My fault for not punching Cassie in the face when she came on to me.

I need to drink more.

But Seth has other ideas. He’s dragging me away, walking me back to my apartment, and dammit, I have nothing there to drink, not since the jackasses who live with me drank all my liquor.

And then Amber took me to her place and broke out the brandy, and we toasted Helen together.

Fuck.

Amber. She tastes like candy. I want to kiss her again, wrap myself in her. She’s so intoxicating and yet she feels so good, like home, a feeling I’ve almost forgotten.

I want her. Need her. So much it fucking hurts.

Rubbing the demon inked on my chest, I stumble after Seth who’s determined to bring me home safe.

I let him. I don’t even bother to shake my arm free again. We stagger past closed stores and groups of guys and girls barhopping and having a fun night out, and my brain shuts down to minimum functions.

Heart beating. Eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead. Swallowing down the bile rising in my throat. Breathing.

Because I don’t get how this is happening again—and how it can be worse than anything that has happened so far in my fucked up life.

***

“What the hell were you thinking?” Zane rants at me, walking up and down the tiny space of his booth. Which basically means he takes two steps and turns, takes two steps and turns.

Driving me up the wall. “Z-man…”

“Now listen to me, fucker.” He stops, sucks on the barbell in his tongue. “I thought you were serious about Amber, but I told you how I felt about you toying with her.”

“I’m not toying with her. I am serious. Jesus.”

“Shoving your tongue down Cassie’s throat isn’t showing me you’re serious.”

“I didn’t—”

He backs me up against the counter. “Don’t give me this shit.”

“Back off.”

He doesn’t. He’s glowering at me, a flush going up his neck.

Goddammit. Way too close. He’s crowding me. He’s got a few inches on me, and with the Mohawk he looms over me. I shove him back, my breath short. “Stay the fuck out of my face.”

He stumbles, caught by surprise. “What the hell, man?”

“Stay away from me. Just… stay the fuck away.”

I lean back on the counter, cross my arms across my chest and try to pretend my heart isn’t pounding in my ears and that cold sweat isn’t running down my face.

Damn. I thought I was over that evening when I got my scars. I mean, come on, I wasn’t even a kid. It was only a couple of years ago. I thought it hadn’t affected me, hadn’t scarred anything more than my arm, but in moments like this, or when Gage cornered me in the kitchen, I realize it has. It’s carved deep into my mind.

Zane is still, one hand gripping the back of his neck, watching me like a hawk.

Boom, boom, boom. My heart is hammering, knifing through my chest.

“Sit down, fucker,” Zane finally says, grabs my arm and drags me to his work stool. I let him, mostly because my legs feel weirdly weak. Then he sticks his head out of the booth and roars, “Tyler! Get your butt in here.”

Great. I scowl and brace for round two of whack-a-Jesse.

“What’s up?” Tyler walks inside, and damn, that’s too many men and too much testosterone for a booth. Maybe I can escape outside long enough to draw a real breath.

But Tyler decides to stay in the entrance, blocking it.

Figures.

My breath whistles in my chest. I scratch at the scars on my arm. Need to get out, dammit.

“Man, I told you.” My voice echoes in my ears. “I didn’t kiss Cassie. Don’t know what else to say.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Tyler says. “Admittedly, this one was fucking stupid, but—” He takes a step forward. “You okay, J?”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I whisper, because I need to say it. “I didn’t do it.” My hands are shaking like an old man’s.

He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Have you ever been attacked?”

I flinch, my heart racing away. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Why are you rubbing your arm?” Tyler sits on the counter next to me, crosses his legs at the ankles. “How did you get those scars?”

Zane leans on the counter across from me, giving me an illusion of space. It’s almost working.

I suck in a long breath. “I was attacked… years ago.” The words drag through me like rusty nails. “In a back alley.”

Tyler nods at my arm. “That all the damage?”

I nod, even as memories assault me—Simon’s stench of rank sweat and alcohol, his hands on me, pushing me down, to my knees. Any attempt to draw oxygen into my lungs fails, the images, the sensations pummeling me into pulp.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I barely register Tyler’s voice or his hand closing around my arm, but I stumble after him.

We cross the shop. He opens the door, and we are outside, Zane on my other side. The sun peeks through stray clouds. My head clears as we walk down the street, going God knows where, and my heart slows.

The tiny Edward Klief Park is just around the corner, and Tyler leads us to a bench under a tree. The shade is cool, and I sink down on the wooden seat with relief.

“Better, fucker?” Zane asks after a while, and I force my zoned-out brain to return to the now. “Thought you were gonna pass out in there for a moment.”

“Shit, don’t know what happened.”

Tyler is sitting with his hands hanging between his legs. He sends me a sideways look. “Sounds like you had a bad experience and certain situations remind you of it.” He makes it sound like a question.

I nod.

“It’s okay to freak out, you know,” he says. “I get that sometimes, too.”

That’s news to me. Tyler looks… solid. Totally solid. One hundred percent powerhouse. “You freak out? About things that happened to you?”

“We all do,” Zane says, and okay, my jaw is hanging slack. “See, fucker, you’ve avoided this for too long.”

“Avoided what?” I glance from him to Tyler and back. What is he talking about?

“The talk I had with the others, getting to know them. Fact is, I don’t know you half as well as I know the others. This has to change.”

Oh fuck. “Not a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

The urge to get up and run returns. “You know enough.”

More than enough. I have no idea why he took me in, frankly, a smelly street bum with no future.

“I know a few things,” Zane admits. “I talked to Jason.”

“You did? Fuck.” I bury my face in my hands, then scrub them down. “Christ, Zane.”

Fucking hell.

But he continues as if nothing’s up. “It’s the rest I need to know. Things like this attack. Like where you lived before. Where you came from. All that shit.”

I don’t wanna talk about it. Especially not now, when every breath I take reminds me of Amber and how much I miss her, how much her anger and pain cuts into me.

But this is Zane, this is the brotherhood I owe everything to, and if Zane asks, then I’ll talk. And I do. I tell him about the attack, about Simon’s gang, about my time on the street, before and after Madison. About the boy camps, the group homes and foster families I ran away from.

By the time I’m done, my bones ache as if I’ve just gone through it all again—the beatings, the fights, the running and hiding, the violence and fear. I feel sick to my stomach.

God, I wish I could see Amber, wrap myself around her until I feel warm again. She makes the bad go away.

“That’s enough, buddy.” Tyler pats me on the back, and before I let my mouth run away with it—as if often does when I’m stressed—and ask if I get a treat for performing well, he gets up. “Need to return to the shop. See you later.”

Oh, right. Gut me, strew my insides on the ground, stomp on them, and then go back to work.

Nothing new here.

“Have fun,” I snarl and make myself move, start to stand up.

Zane’s hand snags on my wrist and keep me down. Dammit. “Not yet.”