“Earth to Patrick, come in please.” Margot was so close that he could see a fallen eyelash on her cheek. “How about filling me in on what you are into then? What do you enjoy?”
“Hockey.”
“Guess I walked into that.” She gave a short laugh. “But shouldn’t that be a motivating factor if you want to start as goalie next week, or any week after that? If you want to play, it seems that you need to make a good-faith effort to work through your issues.”
“What issues?”
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze swung to the ceiling. “De Nile isn’t just a river in Egypt.”
“So what, taking off my shirt and letting you rub your hands over me will fix everything?” An invisible band tightened around his temples. The first sign of a rising temper.
“I’m saying it’s a start,” she said, not backing down.
Goddamn it. If he wanted a pig’s chance in frozen hell to do the one thing in life he loved, he was going to have to let this maddening woman have her way. “Fine.” He reached back and fisted the grey cotton of his T-shirt, yanking it over his head with one fluid gesture. He balled the fabric up and tossed it over her pretty floral pillow. The grey cotton served as a sullen rain cloud against an otherwise bright and serene palette. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” she deadpanned.
Sully would like her smart mouth.
“Go on.” He followed her gaze to the Saint Anthony’s medal, resting in the center of his chest. “Do your worst.”
“Does that medal mean something important?”
He shrugged.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Nope.”
“All right, Big Talker, have it your way. You might not know to look at me, but I happen to have magic hands. And I’m about to use them to change your life.”
“Bold promise, Magical Margot.”
She giggled and grabbed a dark glass bottle off the coffee table, pouring a dollop of oil into her hands as he lay stomach-side down on her rug. The air filled with a lavender scent. Before he could form another thought, she swung her leg over his hips and sat on his ass.
“What the hell are you doing now?”
She huffed an annoyed sigh. “What I just spent the better part of five minutes explaining.” She kneaded a tender spot beneath his right shoulder blade. “Quite an impressive knot you’ve got.” She slid her hand down his ribs and paused. “Ouch, that’s a mean-looking scar.” She leaned in for a closer inspection. “Wait. Is that—”
“Nothing.” What the hell? No one had ever looked at him this close.
“Are those cigarette burns?”
He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the faint copper flavor of blood. “Newports.”
“Who did that?” Her voice was hushed.
“A hustler named Marco.” Ma’s pimp and a small-fry felon. Just one of the many men that circled through their home like it was a revolving door. So many men. Some smacked him around. All used his mom—sometimes in plain sight depending on how stoned they were—before leaving a wad of bills on the table.
None ever looked back.
Patch had made a pledge never to be the same, never be a man who used a woman. When he hit puberty, he’d become too uncomfortable to look at the girls his own age, let alone ask one out. They were so pretty, bright and alive. And he’d seen too damn much horror. The idea of touching one felt like pressing dirty fingers against a clean piece of glass.
He’d never gotten a chance to be a kid. And he knew on some psychobabble level that he self-sabotaged relationships. That he pushed away everyone who ever tried to get close.
Ma was dead. The horror over. But still she haunted him.
He was so fucking sick of ghosts.
