in the position I was in, but I gave it a shot. “It’s all emotional crap neither one of us is all that comfortable letting others see.”
“Still not the same,” he said stubbornly.
My heart ached for him, for whatever trauma had happened to him to make him so sensitive about his scars. I wanted to know what was behind it, but I knew I had to tread very delicately or risk scaring him off for good. I reached out and put my hand on his chest—over his shirt, of course—and felt the continued racing of his heart. The one thing I knew I couldn’t afford to do was ask him why having me touch the scars freaked him out so much, no matter how badly I wanted to know. He would tell me when and if he was ready, and he didn’t need me pushing at him.
“I’m sorry I let myself get carried away,” I told him. “I knew better than to touch you like that, and I had every intention of keeping my hands to myself.” I smiled at him, trying to convey the message that whatever was wrong, it was no big deal to me. “Maybe next time you should put some handcuffs on me.”
He growled and sat up. “There won’t be a next time,” he said, predictably. “I’m too fucked-up, Nikki. I can’t do . . . this.” He made a vague gesture with his hand, and I didn’t know whether his this referred to a relationship, or just sex.
“Maybe you can’t do it right now,” I said as gently as possible, “but I’m more than willing to wait.”
“You can’t fix me!”
“So you’ve said. And you’re right, I can’t. But I can be here for you whenever you decide you want to fix yourself.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.” He had closed down entirely, the expression on his face distant and almost forbidding. If I didn’t understand so thoroughly his need to protect himself from the fear and the pain that welled inside him, I might have been hurt at being shut out like that. He slid off the other side of the bed, no longer able to look me in the eye.
I wished there were magic words I could say to make all his pain go away, or at least get him to open up enough to me to let me help him. But for now, he was out of my reach once more, and I blinked away the burning sensation of another bout of tears as he walked out of my room without another word.
EIGHTEEN
After Jamaal left, I felt drained and melancholy. I dragged myself into the shower and stood under the hot spray for way longer than was environmentally correct, washing away the lingering traces of blood, sweat, dirt, and tears that clung to me. I didn’t have any plans to go out, having checked out the window and seen the pristine blanket of snow that covered everything in sight. It was still coming down, and only in the direst emergency would I consider trying to drive through it. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to blow-dry my hair and put on makeup, but I did it anyway. Maybe just because it made me feel more normal, though my concealer wasn’t up to the challenge of hiding the dark circles under my eyes.
I probably should have left my room in search of Anderson as soon as I was dressed. No doubt Jamaal and Leo had told him what they’d found in the police report and he would expect me to fill in any missing details for him. But I wasn’t up to facing him after what I’d been through. Maybe he’d had enough time to absorb the blow, especially after I’d left him that screen shot the other day, but I didn’t think it was likely. He had loved Emma so much, and though I suspected she had always been self-absorbed and bitchy, the years she’d spent as Konstantin’s prisoner had made Anderson forget her true nature. She had become a paragon in his memory, and I didn’t want to see his pain at having that paragon irrevocably destroyed.
I guess that meant my plan was to hole up in my room for the rest of the evening so I could avoid any chance of running into Anderson. Or anyone else, for that matter. My stomach grumbled its disapproval of my plan, reminding me I hadn’t eaten all day and my body had burned up tons