“I thought I could do it,” I tell him. “Everyone has problems. I can’t go around whining all the time.”
“Whining?” He throws a sofa cushion at me, looking disgusted. It misses me and falls to the floor. “What’s wrong with you, man? Telling your friends your problems, asking for help, isn’t fucking whining. Asshole.”
I let that slide because he’s obviously upset and because I’m too damn exhausted to get up and punch him in the face. “People depend on me,” I say.
Ash groans. “Cut yourself a little slack. Dammit, Zane, you’re just eighteen, like me.”
“Ah, fucker,” I say, “I’m a lot older than that. Inside.”
I wait for his flippant come-back, but Ash just looks… sad. Dammit.
“You know,” he mutters, “I’ve known you for all these years, and you never really told me much about your childhood.”
I shudder at the thought of telling him about it. “Good.”
“I just…” He shrugs, his brows drawn together. “I hope it wasn’t so bad.”
Fuck, I want to shrug too and tell him it wasn’t. Lie—for a good cause.
I didn’t live in this city as a child, and I didn’t know Ash. There’s nothing he could’ve done anyway.
I settle for silence.
Ash breaks it when he says, “I hope you’ll trust me enough to tell me one day.”
Dammit. “Ash. I’d trust you with my life. You know that. I just don’t like talking about the past.”
He shakes his head, chews on the inside of his cheek. There’s something more there, something bothering him.
“You know you talked in your sleep? Coma, whatever. The doctors said you can still dream when you’re in a coma, go figure. You said some things…”
I talked? Hell. This is news to me. “What sort of things?”
Ash punches a cushion, then bends forward, letting his hands hang between his knees. His gaze shifts around the room. He doesn’t look at me.
“You were pleading with someone to let you go,” he finally says. “To stop. You were in pain. Said your back hurt. You pleaded, Zane. Begged. You sounded scared out of your fucking mind.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “And you wouldn’t wake up.”
I stare at him unblinking. Shit. Holy fucking shit.
“I know you have burn scars on your back. I’ve seen them under the ink. I know you won’t let girls touch you when you hook up.” His hands curl into fists, and he nails me with his pale eyes. “So will you trust me enough to tell me what happened to you?”
Hell to the no. “Fuck off.”
He grunts and gets to his feet. “Fine, asshole. Forget I ever cared.”
I watch him stride across the living room, heading for the door. Fuck this. He can’t bully me into telling him about my worst nightmares, my memories from hell.
But he’s my friend. My brother. If anyone deserves to know, it’s him.
I can’t. Fear wars with shame, a deep-rooted horror that twists my guts. Not ready. Telling Dakota was… different. No idea why.
But he needs something from me. A kind of reassurance.
“Ash!” I call just as he opens the door to go. I struggle to my feet, cursing my body for taking so long to recover. “Wait.”
He stills. “What?”
“Those are some damn scary memories,” I say through gritted teeth. I stand there, face bowed, hands fisted by my sides. This is like chewing nails. “I hate them. Don’t ask me to talk about them. Please, fucker.”