Breaking Skin

Breaking Skin

Copyright © 2016 Debra Doxer

All Rights Reserved

Edited by Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing

Cover Design by ©Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations

Formatted by JT Formatting

Smashword Edition

ISBN-13:

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Debra Doxer.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

Title Page

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Connect with the Author

Books by Debra Doxer

This smooth, pale skin is a fragile facade, the most delicate armor, thin as the skin of a grape. Stretched tautly over muscle and bone, it conceals a jagged soul and veils a fractured heart.

Each day the truth threatens to pierce through. A storm of emotion struggles to burst free. But feeling too much would break me, break my skin, break my bones, break my heart.

The facade would fissure, and this smooth, pale skin would stain red.

Nichole Nikki Taylor, 16 years old

Mrs. Brown’s English Class

***

A drunk ballerina walks into a bar.

Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. A drunk ballerina walks into a bar and says ouch.

I laugh quietly to myself, even though it’s not funny. Although it is ironic since I happen to be a drunk ballerina, and I am walking into a bar.

I chuckle again and nearly trip over the raised threshold. Maybe not so much ironic as pathetic.

Come on, Nikki. Deedee links her arm with mine and pulls me deeper inside.

We’re at a sports bar across town because Deedee wants to try someplace new. She’s tired of the same old places and same old people we see all the time. Since she’s been in town for exactly two weeks, I find that amusing and ironic too. I’m not sure it’s pathetic, but the night is still young.

This seems promising, Katy says.

Deedee convinced Katy to come along too. Katy was always more my sister’s friend than mine. Now that my sister has left the company and moved back to our hometown, I’m the default replacement friend, but not for long. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, Katy is retiring after this season.

Lighten up. Deedee bumps her shoulder into mine. Dennis will get over it. He’s probably already over it while you’re still sulking.

Dennis White, our choreographer, went ballistic at rehearsal today when my right leg buckled in the middle of a new routine. My knee has been giving me trouble lately, but it doesn’t occur to Dennis that I’m injured and not purposely ruining his choreography. I can’t tell him I have an injury because then he’ll pull me out of the show.

But Dennis isn’t the real reason I’m sulking, although sulky isn’t the right word for how I feel. I don’t know exactly how I feel but there’s a nonspecific pain, not in my heart where it should be but lower, as if I swallowed something alive and it’s trying to gnaw its way out.

Deedee claims some free stools at the bar and motions us over. Three shots of tequila, she tells the bartender.

My head is already spinning from the shots we did at her apartment, but the moment my drink arrives, I toss it back and savor every inch of the burn as it slides down my throat.

Feeling better? Deedee asks, flipping some stray strands of dark hair over her shoulder.

Feeling nothing, I reply with a smile.

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s a close approximation. The news I received today is a lot easier to digest when followed by several tequila chasers. Deedee doesn’t know about my sister’s cold, unexpected text because I didn’t tell her. Deedee thinks we’re as thick as thieves after only two weeks, but I disagree. I like her, but I’m not about to confide in her. That kind of trust takes a lot longer and more tequila than this bar keeps in stock.

When Deedee joined the ballet corps, she decided we were destined to be friends because we’re both from California. Believe it or not, most of the dancers at the San Francisco Ballet Company are not from the sunshine state. But she and I hardly look the part of the typical California girl, no blond tresses or spray tans here. Deedee’s skin color is a gift from her parents, not the sun, while my skin is so pale it looks like I descended from a long line of ghosts.

I spy some potential at two o’clock. What do you think of him? Deedee asks, pointing toward a round table in the back corner of the room.

It’s occupied by a series of muscle-bound guys, a few of whom look like they fought in MMA matches before they got here, and lost. I spot a black eye on one of them, and another has a swollen cheek. A handful of girls are with them too, showing a lot of skin, laughing a little too loudly.

I roll my eyes. Which one? The guy with the shaved head showing off his biceps? I lower my voice an octave. Dude, call a plumber, because my pipes are about to burst.

She snorts. I’m talking about the one who doesn’t have a half-naked girl on his lap. The one with the deep blue eyes.

My brows lift at her description. Deedee is hardly a romantic, and it’s much too dark in here to see the color of anyone’s eyes. Curious, I scan the table more carefully, looking for those eyes, and stop short when I find them.

Oh my.

I rest my elbow on the bar and take a nice long look. If I’ve got the right one, Deedee has excellent taste. Blue Eyes sits directly beneath one of the recessed lights in the ceiling, making it appear as if there’s a spotlight on him. But she’s wrong about his eye color. It’s not deep blue, more like sky blue, a startling shade of light blue and a sharp contrast to the dark brows that arch above them. As I think that, I realize the eyes in question are staring right back at me.

Abruptly, I avert my gaze to the empty shot glass in my hand, embarrassed at being caught. My heart beats a little faster at the jolt that ran through me when our gazes connected. It was oddly unnerving.

I smile to myself, confounded by my reaction. He’s not the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. He’s too rough, too hard-edged. His friends all exude a rowdy, larger-than-life impression, but there’s something different about him. Something quiet and steely that makes me want to look again and maybe do more than look, even though I don’t dare. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me, especially since the only skin I’m showing is on my face and hands. No cleavage on display here. No cleavage, period.

He’s looking at you, Nikki. Go over there and talk to him before some tramp beats you to it. Deedee eyes me expectantly.

Is he really still looking at me? I wouldn’t know because I refuse to glance in his direction.

Are you kidding? I’m not going over there.

Why not?

Because I’ve been humiliated enough today.

She stares down her nose at me. How can someone who looks like you have so little confidence?

I roll my eyes, even though that was sort of a compliment. It’s not about confidence. He’s not my type.

Deedee snorts. Right. Tall, dark, and handsome isn’t your type.

She’s got a point. He’s every girl’s type, but that doesn’t mean I have the balls to march over there and talk to him.

He’s sitting down, I say. How do you know he’s tall?

She grins slyly. Not anymore. He just stood up, and I think he’s coming over here.

My eyes widen in panic. I turn to see that Blue Eyes has indeed unfolded his long body from the chair and is standing to his full intimidating height. My stomach dips as he walks in our direction, his long legs eating up the distance, and I go still as sudden paralysis takes hold. For a moment, I hope he’s aiming for Deedee or Katy. The next moment I take it back, because look at him. Who am I kidding?

When he stops in front of me, my speculation ends but the panic remains and mixes with something more pleasant. How many girls did he walk past to get to me?

I look up at his strong, angular face and realize the span of his shoulders is so wide, it blocks out my view of the rest of the bar. I also notice that his nose is slightly crooked and a thin scar slashes through one of his dark eyebrows.

He doesn’t say a word at first. He only smiles in a slow, sexy way that makes my heart skip erratically. One of his friends appears beside him, claps him on the back, and flashes a smile in my direction.

This is Cole and I’m Doc, his friend says, looking at all of us while Cole still only looks at me.

Cole. Blue Eyes is named Cole.

Doc? Deedee asks skeptically. As in ‘What’s up, Doc?’

He laughs. They call me Doc because I’m a doctor, and Cole here—

Shovels coal? Katy asks, teasing.

Actually, Cole is a stockbroker.

Cole turns to his friend with a quelling look. The idea of either of them being doctors or stockbrokers is ludicrous, and they know it.

Before I realize what he’s doing, Cole moves beside me and rests his hand on the bar, effectively blocking Doc and cutting me off from my friends. I can’t help but think of a wolf preying on a sheep, culling it from the herd.

What’s your name? he asks

I like the sound of his voice, low and controlled, deep and smooth. For some reason, I tell him my name is Nichole. I’m not lying but I am nervous, and the fact that no one calls me Nichole makes me feel less exposed, less vulnerable.

Why do you look so unhappy tonight, Nichole?

My lips part in surprise. How can he possibly see that? How can he see the truth when even my friends can’t?

But when he smiles again, common sense kicks in. That was probably a line. A guy like him must have all kinds of lines, and I’m naive enough to fall for all of them.

You look unhappy too, I say, giving his game a try. But the truth is, he does look a little melancholy. Of course, I’m drunk and I’ve never seen him before, so maybe he always looks this way. Broody. Sexy.

He releases a subtle laugh. I guess we have something in common then.

Lousy thing to have in common, I mutter, and want to smack myself when his smile falters. He’s flirting, and I’m putting my foot in my mouth.

He points at my empty glass. Can I buy you another one?

I relax a little, surprised by how disappointed I’d be if I had scared him off. But he’s still as intimidating as hell, and I don’t know if I should let him buy me a drink. I lean back to look around Cole at Deedee and Katy standing behind him. They’re laughing, still talking to Doc and another guy from the table who’s joined them.

Or I can leave you to your friends, Cole says.

Panicked by my indecision, I lick my lips and watch his gaze lower to my mouth. My insides curl at the way he looks at me, at the sound of his voice, at how raw and potent my attraction is to him. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Cole scares me. He’s a man who goes after what he wants, and I bet he usually gets it. That turns me on as much as it unsettles me.

What would it be like to sleep with a man like him, I wonder. Would he be forceful? A little rough, maybe? Would he toss me around like a rag doll or be heartbreakingly sweet? As I look up into those startling blue eyes, I realize how much I want to find out.

But should I?

I’ve never gone home with a man I met in a bar before. That’s the type of thing my sister, Renee, would do—get drunk, meet a random man, and sleep with him. I used to criticize her for it, warn her about the dangers and tell her she should value herself more highly.

But how often does a man like Cole approach me? He may be worth becoming a hypocrite for one night.

Why did you come over here to talk to me? I ask. Did your buddies put you up to it?

Cole scratches his cheek. No. I don’t let people tell me what to do. Do you?

His voice holds a challenge, and I wonder if my question offended him. My teeth sink into my bottom lip.

No. I don’t, I reply softly, averting my gaze. Not anymore.

Cole touches a finger to my chin to reclaim my attention. How about this, Nichole? We sit and have a drink together. One drink, no pressure, and then we can call it a night if you want.

My nerves must be showing, but he’s still here and he’s not pushing. Maybe I’ve misjudged him. I pegged him for arrogant and aggressive, not perceptive and understanding. I’ve had an entire debate in my head about him without actually knowing him at all.

Okay. One drink, I say, missing his touch the moment his finger leaves my chin.

He smiles, showing straight white teeth, and butterflies come alive in my stomach, applauding my decision.

Cole signals the bartender, and soon he’s carrying both our drinks to a quiet table by the window. As I follow him, Deedee catches my eye and winks. I can’t help grinning back before I sit down in the chair Cole pulls out for me.

Thank you, I say as he sits down and moves his chair closer to mine.

I take a sip of what I now realize is another tequila shot. That’s what was in the empty glass I was holding and so he got me another. I’d rather have something less potent, but I don’t want to be rude, so I take a small sip from the glass rather than tip the whole thing back the way I did earlier.

So, what’s it like being a stockbroker?

Cole laughs. I’m not a stockbroker.

I didn’t think so.

What do you do, Nichole?

I’m a bounty hunter, I reply, surprised by how easily the joke comes now that the pressure is off.

His smile widens. So it’s like that.

Like what? I take another sip, larger this time. You don’t believe I’m really a bounty hunter?

He leans in close. All I know for certain about you is that you’re beautiful.

My eyes widen as my face heats. Nice line. Very smooth. I laugh to cover my embarrassment.

The problem is, he isn’t laughing. The narrowing of his eyes makes me think he actually means it.

I sit back in my chair and finish off my drink, suddenly in need of more courage. After a moment, the room sways, and I realize that last drink was the tipping point. I’m as high as a kite.

Cole and I continue to chat but I’m hardly aware of what I say or what he says. I watch his full lips move, but I can only think of how they’ll feel when they collide with mine.

Sometime later, Katy and Deedee approach the table to tell me it’s time to go.

Cole looks at me, and the message in his eyes is clear. He wants me to stay, but he sits back and says nothing. He leaves it to me, and I’m not ready to say good-bye yet. Not even close. I turn to my friends and announce that I’m staying.

Despite her encouragement earlier, Deedee is reluctant to go. It takes some convincing to make her leave me behind. Eventually she does, but first she snaps a picture of Cole and threatens to show it to the police if anything happens to me. He laughs good-naturedly, and his lack of concern must convince her that he’s not an ax murderer.

Cole and I stay at the bar until all our friends have gone. When he stands and pulls my chair out for me, the rest of the night is a certainty in my mind. I’m bringing him home.

My decision is one part liquid courage, one part pure lust, and two parts recklessness born of a day I’d rather forget. I came here wanting to disappear into oblivion, but this is so much better. Taking Cole home is a far more pleasant way to lose myself, to pretend I’m not the heartless daughter who didn’t shed a tear when she got the news about her mother’s stroke today. The daughter who couldn’t feel the smallest twinge of remorse.

I’m not upset because of my mother’s failing health. I’m upset because I don’t care.

As I get to my feet a little too deliberately, Cole frowns. Nichole, I think you’ve had—

I’m fine. I interrupt him before he can say I’ve had too much to drink, and I smile to take the edge off my abruptness. I sense his hesitance but when I meet his gaze with an unwavering one of my own, Cole’s reluctance fades. I need him tonight. I need him to make me feel something.

Out on the street, Cole hails a cab, and the next thing I know I’m giggling because I can’t get my key into the lock of my apartment door.

Are you sure? he asks softly beside my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

When I nod, he smoothly takes the key from my hand and lets us inside. The rest of the night is a strange mix of hazy memories and vivid ones that sear themselves into my mind.

There are certain events in your life that leave an indelible mark. They change you because they write themselves on your soul. This night falls into that category. I ride a high that erases my inhibitions and opens my eyes to a truth I’ve known for a long time.

I choose the wrong men, but tonight the right one chose me.

Cole treats me unlike any man I’ve been with before. His eyes are heated, but his touch is reverent. When the lips I’ve been watching all night finally meet mine, the kiss we share is charged by the natural electricity between us. I’ve just decided he’s going to be a tender lover when he fists his hand in my hair and tugs to get a better angle on my mouth, making my knees go weak.

Despite the need I sense building in him, Cole stays in control, taking his time to undress me as he drops tender kisses on my newly exposed skin. He told me I was beautiful in the bar, but now he makes me feel beautiful, like I’m special and not some stranger he just met. He looks into my eyes with such intensity, I think he sees me, the real me, a person I haven’t let anyone see in a very long time.

At some point, I make the decision to pretend Cole isn’t a stranger. He’s my partner, my best friend, the person I come home to each night. I run my fingers through his hair and imagine that we belong to each other, relishing the moment he lifts me in his arms and lays me across the bed. We touch each other, breathe each other in, and I let myself fall into the fantasy.

When he braces himself above me, I admire his muscular chest, sighing at the delicious friction of skin on skin. The low groan that vibrates through him as he slowly enters me sets my body on fire. As I watch him move rhythmically, I’m completely captivated by the mask of ecstasy on his face.

I’m close to the edge when I arch my back and wrap my arms around his neck, anchoring myself to Cole, preparing for the climax bearing down on me. My muscles tense, and then I’m convulsing around him as I shatter to pieces in his arms.

Those arms are still around me when my breathing returns to normal and the world coalesces back into the familiar shape of my bedroom. Cole’s rough cheek scratches mine as he drowsily whispers one word in my ear.

Perfect.

When I gradually come awake the next morning, blinking against the sunlight, my head pounds and I can smell his aftershave on my sheets. After drinking so much last night, my thoughts are strangely clear. There’s no fuzzy hangover muddling my mind. I know exactly where I am and precisely what I did. I also know I’m alone. I can feel it in the quiet, in the stillness of the air.

He’s gone.

As images from last night flood my memory, I wait for regret but it doesn’t come. There is no What have I done? moment of shame. My only regret is that I don’t remember the entire evening as sharply as I’d like. But if I hadn’t been drinking, it wouldn’t have happened, and that would have been the real shame.

I pull the sheet up to my nose to breathe him in, and his lingering scent makes my skin flush with heat. I close my eyes, recalling the feel of his hands on me as they skimmed down my sides and smoothed over my hips before gripping them firmly. I imagine him here and think about him touching me.

My memory is good enough to cause a steady pulse between my legs. I had sex with a stranger last night, but I’m not ashamed of myself. I can’t be. I enjoyed it too much, even though it was reckless and dumb. I got lucky. Cole turned out to be a nice guy, more than a nice guy. So much more.

I don’t recall him leaving, and it’s just as well. My impression of our night together and of Cole might not stand up to the scrutiny of daylight and sober thinking. I fantasized all kinds of things about him when we were together. Thank goodness he couldn’t read my mind, because he probably would have knocked the door off its hinges trying to get out. I turned him into my dream man, a dream I didn’t even realize I had, and I know that’s all he’ll ever be. A fantasy. A myth. An unrealistic hope.

As I sit up and place my feet on the cool hardwood floor, I wonder what Cole’s impression of me was. My skin heats again, this time with embarrassment. What do men usually think of drunk women who sleep with them the same night they meet them? They don’t respect them or take them home to meet their mothers. It’s a double standard, but a reality just the same.

I scrub my hands over my face, feeling so unlike myself because I’m sore, not from dancing, but from being with Cole. Pulling my hair back into a knot, I trudge into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

When I look up at my reflection in the mirror, I spot a note taped there.

Unexpected emotion clogs my throat. I pull the note off the mirror and trace Cole’s bold handwriting with the tip of my finger.

When I brought him home last night, there was no question of exchanging numbers or seeing each other again. That wasn’t going to happen. It was meant to be one night, and I can’t describe how I knew that. I just did. It was there in his cool blue eyes, and one night was fine with me.

That’s what I wanted too. To leave myself behind, give in to the lack of inhibition too much alcohol provided, just be with him without any expectation of more.

At least, I thought that’s what I wanted. But looking at Cole’s note, I sense a tug at my heart, a heaviness in my chest I didn’t expect, and it feels like longing but it also feels like loss.

The loss of something I didn’t know I wanted, but understand I’ll never have.

***

Almost two years later . . .

My phone vibrates from inside my bag. The staccato buzzing noise, like a manic bee, tempts me each time I pass the metal folding chair where my bag rests. But I won’t give in.

If I can ignore the pain in my knee, screaming like the lead singer of a heavy metal band, a phone can barely make a dent in my determination to learn this masochistic choreography, meant to push a dancer to her limits. At least, this dancer is being pushed. But it’s not my part I’m learning. It’s the principal role, and each leap I attempt illustrates why I’m not a principal dancer but still a member of the corps.

"Stop thinking so hard, Nikki. Feel it."

I hear my former dance teacher’s voice in my head. Miss Emily believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She helped me see dance as a form of expression, a therapeutic release, a way to find joy in my unjoyful life.

With her as a teacher, dancing felt like flying. I could soar above turmoil and disappear into the dance for just a little while. Miss Emily taught me that each muscle has a purpose and each pose can be a work of art. Because of her, I fell in love with dance. Because of me pushing myself too hard, I’m losing that love, and I don’t know how to get it back.

I try the leap once more, doing it for Miss Emily this time as I struggle to find the joy and not let the pain overshadow it, but my knee gives out. It buckles again and my ass hits the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

Dammit, I mutter as an exasperated breath leaves my lungs.

Tchaikovsky continues to play despite the abrupt end of my performance, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the buzzing of my phone.

As I continue to mutter miserably to myself, I inch my behind across the floor and toward my bag. I don’t want to put pressure on my knee yet.

What? I grumble when I see it’s my best friend Deedee calling.

Excuse me, princess. The sarcasm dripping off her voice practically flows through the phone.

Sorry. I’m cranky.

You’re not still at the studio, are you? Rehearsal ended hours ago. You said you’d meet us at Boomers.

I hate Boomers.

We all hate Boomers. But the drinks are cheap and the guys are hot. Hence, we hang at Boomers.

Yeah. Hence. After a moment, I ask, Is Tag there?

Yes.

Is Meredith there too? I hold my breath.

After too long a stretch, Deedee says, Yes.

I picture them together and my shoulders slump.

They’re talking to each other at the bar. You should probably get down here if you want to salvage things with him.

I laugh bitterly. How romantic.

Romance isn’t always flowers and hearts, Nikki. Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.

Right, I reply, but that doesn’t sound right.

If Tag doesn’t want me anymore, am I supposed to fight to keep him? Some fights are worth the effort while others aren’t. If Tag is going after Meredith without having the courtesy to break up with me first, she can have him.

But I can’t let him humiliate me in front of everyone we know. At the very least, I should