Learning Secrets

Chase has turned his face away from me, eyes closed, muttering something under his breath, but I can't make it out. Because my brain can't process anything right now except those scars.

I'm gaping, open mouthed at Chase. That thick, braided, too-pink skin, in ridges and waves. I only saw a slice of it, but it's obviously a landscape that covers a swathe of his back.

"Chase—"

"I got burned," he says. He won't meet my eyes. "Don't look at me like that. It was years ago."

I swallow, trying to find my way past the shock so I don't embarrass him further. "I'm sorry. It isn't . . . I mean, I'm not shocked because it's a big deal. I mean . . . that must have hurt?"

He huffs, then winces. But he doesn't say more.

I'm at a loss—want to make him feel better, but also have so many questions. He gets more and more uncomfortable as I stare at him.

Finally, his lips twist and he turns his head to meet my gaze. "Look, it's . . . they're ugly, okay? I don't like showing them to people. They're gross." His eyes skitter away and something in my chest squeezes at the vulnerability there.

Here's this huge guy, biceps like tree-trunks, and he's embarrassed about his body.

I put a hand on his shoulder, careful not to add more discomfort. "Don't apologize. That's . . . it's not as bad as you think."

He huffs again. "Yeah, it only makes pretty girls recoil in horror. No big."

"Not horror," I say softly, tearing another sterile pad open because I dropped the other one when I jumped back. "Surprise. Don't you know, scars are sexy?"

It was meant to be comforting. Something I would have said to a friend. But his eyes snap to meet mine, like he thinks I'm mocking.

Then I realize I'm not locked in here with Aiden. This isn't Lester, or one of my guy friends back home. This is Chase, who treats me like he's my father, shows up everywhere he isn't wanted, and leads my sister on.

I'm not sure what those thoughts do to my face, but his brows pinch down into a v and he looks away.

I clear my throat again, and try to be brisk. Pull his hand with the pad away from his cheek and check the bleeding. It's mostly stopped. "This'll hurt, sorry." I swipe the alcohol pad over the cut twice. Chase hisses, but doesn't move, or say anything.

Then I start unpeeling butterfly Band-Aids. One by one, I pull the sides of the split together. But his skin's still damp from the sterile stuff. "Close your eyes," I mutter. He does, and I blow on the skin to finish drying it.

Chase's breath shudders out and mine stops. Neither of us moves. The tension thickens like fog.

Then his green-gold eyes open again and I have to move.

Suddenly all business, I focus on the split skin, stick the little white crosses down while I hold the cut together, probably a little harder than I have to. Chase keeps his eyes down and only winces when I forget and lean on his shoulder.

But after another minute he's patched up. If there's a puffy black eye developing on that side, at least the split is clean. The medics will know if he needs more.

I throw the pads and wrappers in the trash, roll off the gloves, pack up the first aid kit and wash my hands. Chase gingerly touches his face.

"Thanks," he rumbles without looking at me.

"You're welcome." We're back to being cold. Distant. That's a good thing.

The space where one of us might have said something else is filled with the sound of my phone dinging. I dig it out of my back pocket, wondering why I'm not fleeing Chase.

I'm so distracted, the text takes a second to sink in.

I'll come get you.

Where are you?

I blink.

Aiden.

Right.

I'm seeing him tonight. Getting bound again.

Good.

Something deep in my stomach shifts uneasily.

I stare at Aiden's text again, half-thrilled, half-shamed. But I don't want to think about what's happened here, or what it means—about me, or anyone else. So I text back:

Im at group.

The youth center.

"I have to go," I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket, not meeting his eyes.

Chase doesn't look up. "So, Aiden's your boyfriend now?"

"Like that's any of your business?"

"Aiden's always my business."

"How do you figure?"

Chase sighs. "He used to be my best friend. For years. I understand what being close to him means better than you do, trust me."

My jaw drops at the same time I mentally scan the conversations with Aiden about the Shine, and Chase . . . he never mentioned this. Is Chase lying?

That uneasiness churns in my stomach again. Chase is a lot of things. But liar doesn't seem a likely contender.

"Well, Aiden isn't my best friend. And no matter how well you knew him, you know nothing about me. So keep your judgments to yourself." The words sound harder than I meant them.

Chase's plump lips press thin. There isn't an ounce of give in him which pisses me off more than it should.

"You know the Shades target addicts?" he snaps. "I know that because that's how they got Aiden. And when he joined them he changed—not for the better. Following him almost got me killed. No exaggeration. If you're getting bound, you're in danger. Period. And if you join the Shades, it's as good as throwing your life away. It'll change you into someone you don't want to be. Guaranteed." He huffs. "If it doesn't kill you first."

"Is that how you got those scars?" I spit at him, unable to resist retaliating by poking his soft-spot—and hating myself for it when he flinches.

He stands abruptly, turns away from me to tuck his shirt in. But I can see how gingerly he's moving. I fold my arms. He needs those ribs checked.

"Thanks again," he says as he gets to his feet and starts for the door. Then his shoulders slump. "Maybe . . . maybe I'm wrong."

Disarmed, I drop my arms, shove my hands in my pockets. "About which part?"

He glances at me over his shoulder. "Maybe you will make a good Shade," he says darkly, then walks out.