When they found me, I was pretty fucking close.
My knuckles were mush, I remember, from taking my agony out on my own self-portrait. What a sad prick.
I stop now and step back, breathe deep just to make sure I’m doing the things humans are meant to, and force myself to get a glass of water.
Seeing Zion flirt with Grace didn’t just prod at my jealous streak, it reminded me that I’m not…
I’m not…
Fuck. My fist’s already tight, aching to destroy something. My chest’s heaving. In search of something, anything, I turn and catch sight of the new sculpture and immediately remember the crunch of bone against hard rock, the split-second delay before the pain kicked in, the soul-deep frustration that no matter how hard I hit, I’d always be more friable than the stone.
My eyes focus down on the messy pile of granite chips littering floor. When my friends showed up, I was in pieces, just like that. A useless jumble of minerals.
Whereas now…
The door flies open.
I turn to see Zion saunter in and a mixed up rush of affection and pain sweeps through me. “Can’t you knock?” I yell over the pounding music. He probably can’t even hear.
He yanks off today’s mask and throws it, missing the table, before collapsing onto the sofa, as if he’s the one who’s been pounding rock all day. As if he’s the one rearranging his own insides.
He’s red and sweaty and I suddenly don’t want to know who he’s been with. That jealousy thing rears up and, rather than face him—or it—I slam my own mask back over my face, grab my hammer, and set back to work.
After a few minutes, he shouts words that are stolen by the music, then finally gets up to shut it off, which leaves the two of us with nothing but the echo of hammer and chisel between us.
“You’re gonna damage your ears, man.”
“Who cares?” I feel petty and bratty as soon as the words are out. Ten-year-old Liev blasting music in my room so I didn’t have to hear my parents arguing, again.
“What’s up your ass? Aren’t you getting laid these days?”
“Just once,” I say, though immediately I want that to change.
“Thought it was twice?” he asks, casually.
“We, um, played three times.” I go to the fridge and pull out a beer, not giving a shit what time it is. At Zion’s nod, I grab him one, too. “Second time, I made her sit on my face.” The sense memory of consuming her overtakes me. I press both cans to my hot skin, then hand his to Zion.
“I remember. Fuck, your woman smelled good. If I were you, I’d definitely go back for—”
“Quit it.” Doesn’t he know he held her in his arms just this afternoon? Gritting my teeth, I pick up a hammer and weigh it my palm. “Do anything fun today, Z?”
He rolls up to sitting, his muscles stretching and popping like he’s just had a work out. Bastard probably has. “Tied up this pretty young chick named…”
Don’t say Grace.
“Poppy something? Her partner, too.”
Relief floods through me, warm and easy. “Thought I saw you with someone else.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyes lose their lazy glaze. “Huh. When was that?”
I should stop now, because I know if he figures out that I’m interested, he’ll make life impossible. Kris already knows. The two of them together are like piranha when they smell blood. I’ll never hear the end of it. “Just walked through one of the tenter areas. Saw you lounging with…someone I met.”
“Hmmm.” He throws his head back and appears to rack his brain, but the way he’s acting… I’ve got that tingly feeling again. “Was it Ginny? You know, the little sub who gets off on sloppy face fucks? I hung out with her for a second. Or, maybe the Perkins? I caught them over by the drinks tent, with—”
My patience shatters. “I’m talking about Grace. She’s tall, dark hair, thorns inked down her—”
“I know who Grace is.” There is not an ounce of surprise on Zion’s face as he watches me over the rim of his beer.
