehead. I popped two ibuprofen in my mouth. My head was rolling into his touch as he cradled my face. I drank water straight from the tap. His lips were on mine, and as I swallowed, he pulled away.

Soon enough, I sat at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee that I was unable to drink. I simply let it warm my hands to the point that the ceramic nearly burned my palms, and I allowed it to do so because I wanted the punishment.

I think someone, at some point in time, said that the word insanity meant performing the same action over again and expecting a different result. If that’s truly the case, then I must have lost my mind. I relived the moment that I shared with Liam time and time again, anticipating that I would become accustomed to the memory—assuming that I could think back to the tender closeness that we had shared for a split second and feel nothing.

---