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“It doesn’t matter. We’re girls.” I nod at Dakota. “He doesn’t associate us with bad things. He may relax if you guys go out for a bit.”
I see the blood drain from the guys’ faces as my words, and the implications, sink in.
“Shit, she may be right,” Asher breathes.
“Yeah,” Dylan says, never looking away from me. He closes the distance between us, cups my cheek. “You and me, we’ll talk later.”
I shiver when he drops a hard kiss on my lips. Heat rushes into my core. My whole body tingles.
And before I gather my wits, he backs away and leaves the room together with Asher.
It’s all I can do not to turn about and follow him, wrap myself around him.
Later.
I sit on the bed, keeping some distance from Zane’s hunched figure, and refuse to acknowledge the rusty blade twisting in my guts from seeing the distress on his face.
He’s panting, the air whistling in his lungs, and sweat shines on his brow. His dark eyes are blank, staring at nothing.
It’s a strange, discordant quiet, threaded with dark undertones.
Dakota looks like she’s about to say something, so I raise a finger to my lips and tug Audrey to sit beside me.
I let the quiet linger, spread. I didn’t only talk to Tyler about his flashbacks, but also more recently to Shane, one of the Damage Boyz who still suffers from them, and his girl, Cassie.
Shane and Zane don’t only have names that rhyme. They also have had some similar experiences that marked them for life.
Zane needs a safe haven right now, a calm spot in the hurricane blowing over him. Asher’s worry and fear was bleeding all over the place, and Dylan’s hovering wasn’t helping. Not that I’m an expert, but I think Zane’s shoulders have relaxed a fraction already.
Having a flashback doesn’t always mean you lose all connection to reality. The past only overlays the present, playing the memory over the current reality. If the background is peaceful, chances are the person having the flashback can pull back from it more easily.
Fingers crossed it works.
We wait and wait, and I can clearly see the struggle on Dakota’s face, the same one I feel tugging inside my chest, her fight against herself, against grabbing her man in her arms and rocking him, holding him.
Something rustles, then Zane reaches out, blindly grabbing Dakota’s hand, and I heave a sigh of relief.
“Dakota,” he rasps, and his voice sounds rough.
“I’m here.” Hers is broken. “I’m right here.”
Slowly they fold against each other, her arms going around his middle, his around her back until her head is resting on his chest and his chin is propped on top of her dark head.
Audrey makes a move to leave, but I keep her beside me.
“Zane,” I say quietly, and his gaze moves to find me. “Did anything change?”
“What?” He gives a slow blink and a shiver wracks him.
“You flashed back to that place, didn’t you? Where you were hurt.” He doesn’t react, and I force myself to go on. “Did something change in the memory? Was there anything new?”
And this is it, I’m done. Not going to ask again if he doesn’t feel like answering, not going to pressure him. If there wasn’t a chance of this being true, of the consequences for Zane’s mental health and the horrible possibility of more kids suffering in the hands of this guy right now, I’d never have brought it up, I swear.
Not when he’s barely holding it together.
He doesn’t speak for the longest time, and I prepare to get up and go, leave him with his girl to recover. I’m already tugging on Audrey’s hand, when he draws an unsteady breath.
