Does It Hurt?: Chapter 17

“How often is this island surrounded by sharks?” I ask, staring hard at the two fins that pop up every now and again. I think there’s a third out there, but I can’t be sure.

Sylvester comes up beside me, panting a little as he leans on his good leg.

“All the time,” he responds. “One of the things that make this island treacherous. We get seals out here, so they tend to stick around.”

I nod, crossing my arms and wishing more than anything I could be out there with them, holding on to their fins and feeling them move beneath my hand as they glide through the water. It’s a feeling unlike anything else and only serves to remind me how fucking stuck I am.

“You, uh, like them, right?” he asks awkwardly. It’s been awkward all morning. I’m almost positive he heard us last night, and I’m not the least bit ashamed of it. However, he’s the type to usually say something if he feels disrespected, which tells me he enjoyed it, too.

Sick fucker.

We still don’t care for each other, but for the sake of not making things more tense than they already are, I answer, “Yeah. They’re incredible creatures.”

“Ever been in the water with one?”

“All the time,” I say.

He guffaws, shaking his head, seemingly to have trouble imagining it. “Outside a cage, too?”

“Absolutely. If I’m out in the ocean, I don’t touch them—I respect their space. I own a research center in Port Valen, Australia, and there’s an enclosure to bring them in when we need to conduct certain testing. I will usually get in the water with them then.”

“You keep ’em?”

“No, never. They’re not meant to be imprisoned.”

He nods, an awkward silence descending. I pay him no mind, my attention zeroed in on the shark. Restlessness is gathered in my bones, and I’m almost stupid enough to consider swimming out of here. But despite my experience with them, it’s too dangerous, especially if this is a hunting ground for them.

“I’m uh, sorry about the little scare ya’ll had yesterday,” he apologizes. “I ain’t ever had that happen, but I imagine it made you two very uncomfortable.”

Dragging my gaze away from the water, I eye him closely. He’s staring down at the sand, watching how the rolling waves wash up to the wooden leg that’s slowly creating a hole within the grains. He’s tense, and I can’t tell if it’s because of what he’s saying or because he just doesn’t like being in my presence.

“Guess the ghosts just don’t like us. Odd, when we’re not the ones who killed them.”

He chortles, but the sound comes out forced. “Maybe they was just askin’ fer you to help them, then. Can’t say I like their company, either.”

“Why don’t you leave?” I question, turning my gaze back to the water. Though, I keep him in my peripheral, trusting him as much as I would if he claimed his wooden leg was real.

“It’s what I know best. Been out here since I was eighteen, and by the time the lighthouse shut down in 2010, I’d been here for thirty-two years. S’pose it’s a lot like getting out of prison. Don’t know how to adjust to the real world.”

“Sawyer mentioned you having a daughter,” I probe.

“Had a whole family once upon a time,” he answers, though his tone is hardening. “I’ve tried to make this place a home. Sometimes people just ain’t willin’. But doesn’t stop me from tryin’.”

I glance at him. “Must’ve been hard to let them go.”

Instead of answering, he turns to me and points over his shoulder. “There’s a storm comin’ in tonight. I’d be inside within the hour. They can come on fast, and the waves get big. But I’m sure you know that now.”

My fists clench when he slaps the back of my shoulder a couple of times before heading off. I tuck them deeper into my armpits, refraining from sending one of them flying into the back of his head.

“Hey, Sylvester?” I call, keeping my back to him. He doesn’t verbally respond, but I know he’s stopped walking, his uneven gait no longer audible. “Don’t touch me again. And don’t touch Sawyer, either.”

The silence turns murderous. It feels like having a serial killer breathing down your neck, their intent to kill you as potent as the salt is in the air.

I don’t think I’d mind him trying.

But after a moment, his gait resumes, and he walks away without a word.

“You probably just shouldn’t have said anything,” a soft voice says from behind me. This time, I do turn, finding Sawyer walking toward me, her demeanor unsure.

“Are you expecting me to let him belittle and lay hands on me just to avoid discomfort?”

She tightens her lips and nods. “Good point. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head and face the water again. How is it that my hatred for how she makes me feel is somehow shifting, and now I’m hating the way I make her feel?

“I don’t want your apologies. It’s men that made you feel and think that way. They should be apologizing to you.”

“Are you going to apologize? You’re one of those men.”

“If I ever feel sorry about it,” I murmur. She’s right, I should be apologizing. But I also don’t lie, and while there is guilt needling its way into my system, I’m not ready to give in to it yet, either.

“It was wrong. Fucked up.”

“It was,” I agree. “But you’re not upset because I fucked you. You’re upset because I scared you.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “You’re right. I’ve been scared my entire life, and I’ve been touched my entire life. It’ll never hurt when you touch me, but it hurt that you were no longer safe.”

Fury explodes in my chest, and I’m whipping toward her, putting my face in hers.

“So, I made you feel what you made me feel? I won’t deny that I’m the villain in your story, baby, but please don’t insult me by acting like you didn’t hurt me first.”

She bites her bottom lip to hide the tremble. I tsk, raising my hand to her face and using my thumb to pull her lip out from between her teeth. She still smells of the ocean, and she’s so fucking beautiful—that’s what hurts.

“Don’t hide your tears, bella. You’re so pretty when you cry.”

“I’m so—”

“I said I wouldn’t apologize until I meant it. I suggest you do the same,” I tell her, turning away. I thought I’d be able to breathe easier when I did, but she’s still taking up too much space in my chest.

I haven’t been able to get last night off my mind, replaying it over and over in my head. I said I’d never fuck her again, but in my weakest moment, I gave in. The nightmare of my mother abandoning me on those damn steps, laughing as she drove away from me, was fresh in my mind.

I needed to escape it, and seeing the evidence of Sawyer’s unbending need for me was too good to resist. Because right before me was someone who couldn’t let me go even when she wanted nothing more than that, and all I wanted to do was make sure she couldn’t let me go.

Despite how cruel I can be, she comes undone for me so fucking easily. As if she was made just for me.

Suor Caterina used to tell me that we were all God’s creations, but I never bought into that shit. But if it were true, then fuck Him for making her the bane of my goddamn existence.

And fuck Him for making her the one thing I want most.

Was that the nightmare you were hoping for?

No, it was worse.

And it was. It’s like I’ve scribbled all my resistance into a charcoal ball deep into the paper, and she took a fucking eraser to it until there was nothing left but the faded remnants of when I hated her.

“I am sorry. And maybe you are, too. Isn’t that why you told Sylvester not to touch me again?” she insists. “Because you don’t want any more men hurting me?”

I shrug. “If he does, I’ll just do what I said I’d do.”

The thought of carving my name into her soft skin has my cock thickening. She makes it so hard to feel sorry when hurting her is so fucking intoxicating.

She comes to stand before me, her shorter stature forcing me to look down. Her face is twisted into a snarl, and she’s glaring at me. How cute.

“That defeats the purpose of not hurting me.”

“I never said I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not carving your name into my skin, you freak.”

I cock a brow. “Watch me, bella ladra.”

She snarls. “You like to fuck me when you hurt me, Enzo. And you said you wouldn’t unless I begged, which I will never do.”

“You are as unreliable as I am when it comes to fucking each other, and last night was a clear indication of that. This may come as a surprise to you, baby, but I don’t believe a goddamn word you say anyway.”

Dropping my arms, I spare one last glance at the darkening ocean, the waves becoming ferocious as the storm nears. Even the ones licking at our legs are becoming angrier. Then, I turn and head toward the lighthouse, dreading another night trapped in a dark room, left with nothing but my own thoughts and a girl I want nothing more than to get away from, but can never seem to. Even when she’s not around.

“You know, not everything I say is a lie,” she calls, stumbling over a rock as she chases after me. I shake my head in disbelief that she doesn’t have a chipped front tooth or a crooked nose with how much she trips over herself. She’s almost bashed her face in as many times as Sylvester wheezes whenever he moves a muscle.

“And how would I know that?” I retort. “You lied about your entire identity.”

“I lied about my name, Enzo. Not who I am as a person.”

The anger constantly boiling beneath the surface bubbles up again, like a pot of water left on the burner for too long. For the second time, I’m pivoting and getting in her face. It catches her off guard, causing her to stumble back and almost land on her ass again.

Blue eyes wide, she stares up at me in shock as I spit, “There you go lying again. You did lie about who you are as a person, Sawyer. You did. Because the girl I took home was not the same person as the one who stole my life from me. I don’t care who you say you are because I see it. Vuoi sapere cosa vedo? I see nothing more than a lying thief who only cares about herself.”

Her eyes fill with tears halfway through my tangent, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to both throttle her and take back everything I said. She’s got me so twisted, I can’t get my head straight.

How is it that I want to hurt her, yet protect her from my own damn self?

She looks so fucking sad, but part of me is still convinced it’s a façade. A pretty, little costume she dresses up in to make people feel sympathy for her.

Growling, I turn away, but she’s grabbing my arm and stopping me. I’m not entirely sure what she sees when I look back at her, but it’s enough to make her release me like she was holding on to a hot poker.

“I didn’t want to steal it, Enzo,” she insists. “I… I didn’t have a choice, okay?”

The wind is picking up, howling as it rips through her hair and our clothing, strong enough that I steel my spine.

“You always have a choice. You could’ve chosen to do anything else with your life than steal from people.”

“I couldn’t!” she shouts, her voice cracking. She’s shaking, but I can’t tell if it’s from the influx of emotion bubbling within her or because of the intensifying wind. Tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks as she stares up at me with sorrowful eyes.

And I hate her even more in this moment. Because the longer I stare at her, the harder it is to fucking breathe. It’s enraging that she has that control over me—that she holds so much power, she can suck the oxygen from my body like it’s hers to wield.

“Why, Sawyer?” I shout back, throwing my arms out, actively fighting against the powerful wind. We need to get inside, but I need to know why she would do something so fucking horrible.

Her bottom lip trembles and she glances away.

I drop my arms, straightening my spine, her answer written all over that deceptively beautiful face.

“You’re not going to tell me,” I conclude.

She shakes her head, several tears spilling over. Her mouth opens and closes, fighting for words.

But I’ve already lost interest.

This time when I turn away, she doesn’t stop me. By the time we make it into the lighthouse, the quiet compared to the outside is almost deafening. Sylvester is setting down three glasses of whiskey on the table. In the middle are several lit candles.

“Lights will go out any minute,” he says, glancing up at us knowingly. I don’t know if he heard us, but frankly, I don’t give a fuck.

“I think I’m going to—” Sawyer starts, but Sylvester waves a hand.

“C’mon, don’t leave an old man to drink alone. Ya’ll can stay out late tonight, too. I tend to dislike when we get storms.”

Clearing her throat, she nods, giving him a strained smile. “Sure.”

Sparing me a glance, she sidles past me and sits down at the table, making a point to take a seat next to Sylvester instead.

For reasons I’m not ready to name yet, that pisses me off, and the bitterness toward her only deepens. Everything she does just… pisses me off.

Silently, I take a seat across from them, leaning back in the rickety, wooden chair and snagging the glass of whiskey. I stare at them as I take a slow sip, watching Sawyer bend beneath the weight of my stare while Sylvester meets it head-on. The taste of spiced bourbon blooms across my tongue, scorching my throat on the way down.

Just the way I like it.

“Why don’t we get to know each other tonight, yeah? Instead of livin’ like strangers like we have been.”

Sawyer gulps down her bourbon in one swallow, hissing as it goes down while slamming the glass on the table.

“Let’s! How about we start with you, Sylvester? Tell me about yourself.” The enthusiasm injected into her voice is forced, and the control over her emotions is brittle as fuck. “How’d ya lose your leg?”

Noticing the tension still between us, Sylvester clears his throat. Her question was rude, but I’ve never been kind a day in my life, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Stonefish. Got stung after my second daughter, Kacey, was born. Nearly killed me. It was almost too late by the time help arrived. They life-flighted me to the nearest hospital and saved me, but my leg had necrosis, so it had to go.”

Sawyer frowns. “That sucks,” she says shortly. I shake my head. Her social skills are almost worse than mine sometimes.

Sylvester doesn’t say anything, and it grows awkward, so she pushes for another question.

“You said you had a family?” she asks. “Tell me about them.”

“Yep,” he says shortly. “Was married to Raven for about thirty years, but she didn’t like livin’ out here. Named the place after her and e’rything. And what does she do? Takes off without sayin’ goodbye. That was a couple o’months before the place shut down. Been alone ever since.”

She hums, not sounding all that interested in Sylvester’s woes. “That’s not very nice.”

Then, she turns her gaze to me, little knives shooting from them. “What about you, oh perfect one? Tell me about your perfect life and how you’ve lived it just so. Fucking. Perfectly.”

I narrow my gaze, purposely taking another slow sip of my drink just to piss her off. She seethes but keeps quiet.

“What would you like to know, Sawyer? About my perfect childhood first? Let’s see, that’s probably where my hatred for liars began, funnily enough. My perfect mother was the one to teach me that lesson.” Her face smooths out, but I find no victory in my own tragedy. “My favorite place to get maritozzo was at Regoli in Rome. We were extremely poor, and Ma had to do questionable things for the money we did have, so when we went, it was special. I didn’t think it was going to be any different on my ninth birthday. Instead, she dropped me off at Basilica di San Giovanni and swore she would be right back. You want to know how long I waited?”

She swallows and sits up, looking away instead of giving me an answer. One side of my lips tilts up the slightest bit, but there’s nothing funny about a mother abandoning her child.

“That’s the thing. I’m still waiting,” I finish, never lifting my searing gaze from her.

If she thinks she’s the only one who’s suffered in life, then I’d love to introduce her to the little boy still sitting on those steps, convinced his mother is going to show up any minute.

Sylvester stares hard at me for a moment before turning his gaze to her. For a second, I had forgotten he was here.

“Well, young lady. What about you?”

She sniffs, leans forward, and grabs the bottle of bourbon, filling up her glass halfway before taking a large sip.

“Careful there. Your tiny body can’t handle all that at once.”

“My tiny body can handle a lot,” she retorts, and her words are like throwing lighter fluid on a fire, the flames bursting in my chest as she stares at me pointedly.

The air around us thickens, and a low vibration buzzes beneath my skin. The beginnings of an earthquake are forming, and if she’s not careful, I won’t stop myself from proving just how little she can take of me.

If she thinks she has no control over her life and the decisions she makes, I’ll show her what it looks like to be truly uncontrollable. And if she thinks she’s broken now, I’d like to see how well she can walk after I’m done.

I cock a brow and take another swallow, keeping my gaze locked on hers.

“I didn’t have the worst parents,” she announces. “Mom and Dad loved Kev more, though.” She pauses and glances at Sylvester. “Kev is my twin brother. Betcha didn’t think there was double the trouble, huh?”

She doesn’t let him answer, though, and turns back to me with a vicious smile on her face. “Grew up with all the nice things. Full playground in our big backyard. Trampoline, too. Always had all the neighbor kids over to play. We were just living the fucking life, right?”

She quiets, the tension thickening while she waits for a response.

Sylvester grunts. “Right.”

“Wrong,” she exclaims, slamming her glass down on the table loudly, liquid sloshing over. Sylvester opens his mouth, preparing to berate her most likely, but she cuts him off. “You want to know the funny thing about having a pretty-looking life? No one would ever suspect that it’s actually pretty fucking ugly. Especially not your own damn parents, who had the perfect fucking son that could do no wrong.”

She picks up her glass and chugs the rest of it, and now the flames in my chest are darkening, a terrible feeling polluting it like when plastic is thrown in a fire, creating a cloud of dense, black smoke.

Sawyer sets the empty glass on the table and pushes it away from herself, staring at the cup like it’s replaying every nightmare she’s ever lived.

On cue, the lights flicker and then extinguish, leaving us in near-complete darkness save for the candles between us. The orange glow illuminates her face, but it’s not enough to hide the pain within the shadows. A loud boom of thunder shatters the silence, followed by the sound of a wave crashing into the cliffside.

“Kev became a cop,” she says quietly, and my chest clenches. “Cops have friends. And their friends tend to have the same morals as they do.”

“What did he do?” I ask, though my voice doesn’t sound much different than a growling dog.

“Fill me up, Syl,” she says instead. Sylvester leans forward and pours her two fingers.

“You don’t need any more,” I warn.

“Do you want your question answered or not?” she snaps, grabbing the glass and taking a swig.

I clench my teeth, prepared to tell her that her secrets aren’t worth the cost of her getting sick over, but she’s already speaking.

“Kev and I used to have a lot of friends in school. We were both popular, but as we got older, he didn’t like the attention I was getting. It was a gradual progression of him isolating me. In middle school, he started nasty rumors that turned my friends into my bullies. That made for a lot of lonely nights stuck in the house. Oftentimes, our parents would go out and leave us with a nanny, and while she wasn’t mean, she was far more interested in talking on the phone with her boyfriend.”

She shrugs, as if telling whatever thought is in her head that it’s not a big deal. “That also means the nanny didn’t notice when Kev wanted to… play.”

“God fucking dammit,” I mutter beneath my breath, rage now seeping out of my pores. I’m growing restless again, though this time, it’s with the need to find her brother and fucking murder him.

Losing whatever courage she found, she shrugs again and finishes off her third glass, tipping her head back as the liquid pours down her throat. When her chin dips and her eyes meet mine again, they’re no longer clear and full of pain. They’re glazed over and lost.

I may hold on to stones from my past—keepsakes that I’m not ready to let go of—but the stones Sawyer carries are too heavy, and she doesn’t think she’s strong enough to throw them away.

After the shipwreck, I had told her that she was weak. But I realize now that I was wrong. Being scared and weak aren’t synonymous. It takes strength to keep getting back up after constantly being knocked down.

“Sounds like he’s a real piece of work,” Sylvester says, resting his palm on hers. The muscle in my jaw pops, and the only thing that saves me from shattering this glass and reaching over to stab his fucking hand with a shard is Sawyer sliding her hand out from beneath his.

“He was, Syl, he was. Him and his cop friends. S’kay, though, they can’t find me.”

Sylvester shifts his body toward hers. “Stay here then, sweetheart. You’re more than welcome to stay here with me.”

“Absolutely not,” I bark. My bones are ready to take on a life of their own, and I’m not sure what will happen first—taking Sawyer out of here or wrapping my hand around the old man’s throat.

“Can’t say anyone would find me then,” she agrees. She pats Sylvester’s hand, still resting in the same spot where she abandoned it. “I’ll think on it. But the room is spinning, and I can’t see my thoughts right now.”

Sylvester keeps quiet as Sawyer stands, wobbling and seeking balance from the table. I immediately get to my feet and round to her side, grabbing her arms and pulling her into my chest. There’s a slimy feeling crawling down my spine. Definitely from Sawyer’s story. But also from the way Sylvester stares at her.

As if he’s already decided she’s staying, and now he only needs to make sure it happens.