Page 47 of Beneath the Burn

He closed his eyes, tried to push himself back into the dream. He found her and she saw him, saw into him. He could hear the happy tune of her humming. Her tattoo gun was buzzing against his back. She touched his shoulder with her fingertips, with her sweet lips. She actually touched him, and it was the best sensation he’d ever experienced. He turned his face to capture her mouth.

Gone. She was fucking gone.

Fuck. He punched the pillow.Fucking let her go.

He rolled out of bed and nausea fisted in his gut. He plodded through the room in a hangover daze on uncoordinated, hundred-pound feet. At least there was a bright start. He didn’t have to chase any clingy strangers from his bed.

In the bathroom, he shed his shirt and shorts and turned his back to the mirror. Why did he torment himself everyday by staring at something that would never come to fruition?

He looked over his shoulder and saw the finished illustration the way she might’ve seen it. He saw the blaze, the heat, the passion in the detail. She didn’t cover the scars. She added more, the edges burning and twisting away from the flames. It was the steel etched beneath the melted skin that fortified him. He wanted to be that iron man underneath. She’d seen something in him he hadn’t been able to see himself.

Before Charlee, he couldn’t look at his scars without hurtling back to the weather-worn shed with no light, no food, and no toys or human contact. The sooty insides of the cast-iron cooker and the rumble it made when it fired up still made him ball his fists so hard his nails left indents in his skin. And the woman with the empty eyes who kept him in the shed and forced him in the oven…

The room tilted sideways, and he caught the edge of the counter. His breath pushed through his teeth in a wet hiss. He fumbled through the medicine cabinet. Bottles and soaps tumbled out. Where was his snuff box? He removed the toilet lid. Son of a bitch. His vials were gone. Fucking Laz.

He grabbed his toiletry bag and dug out the nasal spray bottle. He shook it to mix the coke with the water and ethanol he’d drizzled in it. A few sprays in each nostril, and ahh….

His body awoke. The tingles lifted him, and the pull of gravity released. He smiled. The world was his happy place.

He buzzed through his shower, rubbing soap over his defined chest, his hard abs, and…Jesus, look at that massive cock. My God, he was a virile man. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. He needed to get out there and fuck the world. That was what he’d do. New York City was waking and it wanted to spread its legs for Jay Fucking Mayard.

Showered, shaved, and dressed in his tightest leathers, he strode through the bedroom. His heart pounded to do…something.

He swung open the door and tripped, catching himself on the jamb. A bundle of blankets lay at his feet. Chaotic chunks of gelled hair stuck out of one end. Why the hell was Laz sleeping on the floor?

He looked like a cuddly little kitten curled up in a ball. He kicked it.

“Ow. Fuck.”

“Why are you sleeping outside my door?”

“My bed is occupied.” The bastard pulled the blanket over his head.

He kicked him again.

The blanket went flying in a cartwheel of fists hitting air. “Fuck. Quit fucking kicking me.”

“Tell me you did not let those girls stay in your bed.”

“No.” Laz glared at him. “Piss off. The sun’s barely up, and you’re already fucking high.”

“No you won’t tell me, or no they didn’t stay?” His teeth sawed the inside of his cheek.

“No, they didn’t stay.”

The sawing stopped but only for a heartbeat.

“Someone else stayed.” Laz smiled up at him, and he didn’t like the look of it.

“Who?”

The fucker stretched like a lazy cat, his smile turning more Cheshire by the second. “Guess.”

Okay, he was up for the challenge. His dick twitched. Yeah, he was definitely up. “A woman?”

The grinning cat nodded.

“Is she hot?”

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