Page 18 of More Than Scars

Terror tore through me, especially when his eyes widened. All I could do was duck my head and freeze, half-deafened by my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

“Bowie?” He murmured, talking to me like he was afraid that I was about to bolt.

Was I?

Shit.

Maybe?

I was close to it anyway.

“There’s no need for stage makeup,” he said, reaching for me before letting his hand drop. “You’re beautiful the way you are.”

My feet took over before my brain could process what he’d said to me. No way had he just called me beautiful. Me? No fuckin’ way, not when he could see not only the mess on my face but also the scars carved across my shoulder, down my arm, and slashing over my chest. I fled to my room and secured the door with a soft click, a sob catching in my throat at the thought that anyone would find the ruin of me beautiful. Not when I looked like some tragic train wreck.

Chapter Eight

Pressley

I wanted to go to him, comfort him, and assure him all I saw was beauty and not the scars he clearly hid from everyone. Only he didn’t realize the physical scars weren’t the issue. No, this ran much deeper. It was the mental ones he’d struggled to get past, and it may require an unbiased third party to assist him with that in the form of therapy.

Who hurt him?

That was the real question, and one my mind was currently at war with. If it were another human that had caused this, I needed to know who and ensure they were banned from every show. They’d never hurt Bowie again, not on my watch. Protective I’d always been, but something about Bowie resonated deep within me. Deny it as I may, this wasn’t just about being a band manager, this was about me wanting him, craving him, and needing him on a much deeper level.

Would he let me in if I knocked on the door?

Just as I raised my hand to knock, Tony came around the corner. A curious brow cocked.

“Everything okay, man?”

“I-I’m not sure. Could you, um, could you make sure he’s okay?”

“Do I even want to know what happened?”

“I’ll let him tell you, but I can assure you nothing I saw changes the way I feel about him.” Shit, had I just let the cat out of the bag? My brain and mouth were not on the same page here. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room.” Without another glance, I walked across the hall and closed the door behind me.

Those scars were thick, so the wounds must’ve run deep and zigzagged in all directions across his shoulder, torso, and his handsome face. The look of terror in his eyes as mine scoured his body was the worst. Never ever would I purposely make another feel less worthy, especially not over something they couldn’t control. But all I saw was Bowie, the man I wished to hold, run my fingers through his long locks, and kiss those sweet lips. I’d trace each scar, pressing gentle kisses atop them so he’d see they didn’t bother me. They were a part of who he was and spoke of his past, but they didn’t define him in any way, and it was important to me that he see that.

I tossed and turned all night. Bowie’s terrified face at the forefront of my mind. I’d lost count of how many times I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, poised and ready to text him, only to set it back down. The thought crossed my mind to ask Tony if Bowie was okay, but that felt like overstepping. Tony would comfort him until Bowie felt comfortable enough to open up to me.

Hopefully someday.

Wide awake with zero chance of sleeping tonight, I resorted to a trick my mom and I used to share when neither of us could sleep—baking. By the time I heard Bowie and Tony up and moving around, I’d already pulled a batch of fresh cinnamon rolls from the oven and had croissants cooling. Scrambled eggs were nearly done, and the bacon was warming in the oven, waiting for them to emerge.

“Good morning,” I did my best to sound chipper as they entered the kitchen. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good,” Tony said. “The house smells freaking amazing.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I batted my lashes like a silly damsel. “We’ve got cinnamon rolls, croissants, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Coffee is per order, and the orange juice is in the fridge.” So glad I’d stocked up ahead of time.

“Bowie?” His lack of eye contact struck me right in the heart. “Are you hungry?” When he didn’t reply, I glanced over at Tony. He nodded for me to go to Bowie while he stayed glued to the coffee machine. Tentatively, my legs carried me over to him as I approached him much as you would a scared cat. “Bowie,” I wanted to reach out and brush his hair aside so I could see his face. But did I have permission to touch him? Hell, was he even gay? The simplest of touches sent most straight men into a blind rage. Yeah, I've lived that mistake one too many times.

“Yeah, um, I could eat.” Still no eye contact. Fuck.

“I’ll fix you a plate.” When I turned around, Tony handed me a fully loaded one."Thank you,"I mouthed and returned to my um…

Crossing a line was what he was.