Tortured Sinner by Tessa James
Johnny - 6
My head fucking aches.
And the throbbing in my side doesn’t seem to want to let up.
I down another shot of cheap whiskey in an attempt to numb the pain.
At the time, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’ve been punched in the face too many times to count. But the lingering misery of this incident is lasting much longer than the rest.
I avoid glancing in the mirror while I fill the bath and climb in, the sting of the hot water a relief on my skin. I slip down the side until it’s only my head above the steaming liquid, then close my eyes and breathe deeply.
A year ago, if you told me I’d be covered in bruises and running errands for a criminal underground, I’d laugh my ass off.
Mister aspiring artist turned into errand boy? No way.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always had a rebellious streak about me, but nothing like what I’ve gotten myself into now.
I suck in a breath and fully submerge myself. I stay under and let the burning desire for fresh oxygen bring the rush of adrenaline to my system that I so desperately need. The need for air has me gasping once I break through the surface.
My chest heaves and I grin, ready to take on this day.
I dry off and dress quickly in a band tee and jeans. I slide my chain over my head and tuck it into my shirt. A glance at the clock has me shoving my wallet and phone into my back pockets and snatching my keys off the counter. I should be more prepared, but showing up will have to be good enough.
I make it to the door but double back to take another shot. My senses and the pain dull slightly with the liquid warming its way down my chest.
I walk at a casual pace down the stairs and across the courtyard. Usually, I’d ruffle the hair on Billy’s head and tease him about his book of choice, but he must already be at school for the day. At least, that’s what I hope.
I go down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact the way I normally do. I pop into Bram’s and head straight to the counter where a cup already waits for me.
“Thanks, Bram.” I fish for my wallet, but he holds his hand out to stop me.
“On the house today. Looks like you could use it.” Bram stares at me both critically and concerned. “I know you told me not to ask questions, but Johnny, I think you’ve seen better days, kid.”
His throaty, worn-out voice cuts through me. He’s usually on my ass about taking care of myself, but the concern in his tone is the strongest it ever has been.
I’ve known this man for years. I’ve been coming to his shop since I was a kid. And since my cousin is in and out of deployments overseas, Bram is the closest thing to family I have left around here.
“Do I need to be worried?” He bags up a donut and shoves it across to me.
I shake my head. I don’t want to lie to him, but I have to. “No. But I’m sure that’s not going to stop you.” I swipe the bag from the counter and hold it in the air between us. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Bram cups his hand and drags it across the counter, scooping crumbs into his palm. “Good luck today.”
I wave goodbye and leave, the bell of the door clanging on my way out.
* * *
“Ah, Johnny, thanks for joining us.” Professor Brown looks up from her lesson plan when I come into the room. She straightens up and checks her watch. “Ten minutes late. Not your worst, not your best.” She points toward an empty chair. “Take a seat.”
She seems more fazed by my tardiness than she does the condition of my busted face. The shock value must have worn off a dozen black eyes ago.
I move in the direction she motioned, only to stop dead in my tracks when I see who’s in the spot next to it. My heart pounds a little harder, and I thank God for that extra shot of whiskey I swallowed before I left my house.
Brown speaks up. “Something wrong Mr. Jones?”
The girl and I make eye contact but she quickly looks away to focus on the teacher. For a second, I’m captivated by the most enchanting blue I’ve ever seen.
I settle into the seat, taking a sip of my coffee and leaning back. I flit my gaze to the girl and let it wander down her profile.
"Pass this behind you, please." Brown hands the boy in the front row a packet which makes its way to me.
The girl keeps her attention ahead, not deigning to look my way.
The professor signals to the board. “You’ll want to copy the adjustments to the syllabus.”
Realizing how incredibly unprepared I am, I reach out and gently touch the girl’s arm to get her attention. I whisper, “Do you have an extra pen?”
Her jaw tenses, but she doesn’t move. “Yes.”
“Can I borrow it?”
She exhales and turns to rummage through her backpack. “Here.” She shoves the thing across the table at me.
“Thanks.” I click the top and jot the stuff onto the paper.
She takes her hand and sort of dusts off the spot where I had touched her like she’s trying to get rid of boy cooties.
The old me would have never given her this reaction.
I study the area my finger grazed her and recall the way it felt. I shouldn’t care about the strange electricity that seemed to crackle at my touch, but I do.
I narrow my eyes when I notice something unusual. Her forearm appears to have makeup on it, and near where she rubbed my touch away, it reveals a purplish-green hue under it, sort of resembling a bruise.
The more I take it in, the more I realize that’s exactly what it is.
People get hurt all the time—why would she feel obligated to cover it up?
My mind races at the implications. I fight to pay attention to Brown ramble on about course expectations and extra credit opportunities, when the only thing I’m concerned with is what happened to this seemingly very good girl.
The rest of the class goes by at both a rate too slow and too fast. I glance over at my seatmate every now and then, but she’s completely focused on paying attention.
Class is finally dismissed, and students funnel out. I try to dawdle, but considering I don’t have anything to pack up, I look like an idiot wasting time. And if I keep this up, Brown will catch me on the way out and lecture me about being late.
I slowly sneak out the door when the girl is almost done gathering her stuff. I lean against the wall outside of the room, and for no apparent reason, I wait for her. I have no clue what I’ll say. I guess I could probably start with apologizing for being a dick, but she’s probably past sorry at this point. And having her hate me is the best option for all of us.
So, what the hell am I doing?
There’s just something about her that draws me in. She’s beautiful, obviously, but it’s not only that. There’s this pureness to her. This mysterious light that shines through my darkness. This longing to know her, to be around her. Even if it’s strictly platonic.
The people in the hall pass in a blur along with each antagonizing minute.
When I no longer hear chatter inside the room, I poke my head in to find it completely empty except for the teacher I need to avoid. My gaze falls on the door on the opposite wall. She must have gone out that way instead.
But did she do it because it was convenient, or was it to avoid me?