Falling into You [COMPLETED]✓

Cuts; Pain for Pain

I’m perched on a barstool in a midtown hole-in-the-wall bar, strumming my guitar and playing an original song. No one is listening, but I don’t care. It’s enough to play for the love of the music, for the chance to feel the notes fly out and bounce off minds and hearts. I take that back—there is one person listening: the bartender, a girl I knew for a long time and finally hooked up with a couple times a few months ago. We weren’t really compatible, and it turned into an odd sort of friendship, wherein she gets me to play on Thursday nights in return for a hundred bucks and free drinks and some harmless flirtation that never goes further. Kelly, her name is. Beautiful girl, good in bed, funny, and slings a damn good Jack and Coke. But we just didn’t click in the bedroom. We never really figured out what it was, other than just…not quite right. But we enjoy each other’s company and have some good, much-needed laughs. So she’s listening, and I’m playing for her. It’s a song about her, actually, about a girl with long black hair and bright brown eyes and coffee-colored skin and a sweet smile and a rocking body who will never be more than a friend. It’s an odd song, kind of lonely and sad but touched with humor.  Then she walks in. I strum a wrong note, and Kelly frowns at me from across the bar. Then her eyes follow my gaze, and her eyes widen and she’s smirking knowingly. Nell is surrounded by people, four girls who could all be sisters, quadruplets or something with their identical blonde hair pulled into a ponytail with that stupid bump on top and their yoga pants and Coach purses. Each girl has a boy on her arm, and they’re matching sets as well, muscle-bound juiceheads with idiotic tribal tattoos and dead eyes and cocky swaggers. These guys have their hands on their girls possessively, and the girls seem to enjoy it.  Nell has one, too, and this pisses me off. He’s huge. I mean, I’m a big guy, but he’s massive. And his eyes aren’t dead. They’re quick and alert and full of latent aggression. He’s got the hottest girl in the bar on his arm, and he knows and he wants someone to make a move so he can destroy them. His hand is on her lower back, on her ass, really, curling around her hip as he guides her to the bar. I see green, and then red. Which is stupid.  This is bad. I’m gonna end up in jail. I make it through the song, but barely. Kelly sends over a shot of Jameson with a waitress. I down it, nod at Kelly. She gives me a questioning thumbs-up. Am I good? I nod, lying. I’m not good. I’m really, really bad. I’m gonna start a fight tonight. I’m gonna get hurt, and Nell is gonna be pissed and Kelly is gonna be pissed. I should leave. I owe Nell nothing. I don’t own her. I don’t have a claim on her. Sure, she never said anything about a boyfriend, but then, we didn’t really talk much, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t cross my mind. I start a cover of Matt Nathanson’s “Come On Get Higher” because I can do that song without thinking. I’m watching, waiting. She’ll realize who’s singing any second, and that’s when things’ll get interesting.  He’s pushing her impatiently toward the bar, and she writhes her back away from his touch, twists her torso to snap something at him. I can’t see her lips to read them, but I can imagine. She steps away from him, but he follows and curls his arm around her waist, tugs her against his side and leans down to whisper in her ear. Whatever he says has her stiffening but acquiescing. Staying tucked against his side. I see her face, and she’s unhappy, but in a long-suffering sort of way. This isn’t new.  But it only sends my rage burning hotter.  I finish that song, then decide to up the ante. I clear my throat into the mic and do an intro. I usually just play through without any theatrics, especially when no one is really paying attention, but this is a unique situation. “Hey, everybody. I hope you’re all having a great time. I know I am. I’m Colt, and I’m gonna be playing a mix of covers and original songs.” She swivels toward my voice as if pulled by a wire. Her eyes go wide, and she stops breathing. “That was Matt Nathanson I just sang, by the way. If you don’t know his stuff, you should give him a listen. He’s great. Anyway, I’m gonna do another cover. This is ‘I Won’t Give Up’ by Jason Mraz.” It’s a little high for my voice, but it works. I don’t take my eyes off her, and it’s then, when I’ve got real reason to sing, that the crowd starts paying attention. Maybe something in my voice shifts, but the chattering quiets and heads turn toward me.  I’m not sure she breathes at all. She’s still held tight against Brick-shithouse’s ribs, and she’s growing impatient. She wiggles to get away, and he resists. Eventually she elbows him, hard, and he lets go, frowning. She disappears into the bathroom; when she comes back, she’s wiping her lips with the back of her hand, and I know exactly what she did in there. I never take my eyes from her through several more songs. Eventually I have to take a break, so I thank the crowd and step off the stage. She’s been trying to ignore me, pounding shots of Jack and chasing them with Rolling Rock. Obviously she’s got a fake ID, or she’s older than I thought. Then I hear the group of girls and their guys all converge around her and sing “Happy Birthday dear Nell” hideously off-key. Her ogre boyfriend pulls her against him for a kiss, which she submits to limply, hands at her side, not kissing him back. At length, she pushes him away and turns to the bar. I’m to her side, so I see her wipe her mouth as if disgusted, and suppress a shudder. Ogre doesn’t see, since he’s too busy ogling the waitress, who is in turn leaning over for him so he can see down her shirt as she flirts with him. I’m puzzled by this exchange, especially when he slips his hand—the one that isn’t on Nell’s hip—down to openly grope the waitress’ ass. I’m even more confused when Nell swivels in place and watches the entire thing, hints of amusement and disgust playing on her lips and eyes. Nell turns away, shaking her head, but leaves his hand on her. She meets my eyes, and I lift an eyebrow. Her eyes take on an almost guilty expression for a split second, but then it’s gone. I wave Kelly over and tell her to pour two big shots of Jameson, one for me and one for Nell. When Nell has her shot in hand, I lift mine to my lips and tip it back. Nell matches me. Ogre watches this, and his face darkens. He leans down and whispers in her ear. She shrugs. He latches his hand on her bicep, and I see him squeeze, see Nell wince.  Fuck that. I set my glass down and weave through the crowd toward them. Nell is watching me, shaking her head at me. I ignore her warnings. Ogre straightens as he sees me approaching, and his mouth turns up in a ready smile. He flexes his fist and steps past Nell. “COLT!” Kelly’s voice snaps out from my left, from behind the bar. “I don’t fucking think so. Not in my bar.” I turn to Kelly, who is glaring daggers at me. Kelly knows a bit about me, knows some of the people I used to run with. She knows what I can do, and she doesn’t want any part of it here. I don’t blame her.  She reaches beneath the bar and lifts a collapsible police baton, flicks her wrist to extend its weighted head. She points it at Ogre and company.  “Get out. All of you. Now.” She also lifts her cell phone from her purse and dials a number, then shows the screen to them. “I’ll fuck you all up, and then I’ll call the police and you’ll be arrested, because I have that kind of understanding with them. So get the fuck out.” You don’t fuck with Kelly. She knows the people I used to run with because she used to run with them, too. What she doesn’t say is that the red bandana tying her dreadlocked hair back isn’t just for fashion. It’s colors. The kind of colors that say she can make one phone call, and Ogre and company will vanish. Bloodily. Nell glances at me one last time, then leads the way out, tossing a bill on the bar. Her vapid friends and asshole boyfriend follow her, but the Ogre stops in the doorway to stare holes in my head. I stare back until he turns away and leaves. I get back on the stage and fiddle with the tuning on my guitar.  Kelly comes out from behind the bar and faces me. “What the hell was that, Colt?” I shrug. “Someone I know.” “You were ready to throw down.” “He was hurting her.” “She was letting him.” “Doesn’t make it right.” I fish my capo out of the case and fit it on the strings. Kelly eyes me warily. “No, it doesn’t. But if she lets him, it’s her business. I don’t need trouble in my bar. You don’t need trouble, period.” Kelly’s hand touches my arm, a rare moment of contact between us; part of our post-coital friendship contract is no touching. “Colt…you’re doing really good. Don’t fuck it up. Okay?” “How would I do that?” Kelly gives me a what are you, stupid? look, hand on her popped-out hip. “I’ve never seen you look that pissed, Colt. You don’t get pissed. Which means she means something.” “It’s complicated.” I scrape the pick along one of the strings, not looking at Kelly.  “It’s always complicated. My point is…you’ve got a good thing going. You’ve left all that behind,” she waves at the bar, at the street beyond, meaning our shared past of violence, “and you don’t need to make trouble for yourself over a girl.” “She’s not just a girl.” Well, shit. I did not mean to say that. Kelly narrows her eyes at me. “I ain’t said that.” Her street accent is coming back, which I know how hard she works to disguise. “I’m jus’ sayin’—I’m just saying. Don’t mess it up. Do what you gotta do, but…you know what, whatever. Do whatever you want.” I sigh and finally look up at her. “I hear what you’re saying, Special K.” I grin at her old nickname. Kelly does the neck-roll I don’t think so thing. “You did not just call me that.” “I sure did, sister.” I flash the panty-dropping grin at her, which always works. Kelly pretends to swoon, then socks me in the arm, hard. Hard enough to make my arm sting. “Shut up and play a song, asshole.” She swaggers away, and I don’t mind watching. We may not hook up anymore, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the view.  Immediately after that thought, I feel an odd twinge of guilt. I see Nell’s face in my mind, as if I owe her fidelity. Which I don’t. But I can’t shake the thought. So I play the music, and try to forget Nell and her Ogre and Kelly and trouble and memories of old fights. * * * I walk the streets a lot. I always have. When I was an angry, homeless seventeen-year-old lost on the mean streets of Harlem, it was all I had to do. I didn’t know shit about living on the streets, so I walked. I walked to stay out of trouble, to stay awake, to stay warm. Then, when I met T-Shawn and Split and the boys, the streets became our livelihood, our life, our turf. So I walked the streets doing business. Now I walk the streets because it’s familiar, and comforting. When I have to think through shit, I walk. I slip my guitar into the soft case and tie on my Timberlands and walk. I might start at my apartment above the shop in Queens and end up in Harlem or Astoria or Manhattan. I walk for hours, no iPod, no destination, just mile after mile of crowded sidewalks and cracked blacktop and towering skyscrapers and apartment blocks and back alleys where old friends still sling and smoke and fight. Old friends, old enemies, people I don’t associate with anymore. But they leave me alone, friend or enemy, and let me walk.  It’s 2 a.m., I’m sober, mostly, and I’ve got nowhere to be, and I’m walking. I’m not ready for the cold, quiet apartment, not ready to finish the big-block. I’m trying to convince myself that I should forget Nell. It’s what I’ve been doing for the last two years, only now it’s even harder because I have fresh images of her, the scent of her shampoo in my nose, the memory of the tingle of the silk of her bra against my T-shirt. Fresh knowledge of her seductive beauty, the harsh chasm of pain in her heart.  So I’m not entirely surprised when 3 a.m. sees me approaching her building in Tribeca. The door to the building isn’t locked, oddly. For reasons I don’t care to examine, I’m pushing through and up the stairwell. I hear her voice first. “Dan, I’m going inside. Alone. I’m tired.” His voice is low, but audible. “Come on, babe. Watch a movie with me.” She sighs in exasperation. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know what you want. And the answer is no. That hasn’t changed.” “Yet I keep hoping.” His voice was amused but irritated. “Then why are we even dating?” “You tell me. I’ve never encouraged you. I never said we were dating. We’re not. You just won’t go away. I’m not going to sleep with you, Dan. Not tonight, not tomorrow night.” “What can I do to convince you?” “Be someone else?” Her voice is sharp and biting. I’m on the landing of the first flight of stairs, hand on the railing, head tilted up, as if I could see them through the stairs. He snorts in laughter at the barb. “You’re such a fucking tease, Nell.” The amusement is gone. “I am not.” “You are, too. You’ll kiss me, you’ll let me grope you, you’ll go out with me and all that other shit, but then we get here, and you close down.” His voice is rising, getting angry. “I’ve put up with this shit for three months. I’m tired of it.” “Then stop putting up with it. Leave me alone. I have never promised you anything. You’re a nice enough guy. You can be funny when you’re not being a douchebag. But this isn’t going anywhere, and it never was.” The silence is palpable. He’s pissed; even I can feel it from a flight of stairs away. I hear a key in a lock, a doorknob twist. “Goodbye, Dan.” Then a hiss from her, contained pain.  “I don’t think so, babe. I haven’t put three months of work into you, buying your drinks and your lunches and your coffee, just to get dumped now with nothing to show for it.” “Sorry, Dan. I never asked you to do that stuff. In fact, I told you not to, and you insisted.” “It’s called being a gentleman.” “No, it’s called expecting me to put out in exchange for free drinks. Now let go.” I hear a foot thump against wood and door hinges creak open, shuffled, stumbling steps. “Like I said, Nell. I don’t think so. I feel like watching a movie. I’ll even let you pick.” “Say what you mean, Dan.” Her voice is hard, but I can hear the fear. “Is that how you want it? Fine, then, babe. We’re gonna go inside, and we’re gonna have a good time together. You’re gonna show me how sweet your body is, and how nice you can be.” “No. Get out.” A scuffle. A smack of hand on flesh.  Dan’s laughter, amused and cruel. “Smacking me isn’t going to help, bitch.”  A whimper of pain and fear, and then I’m seeing red, creeping up the stairs. Old habits die hard; I’ve got brass knuckles on my fist, which I never really needed, but they came in handy and I always carry them because you never know what could happen on the streets of New York, even to me. I’m at her door, closed now. I hear struggles, muffled.  “Quit fighting me, and I’ll be gentle.” Motherfucker is gonna die. The knob twists silently in my hand, and the hinges creak, but the sound is lost beneath Nell’s whimpers and Dan’s laughter as he holds her in place and fumbles roughly with her skirt and panties. She sees me, and her eyes widen. Dan sees her reaction, turns and straightens in time to meet my fist. He’s a tough sonofabitch, I’ll give him that. Not many men can stand up after I’ve hit them, especially with brass knuckles adding force. His face is a mask of blood, and bone shows white on his forehead. His mouth spreads in a rictus of primal glee. “Colton! NO! He’ll kill you!” Nell is panicked, shrieking.  He wipes his eyes with his arm and takes a step toward me, assumes a fighting stance. “You don’t watch UFC, do you?” He smiles at me, and I know I’ve bitten off a pretty big chunk in tangling with him. I do recognize him, now. Dan Sikorsky, heavyweight UFC contender. Brutal bastard. Rumors are he killed a guy in a back alley bare-knuckle boxing match.  I grin back at him. I was scouted by the UFC, too. I turned them down. I don’t fight for money anymore. The brass knuckles go back in my pocket.  I glance at Nell. “I’ll be fine. But what the fuck are you doing with a guy like him?” She seems puzzled. As if she can’t quite believe my nonchalant tone in the face of a bruiser like Dan. I flash her a cocky grin that I don’t quite feel. He rushes me, and Nell screams. It’s a slow, clumsy rush, though. He telegraphs his punch with his eyes and his whole demeanor. He’s used to crushing with the first blow, and that’s that. I am, too, so I know the feeling when it doesn’t work. Took a few ass-beatings before I learned to counter it.  Duck…whiff. I’m not fighting fair. This isn’t UFC. I plant my knee in his diaphragm, clutch his head in my palms, and pull his face down to my rising knee. Shove him back. Kick him in the balls, twice, hard. Crush his kidney with a pair of jackhammer punches, mash his already broken nose with my forehead. He gets his fist in my shirt, and I know I’m in for pain. He’s a berserker. I block the first few blows, but then they’re coming in too fast, and goddamn the guy can hit hard. Nell is still screaming. Ogre-boy is a bloody mess, and now so am I. But he’s working on rage and berserker fury, which will fade soon. I’m in the cold fury phase. I’m in pain, but I’ve taken worse beatings and still won the fight. By which I mean, walked away on my own power.  He won’t be. I finally get his fist out of my shirt by virtue of ripping the shirt off.  I spare a glance at her. “Nell. Shut up.” She goes silent immediately, sucks in a breath as if realizing where she is, what’s happening. Then she spins on her heel, digs in a kitchen drawer, and slinks up behind Dan with a giant knife in her hand. She presses the blade to Dan’s throat. “Enough.” She doesn’t need to yell. The knife speaks loud enough.  Dan goes still. “You don’t want to do that, Nell.” His eyes are deadly. Her dress is ripped open down the front, her panties torn partially off. Her lip is bleeding, and she has bruises on her arms and throat. I don’t want her to kill him. That’s a lot of trouble neither of us need. “Strangely, I agree with the Ogre here,” I say. “Let me finish this.” Nell snickers at the name. “Ogre. Fitting.” She meets my eyes, then relaxes the knife. Which was a mistake. The instant the blade moves away, Dan bats her hand to the side, spins in place, and punches her, knocking her flying.  “Bitch,” he growls, and turns to me.  Of course, I didn’t spend those moments idle, either. Brass knuckles go back on, and I’m not holding back anymore. The second I saw those bruises on her, I was gone. I’m a street thug again, an enforcer. Except this is different; he hurt Nell.  He doesn’t stand a chance. Within moments, he’s a bloody, broken mess on Nell’s floor. I’ve got some tender ribs, a broken nose, split lips and cuts on my cheekbones, a loosened tooth. Blood is everywhere. I pull my phone out, dial a number, wipe my face clean with a paper towel. “Hey, Split, it’s Colt. I have a problem.” I explain the problem and spit out the address. “Yeah, in Tribeca. Shut up, motherfucker. Just come get the bastard and make sure he doesn’t bother her again. Thanks.” Nell is standing up, dabbing at her mouth, wobbling. I dart across to catch her as she stumbles.  I pick her up, set her on the counter like a child, wrap some ice in a paper towel and press it to her face where he hit her. Fortunately, he wasn’t stupid enough to hit her full-force, just a little tap to shut her up. She’ll have a bruise, but that’s it. She’s woozy, bleary-eyed, but she clears up soon.  Dan moans behind me, reminding her of the problem. She straightens in fear at the sound of his voice, peers over my shoulder at the chunk of bloody beef that is Dan Sikorsky. She looks slowly from him to me. “What did you do?” I duck my head, embarrassed. “I sort of lost my temper.” “Will he die?” She says it calmly. I shrug. “Not in your living room.” She narrows her lovely eyes at me. “What’s that mean?” A quiet rap on the door has her shrinking against me. “Who’s that?” I pull the tattered remains of her dress closed. “A friend of mine. Go get in the shower, huh?” “A friend?” She slides off the counter and moves to open the door.  I stop her. “I’ll take care of it, okay?” She narrows her eyes again, vanishes into her room, and closes the door behind her. I let Split in. He’s not a big guy, but he’s scary. Medium height, lean and toned, skin black as night, vibrantly white teeth and eyes so light brown they’re almost khaki. Eyes you can’t look at too long or you’ll piss yourself. Eyes that see your secrets and threaten to make your nightmares come true. He radiates intensity and exudes threat. I’m glad he’s my friend, mainly because I’ve seen what happens to his enemies: They vanish. He glances down at Dan. “The fuck happened to him?” Nell comes out in a clean T-shirt and yoga pants. “Colton was helping me.” “Who’re you?” Split says. “Nell Hawthorne. This is my apartment.” She extends her hand to shake Split’s. He looks at her outstretched hand like it’s an insect, then cracks a rare smile as he shakes it. “Split.” He peers at Nell’s face, at the purpling bruise, the finger marks on her throat, the way she clutches her arms around her middle. “He try to rape you?” Nell nods. “His name is Dan Sikorsky,” I say, knowing Split will put two and two together. Split’s eyes widen slightly, the equivalent of a gasp of surprise from anyone else. “I saw him fight Hank Tremaine a few weeks ago down in Harlem. Fucked Hank up good. You did this?” He kneels down, nudges Dan over onto his back, examines his injuries with a professional eye. “You done a number on him, Colt. He needs a doctor, or he ain’t gonna make it.” “He tried to rape her, Split. Then he punched her.” “To be fair,” Nell puts in, “he only punched me after I put a knife to his throat.” Split coughs a laugh. “You what? Girl, you crazy. Don’t put a knife to a guy like Dan Sikorsky and not kill him. Asking for trouble, pullin’ shit like that.” “She’s from the Detroit suburbs, Split. Where I grew up. She’s vanilla.” He nods. “I getcha. Just saying, in case there’s a next time. Don’t threaten what you won’t finish. Not with motherfuckers like Sikorksy. He’ll kill you, even if you are a rich white bitch.” “Excuse me?” Nell straightens in protest. Split glances at me. I laugh. “He just means a white girl. Not from the hood.” “The hood?” She says it like it’s a foreign word. “And you are from the hood, Colton?” Split laughs again. “Colton?” He says the name how she did, clearly enunciating each syllable. “Man, she something else. Where’d you find her?” He looks at Nell. “Yeah, he from the hood. My boy Colt is a OG from way back.” Nell makes a confused face. “OG?” Split just blows a laugh past his lips, a huff of air. “You something else, man.” He pulls out a phone and sends a text, then glances back at Nell. “You holding up all right, white girl?” Nell’s face is impassive. “I’m fine.” Split nods, but I can tell he doesn’t believe her any more than I do. I step closer to Nell, and I don’t miss the fact that she tenses, even though it’s me. “Go take a shower, Nell. It’ll help.” “I don’t need help.” Her voice is hard, stubborn. I laugh, but not unkindly. “You want to deal with him on your own, then?” I gesture at Dan, who is choking on his blood. Split turns him over so he drools it out on the hardwood floor. Nell pales, trembles. “Maybe a shower sounds good.” “Yeah. All this will be gone when you get out.” I see panic flit across her face. “You won’t be gone, will you?” “Do you want me to go?” She shakes her head, a tiny, vulnerable motion that makes my heart bleed a little more for her. “Then I’ll be here. Just…go take a hot shower.” She nods and disappears into the bedroom. I hear the shower turn on, and I try not to picture her in there. That’s not what she needs right now.  Split crouches at Dan’s feet. “Get his shoulders, Colt.”  I bend and lift him, and we carry him down the stairs and out to Split’s waiting car. A couple passes us by, gives us an odd look, but since this is New York, they don’t say anything. We toss him ungently in the back seat and close the door. Split opens the driver’s-side door and slides in, but doesn’t close it.  “She don’t belong in this world, Colt.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it.  “I know.” “Neither do you. You never did.” “I know that, too.” “I like you, white boy. Don’t get sucked back in. You’ll end up dead, and then who’ll fix my ride when it busts?” Split starts the car, and it rumbles to life.  It’s a lime green ’73 Bonneville with the original engine, restored by yours truly. It’s a beauty, and I’ve always been a bit jealous. He bought it off some little old lady out in Rochester for a thousand dollars, and he and I spent a summer restoring it together. Didn’t take much, since the little old lady had barely ever driven it after her husband died.  He brings it to me when he needs a tuneup or something, but really, it’s his way of keeping in touch with me.  “I won’t, Split.” “What you want me to do with Dickhead Dan?” “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. He deserves to choke to death on his own fucking teeth, but I don’t want that on my conscience.” “No shit. You got enough on blood on that bitch.” I laugh. “Thanks for the reminder.” “Just keeping it real.” He closes his door and rolls down the window. “I’ll stop by the shop and let you know if he makes it.” “Don’t. Just make sure he doesn’t come back around here.” Split smiles at me, a flash of white teeth in dark skin. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” He pulls the gearshift down into “D” but pauses still. “The problem is, he’s supposed to fight Alvarez next week, and I had a grand on Alvarez.” I laugh. “Alvarez didn’t stand a chance, so I just saved you a grand. He was a dick, but he was a tough motherfucker.”  “You missed your calling, Colt. You’d’ve cleaned up in the UFC.” I shake my head. “I’m well shut of all that shit.” “I know it, I know it. Just saying.” He holds his fist out, and I bump it with mine. “Call me, dog. We’re past due for some cold ones.” “For sure. Maybe Thursday.” “I could do Thursday. Got some shit early, but that’s it.” I nod, and he drives off. I open Nell’s door and go in, singing a song so she’d know it was me. The shower is still running, telling me she was probably scrubbing the shit out of her skin. Trying to get the feeling off. She’ll be in there till the water runs cold. I’ve seen too many friends go through this, friends I couldn’t be there to save.  I take a new roll of paper towel from under the sink and her bottle of Windex. Fortunately, she has wood floors. It’s easier to get blood off wood than carpet. I sop up the blood, spray and scrub the wood, then find an old bottle of Pledge that she must use on her kitchen table. I spray the floor and scrub some more. Then I wipe the walls and everywhere else.  Eventually, the water turns off, and the mess is gone. Nell comes out with wet, stringy hair, clad in only a long Disney T-shirt that barely comes to mid-thigh. I clench my jaw and think of dead puppies and nuns and that time I walked in on my grandma in the shower as a kid. It only helps marginally. She looks more vulnerable than ever, and I’m across the room and wrapping my arms around her before I know what I’m doing. She doesn’t tense this time. She breathes deeply, long, steady, even breaths. “It’s okay to cry,” I say.  She shakes her head. “No. It’s not.” “You were just assaulted. You’re allowed.” “I know. But I won’t. I can’t.” She pushes away from me and goes into the kitchen. I take the bottle of Jack from her hand before she can drink from it. “I’m not sure that’s the best way.” She jerks it away and lifts it, but I take it again. “It won’t go away forever. It just comes back.” “I know.” She reaches for it, and I hold it out of reach, snag a couple juice glasses from her cabinet and pour generous shots. “I need more than that.” “No, you don’t.” She turns on me, eyes all gray now, like storm clouds, angry. “Don’t tell me what I need! You don’t know me.” “But I know about drowning pain with whiskey. It stops working after a while. And then there’s not enough whiskey in the world.” “You weren’t just raped.” “Almost raped. I stopped him. I’m sorry I wasn’t sooner, but there’s a huge difference between raped and almost raped.” Her eyes blaze, and I hold up my hands. “Not saying this is fine. It’s not fine. You’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling. I’m just saying, chugging whiskey won’t erase what happened.” “What the fuck do you know?” She slams the shot and presses the glass to her forehead, then holds out the glass for more. That’s when I see the scars. A crosshatch pattern of fine white lines and ridges on her wrists and forearms. Not disguised, not hidden. Some old, some not so old. And some fresh. Still-scabbing fresh. She sees me see, lifts her chin and dares me to ask. I don’t ask. I’m still not wearing a shirt, so I point to my chest, to my pectorals and breastbone and stomach, to a similar field of scars like wind-tangled wheat stalks. I’ve tattooed over some, utilized others in tattoos, and left others bare and visible. She reaches out with her forefinger, traces them, one scar after another. Some short, like tally marks. Some are tally marks: days survived in the pit, matches won. She traces the scars, the long ones done for the sake of the pain, for the release. Yeah. I know why she cuts. I just don’t know the seed-reason. It’s deep inside her, and it’ll take time and patience to get it out of her. And I’ll probably end up telling her my reasons, too. Which I really don’t want to do. She looks up at me, and her eyes are soft, full of understanding. “You cut?” “Used to.” “Why?” I shake my head. “That’s a story for another night, and it comes with a price.” She tenses. “A price?” “Your story.” She blows out a sigh of relief. “You know the story.” “Not all of it. Not the deep stuff, the shit that comes from beneath, in the shadows in your heart.” “No one knows that.” Her voice is barely even a whisper, and goddamn it if it’s not seductive and sultry and vulnerable all at once.  “Yeah, well, no one knows about this, either.” I tap my chest with my thumb. “A price. A trade.” She’s motionless, an inch away from me, each breath causing her breasts to brush my chest, the scars, the ink. I nod. “But not now. Now, you take one more shot with me, and you watch stupid, mindless TV. And then you fall asleep and you stay home tomorrow.” “I can’t. I have class. I have work.” “Call off. Say you’re sick.” “I—” I cut her off. “Call in, Nell.” “You can’t stay here all night with me.” “Why not?” She stares at her toes, chipped pink polish. “You just can’t.” “I’ll be on the couch. You’ll be in your room with the door closed.” “No.” Another whisper. “Why not?” “It’s…part of the trade.” A secret, she means. “Then I’ll sleep on the floor outside your apartment. You’re not going to be alone tonight.” “I’m fine, Colton.” “Bullshit. You’re not fine.” She shrugs. “No. But I’m fine.” I laugh at that. “Look at me.” She shakes her head no, chews her lip, and I want to take that lip in my mouth and suck it until the teeth marks are soothed away. I want to chew her lip for her. I want to taste her tongue. I want to run my hands under the silly, girly, childish, double-XL Lilo and Stitch shirt and feel her skin and her curves and her sweet softness. I do none of this. I just stare at her, then touch her chin with my index finger, lift her head to meet my eyes. She closes her eyes, and I can see the moisture. She’s deep-breathing again, and I notice her hands are clutched around the opposing wrists, nails digging in deep, hard, scratching. Pain to replace pain. I use as much gentle force as I possess to pry her fingers out of her skin, turn them so they’re gripping my forearms. I pull her against me, our arms barred vertically between us, and her fingernails dig into my arms. She lets go after a moment and just holds my forearms in her hands. “It’s not the same. Causing you pain doesn’t help mine.” She whispers the words against my shoulder, the right one, the one with the Japanese dragon breathing fire on kanji. “It wasn’t supposed to. It was just supposed to stop you from hurting yourself.” “It helps—” “No it doesn’t. It just pushes it away temporarily. Just like the booze.” “But I need—” “You need to let yourself feel. Feel it, own it. Then move on.” “You make it sound so easy.” Bitterness drips from each syllable. “It’s not. It’s the fucking hardest thing a person can do.” I smooth a damp strand out of her face and away from my mouth. “It’s the hardest fucking thing. It’s why we drink and do drugs and fight. It’s why I play music and build engines.” She pulls away from me. “You build engines?” I laugh. “Yeah. Music is a hobby. A passion. I rebuild engines and restore classic cars. That’s what pays the bills. Don’t get me wrong, I’m passionate about cars, too, but it’s different.” “Do you work for someone?” “No, I own my own shop in Queens.” “Really?” She sounds surprised, which I actually find a little insulting, but I don’t say anything. “Really.” “Can I see your shop?” Her voice is bright and hopeful.  “Now?” “Yes, now. I can’t be here. I keep seeing Dan. I keep…I keep feeling his hands on me, keep seeing him on the floor right there, bleeding.” She points to where he was lying. She’s quiet for a long moment, and I know what’s coming next. “Is he…is he dead?” “No. Don’t worry about him anymore. He got what he deserved.” “You hurt him really bad.” “I should have killed him. I could have. If he’d…” I shake my head. “It’s done. Forget it.” “I should have seen it coming.” The words don’t surprise me, but they piss me off. I pull away and glare down at her. “Don’t you fucking dare, Nell Hawthorne. Don’t you dare put this on yourself. You should never have to see shit like this coming.” She backs away, stunned and afraid by the intensity I know is radiating off me. “Colton, I just meant he’s always shown—” “Stop. Just stop right there. Granted, you should’ve never gotten involved with a douchetard like him, but that’s no excuse for what he did.” I pull her back against me. She resists. “Are you afraid of me now?” I ask, to change the subject. “A little. You were…scary. You just…you destroyed him. Even after he hit you. And I’ve seen him fight.” I glance down at her in shock. “You mean on TV?” She shakes her head. “No, the other fights. The underground ones. The ones that your friend was talking about. In Harlem.” “You went to those fights?” I’m shocked. Stunned. Horrified. Those are brutal, vile, vicious fights. Angry, soulless men destroying each other. I should know. “Yeah. I didn’t like it very much.” “I’d hope not. They’re evil.” I try to keep my voice neutral.  Unsuccessfully, by the click of understanding I see cross her face. “You’ve fought in them.” “Used to.” “Why?” Her voice is tiny. I shake my head. “That’s part of the trade, babe.” She shudders. “Don’t call me babe.” Her voice is quiet but intense. “Sorry.” “It’s fine. It’s just what Dan—” “I know. I heard.” I pull back so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “Answer the question, though. Are you afraid of me?” “I did answer. I said a little. I’m afraid of what you can do. I mean, I feel safe with you, though. I know you’d never hurt me.” I take her face in my hands. It’s too familiar, too affectionate, too soon. I can’t help it, though. “Just the opposite. I will protect you. From others and from yourself. Always.” “Why?” Barely audible. “Because I want to. Because…” I struggle to find the right words. “Because you deserve it, and you need it.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do.” She shakes her head. “No. I don’t deserve it.” I sigh, knowing I won’t win by arguing. “Shut up, Nell.” She laughs, a tinkling giggle that makes me smile into her hair. “So. Are you gonna show me your shop?” “It’s four in the morning. We’re in Tribeca, and my shop is in Queens. The far side of Queens. Plus, I don’t have a car here. I walked here from the bar.” “You walked here? You’re crazy! That’s, like, twenty blocks.” I shrug. “I like to walk.” “So we’ll take a cab.” “You really want to see my shop that bad?” “Yeah. And I really don’t want to be here.” She shudders again, remembering. “Well, then, you’ll need pants.”  She does the giggle again, which I decide to call the Tinkerbell giggle. “Nah. Pants are for sissies.” She pulls away and disappears into her room. “No peeking this time, Pervy McGee.” “Then close your door, dumbass.” The door slams in response, and I laugh. I’m glad she can laugh. It means she really is coping. I know she’s internalizing a lot, though. Putting on a show for me. She’ll have new scars on her wrists soon. She comes out in a pair of jeans and purple V-neck T-shirt. I have to keep my gaze moving so I don’t stare. She doesn’t need my desire right now. Maybe not ever. She grabs her purse from the counter where I’d set it after cleaning up.  I extend my hand to her. “Come on, Tinkerbell.” She takes my hand, then pauses at the nickname. “Tinkerbell?” “Your laugh. That little giggle you do. It reminds me of Tinkerbell.” I shrug.  She does the giggle by accident, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Damn it. Now you have me self-conscious. You can call me Tinkerbell, though.” “Don’t be self-conscious. I think it’s cute.” She wrinkles her nose at me as she locks her door behind us. “Cute? Is that a good thing?” I lift an eyebrow at her. “There’s a lot of words I could think of for you. Let’s just go with cute for now.” “What’s that mean?” She’s holding my hand platonic-style, palm in palm. I flag a passing cab with a lit sign, and we slide in. I give him my address and watch him put it into a Tom Tom. When we’re moving and the wavery tones of the driver’s Arabic music float over us, I turn to Nell. “Sure you want to ask that?” She lifts her chin. “Yes.” “You’re a lot of things, Nell Hawthorne. You’re complex. You’re cute. You’re lovely. You’re funny. You’re strong. You’re beautiful.” She seems to be struggling with words and emotions. I keep going. “You’re tortured. You’re hurting. You’re amazing. You’re talented. You’re sexy as fuck.” “Sexy as fuck?” She tilts her head, a small grin tipping her lips. “Yep.” “Is that more or less than sexy as hell?” “More. A lot more.” She just nods. “You’re sweet. But we must not see the same person when we look at me.” “That’s probably true.” I look down at our joined hands, then back to her. I shift my fingers, twine mine in hers. “What do you see when you look at yourself?” “Weak. Scared. Drunk. Angry. Ugly. Running.” She turns away from me as she says this, staring out the window. “I see nothing. No one.” I know there aren’t words to change how she feels, so I don’t offer any. I just hold her hand and let the silence extend through the blocks.  She turns to me eventually. “Why don’t you argue with me when I say shit like that? Why don’t you try to convince me of my own worth and all that bullshit?” “Would it work?” I ask. She narrows her eyes, then shakes her head. I shrug. “Well, there you go. That’s why. I can tell you what I see. I can tell you what I know about you. I can tell how I feel. I can show you what you really are. But arguing with you won’t accomplish anything. I think we’ve both had our share of people trying to fix us. It doesn’t work. We can only fix ourselves. Let ourselves heal.” “But I’m not any of what you said. I’m just not. And I can’t heal myself. I can’t…I can’t be fixed.” “You’re committed to being broken forever?” “Goddamn it, Colton. Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.” “I want to.” It’s the answer to both of her statements.