Page 71 of His Rough Side
"It's a homeless camp," she said.
He shook his head. "Look around and tell me what you see."
She scanned the area in front of her. "A man is sleeping on the ground." She swallowed, dropping her gaze. "There are syringes and paper littered all over."
"Look deeper."
She inhaled, not knowing what she was supposed to see. It was all depressing. The darkness and sour smell reeked of depression and defeat. There was no laughter, no activities that suggested people were happy to be there.
She cleared her throat. "There are a lot of ripped tents and tarps."
"Go on."
"There are several shopping carts outside the tents." She turned her head to the left. "A woman has a baby tied to the front of her." She turned her head to the right and flinched, glad to have Serge's arms around her. A man sat on the ground, rocking back and forth, and wailing. "Is anyone going to help him?" She tried to turn in his arms. "Nobody is paying attention to him. They walk right by him."
Serge held her tighter, forcing her to look. "Nobody will help him. He'll either survive or he won't wake up in the morning. Everyone living here is numb. Numb to the reality they live in. They keep to themselves, mind their own business, and hope no one notices them."
"Is that how it was for you? Did no one pay any attention to a child living on the street?" She pressed against him, needing to be close enough to take the pain he'd experienced away. "Wereyoublind to it all?"
"I was like Gordy. From a young age, I had the job of announcing trespassers. If anyone unfamiliar walked into the camp, I'd notify those in charge. Eventually, I started defending the camp."
"You fought people?" Her forehead hurt from the continual frown. "Wasn't that dangerous?"
"It didn't matter. When I fought, I naturally felt pain, and to someone who grew up never experiencing happiness or sadness, pain was the best feeling imaginable. It was the only thing I could feel while living here. Most people turned to drugs if they weren't already addicted, and I became addicted to fighting. When that wasn't enough, I turned to sex to achieve that high."
She turned in his arms, and he let her face him that time. "Is that why you have all the scars?"
"Most of those are from me. I'd cut to feel...different." He frowned. "When I got old enough to learn I could find the same feeling from hurting others or from sex, I stopped cutting."
"That's why you like it rough," she whispered.
"That's one reason." His voice deepened. "I know I can be an asshole, Bree. I know that to keep you in my life, I must compromise, and that's hard because I have fought between needing the pain to prove that I'm alive and trying to control my desire to hurt myself and others all my life. I wouldn't allow anyone in. I was emotionless to the actions and the people around me. I brought you here because I want you to see why I'm the way I am. It's why I am going to the extreme with you. It's the only way I know to show you how I'm feeling."
She stared into his eyes. It was the most he'd ever told her about his feelings toward her.
No one had taught him how to express himself or how to show someone affection in a more acceptable way. Her heart broke for the loneliness he must always feel and the despondent way he grew up on the street.
Unlike her, he was never allowed to dream because he was too busy surviving. With each day filled with the lowest of lows, he found that the only way to face another day was to pretend none of it existed. Every moment was consumed with thoughts of survival, having a blanket to stay warm, and finding food for himself and his brother.
"What's the other reason?" she asked.
He looked between them and then raised his gaze and looked her in the eyes. "No amount of money, luxuries, or fighting has ever given me the same buzz. The same high. The same satisfaction as I get from being with you. In my head, if I control you, I can't lose you. Getting rough with you is the way I express how fucking much you mean to me because if I can feel that way, then I want you to feel it, too. I've never had anything like you in my life. I don't want to lose you."
"You won't." She stretched to her toes and kissed him. "I love you so much. I'm not going to leave you. Ever."
He dug his hand into her hair and tightened his hold. "Do you think we'll survive?"
"I know we will because you're a survivor."
"We'll love," he said. "Because you're showing me how."
What a perfect way to sum up how she felt about him and what she wanted for their future.
"We'll love," she whispered.
She beamed, perfectly safe in his arms. She wanted to remember this moment for the rest of her life.
He kissed her forehead. "We have one more place to go."
