Page 10 of Captured Memories
6
Ever since that night,Zane’s chest burned with a rage that couldn’t be quelled, one that drove the urge for the bottle even stronger. He’d called his sponsor four or five times and attended every meeting he could outside of work. Even still, his feet dragged each time he passed by the neons on the discount liquor shop. When Livs told him back in the Café that she had a rough go, he would’ve never have imagined the girl he loved had gone through those horrors.
Rage mingled with shame, fueling his own insufficiencies. If he had never gotten locked up or been a fuck-up like his father, maybe he could have pursued something with Liv Morozov. Maybe he could have prevented her from getting scarred like this.
He hunched forward on the doorstep of her apartment complex, looking up at the woman who’d run out of his place mere days ago.
Liv’s jaw dropped in surprise. Her teal curls were pulled back in a sloppy bun, and rings circled her eyes, giving her a haunted look, like she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Based on the beast of a camera hanging around her neck, she must have come from a job. With the storm brewing inside him, he had to summon every ounce of courage to face her, but he needed to be here. Zane had abandoned her once, and the worst happened. After the way she’d broken — after the way she’d shattered—watching her crumble had been like looking into a mirror, and he couldn’t let her plummet to those depths alone.
“Z, you’re better off running as fast as you can in the opposite direction,” she said, steeling her jaw. Despite the brittle edge to her voice, he didn’t miss the way those blue eyes wavered. “We’ve reconnected, so now you know. I’m way too much to handle.” The harsh rasp in her voice broke his heart, the echo of pain and self-loathing he understood so well.
Zane quirked an eyebrow. “Isn’t that my choice? I get a say in what I can handle.” She sucked in a shaky breath, and her lips pressed tight together rather than respond. Liv’s stare burned with the ferocity of the ugly emotions that stormed in his own chest, a toxic brew he’d been drinking for so long. “I want another date,” he said with a surprising steadiness in his voice as he locked eyes with her.
“Sure you do,” she shot, placing her hands on her hips. “Want another sob-fest from me or more bodily harm? Those scratches look pretty fresh.” The bitterness in her tone ached him, like she’d become frozen from the inside out. Still, for once, he remained steady.
“Oh this?” he lifted his arm. “That’s nothing compared to the scar I have on my side from when I got stabbed back in prison. Hell, sweetheart, you’d have to try a lot harder to leave any real damage—you’re one of the only folks who knows why my knuckles are as scarred as they are or why the arthritis set in early.” To say he wasn’t sad when the cops found his father passed out dead in an alley would put it mildly—Zane had nearly rejoiced.
Her gaze darkened, and she heaved a sigh before running a hand through her tangled curls. “But I’m a mess,” she tried to argue.
He didn’t bother restraining the smirk that rose to his face, his gaze heating with challenge. “I want the real deal. Sound familiar?” He spouted her words back at her, meaning them more than ever. He didn’t want any pretensions, none of the superficial posturing that came with a normal date. He wanted the girl who once made his blood burn with desire and the one who’d become an even more complex and nuanced woman.
He might be a train wreck waiting to happen, but he’d let her make the call to walk away. Her rejection would rip him in two—hell, he’d been on the receiving end of the ‘I can’t handle your damage’ speech more times than he wanted to count. However, he refused to make her go through the agony. Refused to shatter her further after the hell his Livs had been through.
Liv shook her head, a half-smile rolling to her face. “I should have expected that one.”
He grinned back, revealing teeth. “Yeah, you should’ve. Now are you going to invite me in or what?”
She hopped over his leg up the step and strode to the front door, her keys jangling in her hand. “Don’t expect the fancy food you make,” she said, not glancing to him.
His heartbeat sped as he rose before following her inside the building, the faint scent of cat piss permeating the foyer. The jagged edge of hope sliced through him yet again, despite the defenses he maintained and despite the boundaries he put in place. Hope led to disappointment and the bottle, a lesson he’d learned again and again, but like his father always said—lessons never stuck with Zane Parata.
He sauntered up the stairs after her to the second floor corridor she strolled down, not looking back. Her torn jeans and oversized Iron Maiden tee was a far cry from the dresses and skirts he’d seen her in before, but this stoked his desire even more. Something could be said for leaving the masks behind, for ditching the pretense at being okay.
Liv opened her apartment door, and he followed her inside, only to be serenaded with a chorus of yowls from the little gray tabby that appeared. He crouched and put his hand out as the cat approached to nudge at his fingers, erupting in a cavalcade of purrs. He glanced up to see Liv’s eyes on him, softened from the ice cold she’d displayed outside.
“That’s Sir Percival the Bold,” she murmured, raking her fingers through her tangled curls that she’d loosened from the bun.
He cocked an eyebrow as he looked at her. “Oh yeah, he’s pure ferociousness.” The cat continued rubbing against his callused hand, the body vibrating with the strength of motorboat purrs.
“I’m being a shitty host,” she proclaimed, as if waking out of a stupor. “I’m going to put the kettle on for some tea, and you’re going to like it.” He glanced to her, his heart warming at the way she rallied, at how she clung to her brashness like a safety net. Without further comment, Liv marched out of the room into the kitchen, her boots slapping the linoleum and her motions less than graceful as the chorus of clanks followed. Zane straightened from his crouch, making his way across the hardwood towards the black leather couch pressed against her vivid purple walls.
The explosion of color around the room, the photographs plastered around the place in even intervals, and even the lingering scent of jasmine in the air all lived and breathed Olivia Morozov. He settled into the couch, his arms stretched out along the back as he soaked in the pictures all around her living room. She had a sharp eye for photography in high school, and the years had honed her skill with composition and light. The landscapes were lush and haunting while the portraits offered the subject’s vulnerabilities on display.
Liv stepped into the room carrying two earthenware mugs, steam curling from them to rise to the ceiling. She’d ditched the hoodie back in the kitchen and must have finger combed her hair into a fresher ponytail. Her pale lavender socks came halfway up her calves, her boots tipped over at the entrance of the kitchen, abandoned. “You still like green tea, right?” she asked, handing over the mug. “If not, you’re getting this cup anyway, because I need this singe-your-brows-off Irish breakfast at the moment.”
He grinned, entertained by the sass that hadn’t been dimmed but sharpened through the years. “That defensive over tea? Did you spit in the cup or something?”
She pursed her lips as she took a seat beside him on the couch, tucking her legs by her side. “Tea is serious business, jackass.” Liv blew the steam from the top to send it rolling. “So I’m assuming you came for an explanation about the other night, yeah?” At the comment, the smiles vanished, and gravity edged her words.
Zane shook his head. “That’s never been how I work, Liv or how we were. I’m not going to make you rip open old scars to satisfy my own insecurities. You tell me how we proceed, because I’ll be honest—I still find you sexy as hell, and I’ve never forgotten the connection we shared.” Her eyes flared at his admission, the intense yearning in those blues striking a deep resonance within him. Liv didn’t move, though her muscles tensed and her mouth closed, as if she’d run out of witty defenses and backed herself into a corner.
Somehow in the wake of her explosion, his own nerves had been calmed, like her outpouring of emotion allowed his as well. Still, he understood what cost the outpouring entailed, how it tilted the scales in his direction. Right now, she was the one who had the uncontrolled release and had tipped her hand before she wanted to. The shock of unexpected vulnerability would make anyone bolt. Even though she might decide to ditch here and now, for once he wanted to roll the dice.
“I walked away the first night because I’m an alcoholic, Livs,” Zane said, the admission scraping his throat raw in the process. The word said aloud made him cringe, from the thousands of confessions at the meetings to the memories tied along with it, of the scent of vomit and piss in a rotten alleyway, of how every muscle in his body ached so much he believed he’d never move again, and of the deep depression saturating his bones in the aftermath, so strong he wanted to die.
She gripped her mug tighter, and Zane swallowed, hard, waiting for her to respond. Needing her to say something, anything, as his nerves buzzed on edge. The familiar panic began to rear, the one of the judgment and derision that followed his confession. Of the self-loathing haunting him daily.
The stroke of soft, slender fingers over his hand drew his attention. Liv rested her palm over his, squeezing tight. No words were necessary in the wake of what the gentle motion conveyed, but she opened her mouth anyway.