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Disappointment? Indifference? He shook his head.

“Fear and aggression.”

Jesus, she was perceptive. “I don’t like public places and crowds.”

“Ah. Crowds with hands.” She gnawed the corner of her thumbnail. “How do you deal with concerts and public interviews and red carpet stuff?”

“I avoid them when I can.”

Stillness settled over her. She stared at her hand in his, her eyes weighted with thought. “When you walked into my shop three years ago, you didn’t have security to protect you. How’d you maneuver the crowds then?”

Very carefully. His mouth crooked up. “No one knew or cared who I was then.”

She nodded. “When you came to me that night, you brought me a hopeful vision. Want to hear it?” She looked at him beneath her lashes.

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear to see her face. “Very much.”

“This might sound silly, but I envisioned you on stage in a crowded arena proudly baring your tattoo. The tattoo I hoped you’d grow to appreciate. The one I hope to finish.”

A collision of emotions accumulated in his throat.

“I lost so much the night I met you, but I hung onto that image. It got me through some of the tough parts, you know?”

“Jesus, Charlee.” He cupped her jaw and lifted her forehead to rest against his.

“Someday soon, I want to see you singing at the center of the stage instead of from its darkest corner.”

Could he do that for her?

“With your shirt off.”

He bit down on his tongue to stay the refusal.

“What about the live shows? How do you deal with it? Even if you aren’t visible, you’re there, singing and playing in front of thousands.”

Admit it and fix it. She deserved nothing less. “I use blow, Charlee.”

She removed her forehead from his and replaced it with her lips. “Getting lit on stage is not cool.” Another kiss to his brow and she leaned back to meet his eyes. “I guess we both have our fucked up self-therapies, huh?”

A shudder gripped him. This woman survived slavery and untold abuse and rape. “How did you escape hell with no mental or physical damage?”

She let out a mirthless laugh and released his hand to mime swinging a baseball bat. “Ol’ Roy was proficient at caning. He knew how to hit without scarring.” She dropped her hands and a cold deadness hollowed her eyes, her voice. “And he brought in a plastic surgeon to erase wounding cuts when he slipped.” She touched a spot under her thigh and leaned forward to drag a finger over one butt cheek.

The muscles in his face and neck became painfully tense. Calm the fuck down. She was speaking openly about it. He needed to openly listen.

“And these—” She tapped her front teeth “—are porcelain crowns.”

A red fog clouded his vision and he clenched his hands.

“There are scars you haven’t seen…from the vaginal and rectal tearing.”

His fist slammed into the seat in front of him, again and again.

“Jay, stop.” She twisted her head toward the door where Colson stood, facing the lot and ignoring Jay’s rage like a good bodyguard.

He couldn’t hit hard enough, couldn’t obliterate her words or the images ripping out his heart.

“Stop, stop, stop.” Her voice chanted through him.