“Uh, you. The whole package.” I wave my free hand up and down his body. He snorts and turns his head away from me. “Are you serious?” I whisper.
“About?” He pulls me from the elevator and into an underground garage.
“Winger, she was not concerned about your scar. She was blushing and all tongue-tied.” My irritation with her seeps into my tone.
“I didn’t see any blushing, not that it would matter. I get two reactions from people—either they can’t seem to figure out where to look at my face because they are trying so hard to avoid looking at my scars, or they can’t stop staring.”
He drops my hand, and the trunk of the car opens with a chirp, revealing several more bags. I’m too shocked to even reach in and help him as he fists the remaining plastic.
I’m still trying to assemble my thoughts in my head, so I leave him with the bags, close the now empty trunk, and trail after him. I don’t want to say anything that will diminish how he feels, because he’s entitled to that, but I also want him to know that is not how she was looking at him, and it’s certainly not how I look at him.
When we’re behind the locked door of the loft, I try again. “Winger, she wasn’t looking at your scars. She may have seen them, but that wasn’t why she was all flustered. She was…enamored with all of you.”
I busy myself by putting away the groceries, because I don’t know how he’s going to respond. I know from personal experience how it feels when someone gives you a different truth than the one you always assumed to be right. It pisses you off.
“Whatever, I don’t care if she thought I looked like a fucking zombie,” he says dismissively.
“It seemed to bother you,” I argue, although I probably should have dropped it. He takes in a deep breath, and I watch his back expand as he places his hands on the counter, his head lowered.
“Because I didn’t want her reminding you that it was there,” he finally says, speaking so quietly that if I hadn’t been straining to hear him, I never would have.
“I don’t need a reminder, Winger. I always see all of you. I’m sure you already know how I feel about your scar if you read my notes.” I’m no longer embarrassed about how I was jealous or how I thought they made him even more attractive, not when it seems like he’s worried about how I feel about them.
“You wrote about my scars in your notes?” He sounds dumbfounded, but also slightly accepting, as if he shouldn’t have assumed anything else.
“You didn’t read them?”
“No,” he scoffs. “Iron didn’t say shit about it.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised by that actually, or maybe Iron knows Winger’s scars are a sore spot for him and didn’t want to bring it up to his friend. “I was jealous,” I confess. “I was envious about you being able to wear what you’ve lived through on your skin and look damn good doing it.”
He starts to turn to face me but stops short, so I continue, “I noted that they only added to your allure and made you more handsome.”
His head snaps around, but he’s not smiling when he looks at me. “Bullshit,” he rumbles. “I know how you feel about my screwed up face—you told me. Are you trying to play me, Max?”
“No.” I don’t give him some big ass denial, and it’s clear he wouldn’t trust that anyway. I’ll let my written words speak for themselves. “Call Iron. Ask him. Just remember that I wrote all that before I ever even met you.”
I head out of the kitchen without any real destination in mind, I just know he needs space and I want to give it to him. Maybe I need some of my own.
CHAPTER28
WINGER
It took me a while to get up the nerve to call Iron. I think I was afraid to find out that she was lying or for it to be the truth, which it was. He sent me screenshots of everything she said about me, and her notes were extensive.
She must have questioned why I helped her no less than ten times on the pages. Sometimes, she would pose a theory as to why I did it, and other times, she seemed to fixate on the question itself or how she would have handled the situation had she been in my shoes.
The few times my scars were ever mentioned, it was never in disgust or pity. Everything she said in the kitchen was true. She admitted to being jealous of the visible scars—proof of my pain. It makes me want to go find her right fucking now and search every inch of her skin for a single flaw so I could make the bastard who left it there pay with more than his life.
She also admitted to finding me attractive, which disturbed her. She questioned her own sanity at that point and didn’t seem to arrive at any conclusion.
The only thing negative she said about me at all was how she hated my confidence and how comfortable she thought I was in my own skin because she didn’t think she’d ever be able to accept the person she is.
It felt more like reading a diary than the other notes I looked through on the men she killed. She shared her thoughts and feelings, along with writing notes about my life, like when Rex and Lucy stopped by to bring me lunch when I was through the worst of the sickness that came when I stopped drinking. She questioned who Lucy was to me, if she was important, why I lived alone, and how many of the girls at the club I slept with.
I feel like shit after reading it, even though she gave me permission. I shouldn’t have voiced my doubts about her claims. I should have just let it go, but I didn’t.
I sit here, absorbing what I read, for another fifteen minutes before I get a text alerting me that my order is ready to pick up. I debate going to find her before leaving or even asking her if she wants to come, but I’m still trying to come to terms with the insight I was just granted, so I quietly leave the loft, ensuring the door is locked in my absence.
