when it’s wet. I’ll be damned, everyone looks stupid with their hair flat like that, but he still looks

gorgeous as hell. Simply too beautiful to be for real. Mildly fascinated, I watch how his muscles flex

and relax as he saunters over and sinks onto the sun bed beside me with a pleasant sigh. His warm,

nonchalant presence washes over me like a summer breeze, and lingers.

There’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes when he turns his head and looks at me. “You look bored.”

Frowning slightly, I give him a half-smile. “I’m not, really. I was born with this expression.”

He chuckles and grabs his glass. The ice cubes rattle when he lifts it to his lips. “Another drink?”

I watch how the dark fluid vanishes in his mouth, lick my lips in reflex, almost able to taste the

alcohol myself. Bitter, sharp, with a trace of sweetness, clear but sticky.

“Naw, I’m good. Tipsy enough to feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but not drunk enough to be

seduced by you.”

I get a smirk for an answer that sets something in the pit of my stomach aflutter.

“Damn, there goes my evil scheme.”

I can’t hide a small grin. Our eyes meet. There’s so much unexpected warmth in his deep brown

orbs, somehow it just makes me ache. He’s not supposed to be so nice to me. He’s not supposed to

understand things he doesn’t even know about. Or does he? I shiver slightly.

Rizzo puts his empty glass down and gets up, nods to the exit. “Come on.”

Slowly I sit up, eyes wandering over his slender, muscular body again. To. die. for. Bronze with a

touch of gold, shimmering silkily, and how does he manage not to look like a drowned corpse in this

light?

“Where are we going?”

“Some place warmer.”

I’m not even sure I can take any more warmth tonight.

* * *

This is so cliched it feels surreal. We’re lying on the enormous white couch in the living room, staring

into crackling flames dancing in the fireplace. Well, I am. Rizzo’s watching me instead. Whatever it is, I

wish he would just say it.

I never thought that there are people actually living like this, because it looks like something from

the movies, or in some really fashionable decor mag. I bet their interior designer cost twice as much as

the furniture. Everything just looks so damn expensive that I hardly dare touch a thing. I guess it’s true

what Rizzo said earlier. These rooms aren’t meant to be lived in, but to represent. Represent what? That

you can spend incredible amounts of money on furnishing your home with beautiful but entirely useless

things? And yet it all looks so empty, lonely somehow.

The aromatic smell of firewood and smoke fills my nostrils, heavy and real. The dancing flames in

the fireplace are the only living thing here. And Rizzo. Rizzo with that unreadable, pensive look on his

face as he watches me. A trace of a smile is always lingering in the corners of his mouth.

Suddenly Rizzo reaches over, and lean fingers cover the distance, invading my personal space. Even

though I don’t really mind, I can’t help jumping slightly at his touch. He gently lifts my arm a little to

let the firelight fall onto my skin. “You never told me where these are from.”

He’s talking about the scars, of course. At other times, with less alcohol coursing through my veins, I

would have pulled back immediately. I would have said something harsh, bitten out fast and hard like a

snake. Or maybe just told him to go to hell. Plan B. I almost smile. If things were that simple…

“What makes you think I would?”

“Because I’m asking. Because I want to know.” His eyes are uncharacteristically honest and serious.

Has he really been wondering about them all this time?

I don’t reply. I just look at him laying there in the firelight, beautiful and perfect like a young Greek

god. His skin so flawless, and in spite of what he’s trying to make believe, a tiny trace of innocence still

left in his eyes. And yet, tonight for the first time, I realize that Rizzo has his own wounds. And for

some reason unknown to me, it touches me somehow.

I still don’t pull back when he lifts his other hand and gently begins to trace the scars that cover my

skin. I don’t pull back when he moves closer. And I know that I probably should pull back when he

starts to kiss the fine, white marks, but I don’t.

I just sit there, watching him, feeling the soft, tender touch of his lips, and I swallow hard. Looking

up, he notices the look on my face, and pulls himself up to a sitting position, close to me. There’s no

fake sympathy in his eyes, but something unmistakably sincere that makes me realize that he really

cares. And that he won’t judge me, or try to help me, or pity me, or any of that shit.

“His name was Simon,” I whisper hoarsely, and exhale.

Chapter 3

Rebaptism

DANNY: I think it was me who started the kissing, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. What I

definitely know is that his lips parted willingly when I slid my tongue in, that his hand pulled me close

like he was clinging to a lifeline.

James moaned in my ears, and my skin burned with desire. Thoughts rotated in my head, all the

things he’d said turning into a blur of his secret pain and my anger.

Simon. J’s stepfather, whose belt buckles, and other possessions abused as instruments of torture, left

traces on him that go beneath the flesh. Simon, who turned this beautiful boy into a cynical mess of selfhate

so intense that nothing and no one can get through that barrier. There are different kinds of scars on

his body, and they can’t all be Simon’s doing. I’ve seen this before, I know what it looks like, and that’s

disturbing and creepy on a whole different level. I know that what I’ve heard tonight is but a fraction of

James’ story. He didn’t even say that much, actually. But those few words were enough. Or maybe they

were all that I could bear, because suddenly my lips were on his.

“Rizzo, we shouldn’t…”

“Danny. Say it. Say my name.”

“Danny.” His eyes were holding mine, and I was hard like never before. Like in a fever, sore,

bleeding deep inside. Just like him. How was this happening?

He likes it rough, that’s obvious. Likes it when there’s pain involved, but despises himself for it. We

both know that the world isn’t some happy little fairytale, and pleasure and pain go hand in hand. I’d

gladly be the one he takes his rage out on anytime. But not tonight. There was enough pain already, and

he just looks so wounded.

Fine pearls of sweat are glistening in the hollow between his neck and his collarbone, and I bend

down to lick them off with the tip of my tongue. Salty and sweet, like teardrops.

“Danny,” he says again, and his eyelids flutter closed when a small, aroused moan escapes his lips.

I move as gently as I can inside of him, wanting to give him nothing but pleasure. I dreamed of

doing this, god, countless times. I never thought he’d let me. He doesn’t open his eyes when I start to

whisper words I thought I’d never say to anyone. My voice doesn’t seem like my own, sounds husky,

sounds too tender to belong to me.

Passion takes over, words get choppy. He opens his eyes and looks at me, his face a mask of pure

ecstasy. He comes in waves, buckling slightly, and I finally let go myself, and Jesus Christ, it’s too

good, it’s too intense to describe.

When I pull out of him, I tug him close immediately, and he curls up in my arms like a child. We

look at each other, and I run my fingers down the side of his face. “You’re so beautiful.”

I didn’t mean to say that aloud. I wince slightly, expecting a sarcastic reply, but it doesn’t come. He