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 f**king hardest thing a person can do.” I smooth a damp ringlet out of her face and away from my mouth. “It’s the hardest f**king 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 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 laying. 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 f**king 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 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 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.”




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