I marveled before that he has so few scars, at least that I can see. No tattoos. He hasn’t accumulated the least bit of hardness. For some reason, that hits me so much harder than it ever has.
I have no idea just what kind of strength it takes to manage something like that. Mentally, emotionally, and physically.
“You said that the club owns some tattoo places. This isn’t the kind of releasing stress that you have in mind, is it?” Am I up for something like that? I don’t have a single one. I’ve read about all the things people can get done besides ink. Crazy piercings, scarring, branding… I guess that burst of pain would indeed get rid of a big chunk of stress.
Maverick’s laugh is rich and hearty. It’s far more potent than the double shot of espresso in my mug. It’s better than any burst of adrenaline because it both relaxes and invigorates me. I love the sound. I could listen to him laugh all day, every day for a very long time.
I’d love to be the reason he laughs.
The joy in his life.
His answer when he needs one.
The bright spot in the dark shit and even just the dusk.
I’d love to live out our letters, to keep writing them to each other even though our lives have changed, and even if we’re not writing at all. I just want to be there, to fill him up, and make space in myself in return.
“It’s not a tattoo.” He holds out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
I don’t know if he’s asking if I trust him to get me out of the house, to get me there, to pick the activity, to get me to the clubhouse, to deal with all the stuff that comes after, and then the after,after.
Maybe this whole thing is insane, but it could be that a little bit of insanity is exactly what I need. Putting my faith in Maverick didn’t feel so insane, even when he showed up at my apartment in the dead of night. It feels even less crazy after we’ve shared half a lifetime together through our letters, but especially in the past few days.
I’m definitely going for quality over quantity here. I’ve lived more in the past few days, learned more, put all of me out there far more than I have in years. I always thought it was the coming back to life that would be painful, like a foot falling asleep and suffering through pins and needles, but it was all the stuff I was doing before and calling it staying alive that was far worse.
I give Maverick the bravest smile I can muster and slip my hand into his. “I’ll do my very best not to scare the shit out of you today.”
He nods tightly and threads his fingers through mine. “Me too,” he responds, voice rough. “Me fucking too, Loreena.”
Chapter 16
Loreena
My panicked breaths are loud in the car, but they’re there. I know that as long as the sawing sounds continue, I’m getting air, and if I’m getting air, then I’m not going to die. It only feels like it. Every bone in my body hurts. Despite the scarf over my eyes and the one wrapped around my wrists, and the pounding metal music that Maverick turned on the second I tore off the noise cancelling headphones, all I can hear are my breaths and my racing, terrible thoughts.
They invade my skull while oxygen saws in and out. My muscles ache from being so tense. My teeth are gritted so tightly that I’m not sure they’ll be much left of them. Every minute is a thousand years long.
“A rage room,” Maverick blurts at the first stop sign we come to.
Hart is such a small city that there are more signs than traffic lights. The problem with the blindfold is that it only hides what’s directly in front of me. Glimpses of the world still peek out from underneath.
“That’s the surprise. It’s where we’re going.”
The truck starts moving again. “It’s just ten more minutes.”
Maybe everything is supposed to hurt. Isn’t that some indication that I’m alive?
I want to answer him, to ask what the fuck a rage room is because it doesn’t sound like anything good, that’s for sure, but my tongue is thick in my mouth. It’s so dry. At the start, when Maverick carried me out of the house, it was wet. I gagged and choked on my own saliva, but as soon as I knew I was inside of his truck, the full blown panic attack faded to what I’m doing now. Trying to hold it together and breathe while my heart races and my muscles feel like they’ve turned to stone. My fingers are tingling, and my face feels numb. I know I’m hyperventilating, and I know the science behind it. I know that I should regulate my breathing, but I can’t help but breathe faster.
“Should I turn the music off?”
I shake my head.
“Should I turn it up?”
I shake it again. I don’t think I could speak even if my life depended on it.
“Should I take your blindfold off?”
