Behind These Scars

  Behind These Scars

  Lilah Grey

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Luke

  2. Libby

  3. Libby

  4. Libby

  5. Libby

  6. Libby

  7. Libby

  8. Libby

  9. Luke

  10. Luke

  11. Libby

  12. Libby

  13. Luke

  14. Luke

  15. Luke

  16. Libby

  17. Libby

  18. Luke

  19. Libby

  20. Libby

  21. Libby

  22. Libby

  23. Luke

  24. Libby

  25. Luke

  26. Luke

  27. Libby

  28. Luke

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with Lilah

  Copyright © 2017 by Lilah Grey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  LUKE - Five years ago…

  I was supposed to meet Emma over an hour ago.

  I turn off the faucet and wring the washcloth over the sink. Water splashes against its porcelain basin and circles the drain. My stomach drops as I hear Libby's soft, low moans drift into the bathroom from the other end of the hallway.

  Emma can wait.

  “I’m coming, Lippy,” I whisper to myself as I let the washcloth unfurl in front of me.

  I’ve called her Lippy for almost as long as she’s been my stepsister. Whenever she’d get anxious or nervous, she’d bite her bottom lip. It used to get red and swollen like she busted it in a fight with another girl. My mother hated it but nagging never helped. It made Libby chew her lip more.

  I considered Chewy as a nickname, but I didn’t want her to think that she resembled Chewbacca. Libby didn’t take to it at first, but eventually, she came around.

  I step out of the bathroom and hurry down the hall.

  “God damn it, Luke!” my mother screams as we bump into each other.

  She holds out her hands in front of her, shaking them as though they're covered in something sticky. Her mouth hangs open as she glances at the wet splotch on her shirt.

  Anger flashes in her eyes as she looks up at me. “I’ll have to change shirts now.”

  I want to tell her it’s only water; it will dry in a couple of minutes. But I hold back. It’s not worth the fight. It never is.

  I grit my teeth, moving past her as I continue to Libby’s room.

  “Shouldn’t you be with Emma, anyway?” my mom calls after me, still wiping at her shirt. “Never leave a beautiful girl waiting, especially when her last name’s Pace.”

  I pause, balling my hands into fists. Water from the washcloth drips off my knuckles and onto the carpet. The muscles in my arms and neck tense up as I feel my patience for my mother waning.

  Libby moans again, and I react, forgetting my mother as I walk to her room.

  The Pace family’s the wealthiest in Milton and probably in all of Texas. Their reputation extended well beyond our small town. They’d built their legacy on oil and gas and owned one of the largest energy conglomerates in the southwestern United States.

  None of it mattered to me.

  The only thing that matters is on the other side of this door. Libby. She’s in bed, heartbroken and sick, and I’m going to do whatever I can to help ease the pain.

  My best friend, Damian—scratch that. My ex-best friend Damian did something unforgivable to her. Libby wants me to leave it alone, but I can’t. I can’t sit back; not after what he did to her.

  The next time I see Damian…

  Venom pounds in my veins as I sit down on the edge of Libby’s bed, remembering the sadness on her face when she came home that night. But as soon as our eyes meet, the anger recedes. Libby’s smile does that to me. She’s so beautiful, looking up at me with those hazel eyes. I lose myself in them.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, dabbing her forehead with the washcloth, wiping stray tendrils of hair off her face.

  “Much better, now.” Her voice is brittle, and I know she’s hurting. I know she’s putting up a façade for me. She’s strong, but no one can be this strong all the time.

  A few seconds later she winces, whimpering as she grabs her temples.

  “It hurts so much,” she says, tears squeaking out of her shuttered eyes. “Why does it hurt so much?”

  I don’t know how to respond. Libby doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve any of the bad things that happen to her, that continue to happen to her.

  I wish I could shoulder her burden, take away the pain. I wish…

  “Libby,” my mother coos from the doorway.

  She’s changed shirts.

  She holds a mug in one hand while the other fingers the silver, heart-shaped locket around her neck. It was a present from my father. He died of a heart attack many years ago, but she’s kept it, never taking it off for anything.

  The tension in my neck returns. It grows as my mother crosses the room. My jaw clenches when she stops next to me and bends over.

  “I can take it from here, Luke,” she says, stroking the side of my face.

  Her touch burns my skin. I want to make a scene, but not in front of Libby. She deserved quiet. She deserved peace. I wasn't going to deprive her of either.

  I swallow my pride and let my mother's words roll off me.

  “I’m sure Emma’s wondering where you are,” my mother whispers. And then in a more sinister tone: “You better not embarrass me.”

  If it weren’t for Libby…

  My stomach drops as I glance at Libby again. She’s still in pain, but there’s nothing I can do for her. I’m helpless. I hate this feeling. I hate not having any control.

  “Goodnight, Lippy,” I whisper in her ear. “Get some rest. I’ll make you pancakes tomorrow. Would you like that?”

  A smile creeps onto her lips as she opens her eyes. “Yes,” she croaks.

  I make to leave, but Libby grabs my hand as I stand up.

  “You promise?”

  I wink at her. “I promise.”

  I glance at my mother. We share a look that says more than words ever could, and she takes my spot as I leave.

  “I hate seeing my baby sick,” she says, sitting down on the bed, stroking Libby’s forehead with the back of her hand.

  My temper flares out of control as I storm out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The entire house rattles and shakes as I slam the front door behind me.

  I look back at Libby’s bedroom window, light flickering as my mother’s silhouette moves through the room.

  She didn’t love Libby.

  No one loved Libby like I did.

  1

  Luke

  What happened, Libby?

  The thought swirls in my head as scotch circles my tongue, burning as it slides down my throat. It's been years since I've been back to Milton, and judging from the clientele here, nothing's changed.

  Buck Wild? Stripping? She had so much potential… if only…

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, sweetie?” the blonde bartender asks in a honeyed tone.

  She bends over the counter, placing her manicured hand on mine. Her fake tits balloon under a revealing flannel shirt, and a slew of glitter shimmers across her cleavage and up her neck.

  Did her makeup routine include a self-inflicted glitter bombing? Christ.

  Sweetie… I repeat the word in my head. Her perfume,
flowery and cloying, irritates me almost as much as her misplaced terms of endearment.

  Her fingers delicately trace my own as she waits for my response. I let her wait, taking a sip of my scotch as I eye her pretty face over my glass.

  Was she my type? Not really, but I could imagine her full pink lips wrapped around my cock, sliding back and forth. Under any other circumstances, I might make it happen. But not tonight.

  Tonight, I have more important business to take care of, none of which involved me getting my dick wet.

  “You could grab me another scotch when I’m done,” I say, sliding my hand out from under hers as I turn around and face the main stage.

  “Asshole,” she mutters under her breath. I hear the thump of her boots against the wood floor as she stalks off toward the other end of the bar.

  She’s probably right, but I wasn’t here to make friends or get laid.

  A fog machine blows puffs of gray smoke onto the stage as multi-colored strobe lights dance wildly.

  This isn’t my scene. It’s dark and dingy and reeks of smoke, dried sweat, and poor life choices. I’ll need a shower after this. I might even incinerate my clothes for good measure. And then, just to be safe, I’ll order a full panel of inoculations. Tetanus, hepatitis, the works.

  You can never be too careful.

  A clone of the blonde bartender shakes her ass on stage while a motley crew of loud and lewd men shoves filthy, crinkled dollar bills into her G-string.

  My jaw clenches as I picture Libby in the girl’s place—the same men pawing at her, attempting to fondle her tits and ass.

  How the fuck did she end up here?

  A part of me hopes that I don’t see Libby up there tonight. If I’m lucky, I can grab her before she takes to the stage. But there’s another part of me that’s curious…

  It had been years since we'd last seen each other, and I knew she'd look nothing like the few images of her I had left in my head.

  I pound the rest of my scotch, slamming the glass down on the bar. I can feel the warmth of blonde bartender’s glare on my cheek. I turn to meet it, smiling, but she looks away. She’s focused on milking cash from the two regulars in front of her.

  I chuckle, turning my attention back to the stage.

  So far there’s no sign of Libby. Maybe my information’s wrong. Maybe she doesn’t work here.

  I could only hope.

  Then again, that would complicate things. Sure I have a network of connections and back channels I could draw from to find her, but that would take time. Time that neither she or I have.

  She’s in trouble, and I need to find her before it’s too late.

  My eyes drift to a curvy brunette in a dark corner of the room. Her back’s to me, but I hardly mind; the view’s nice. Her long legs lead to a perfectly shaped ass, barely hidden underneath a pair of tattered daisy dukes.

  “God damn.”

  I exhale a long breath, leaning back against the bar, admiring her figure as she bends over and sets the drinks down on the table.

  My cock hardens as I imagine my hands running over her silky thighs, grabbing fistfuls of that perfect ass. An urge begins to build inside me—primal and unrelenting—a need to peel off those shorts.

  I wasn’t usually one for cowgirls, but this one could ride me any day of the week. Multiple times, preferably.

  A few moments later, she disappears through a door at the other end of the building, leaving me with a tinge of disappointment.

  I’m not used to women having this effect on me.

  Women like her are a dime a dozen in my world, but there’s something different about her. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull that keeps drawing my attention back.

  I entertain the idea of following her back there, but only for a brief moment before coming to my senses. That’s a restraining order waiting to happen.

  A burst of cheers and whistles erupt and pull my mind away from the girl. I look back to the stage and immediately see the cause of the commotion.

  Dear Lord. Seriously?

  Another dancer has joined the blonde on stage, a petite redhead with bolted-on tits. They’re making out, hands running all over each other’s scantily clad bodies.

  Milton, Texas: keeping it classy since… never.

  Although I find none of what’s unfolding in front of me appealing, I can’t help but respect their hustle. They know their audience, know what they want, and are more than willing to trade a few minutes of it for fistfuls of cash.

  It’s quite effective, too; dollar bills are leaving hands quicker than water from a faucet.

  I grab my glass and bring it to my lips but taste only a dry rim. It’s at this moment that I regret being an ‘asshole’ to the bartender.

  Never piss off your supplier.

  I sigh and turn my head to the other end of the bar. Another man has joined the group. The bartender is in full form tonight, giggling, twirling her hair as she bounces up and down, tits on the verge of spilling out of her top. Each one of the men takes turns trying to outshine the last at being the loudest, most obnoxious man of the bunch.

  Nothing brings out the worst in men more than shoving a single, attractive, and not to mention flirtatious, woman in front of them. Throw some booze into the mix, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

  The saddest part of it all is that each one of them believes that their constant one-upmanship will amount to something.

  Played like a fucking fiddle.

  I tap my ring against the glass in an attempt to grab the bartender’s attention. Nothing. I do it again as I clear my throat.

  She glances in my direction. Progress. Sort of.

  She shakes her head, wagging her finger at me as she turns back around.

  Well, shit.

  It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. I consider hopping over the counter and pouring myself a drink, but decide against it. I’m not interested in getting into an altercation with the bouncers. Not that I can’t handle myself, but it would be pointless to pick such an idiotic battle, especially over shitty scotch.

  Fine. If she needs a little motivation, I’ll give her some.

  I grab my wallet and fish out a few crisp, twenty-dollar bills. A small peace offering for my previous indiscretions. I hold them above my head and wave them like a white flag, surrendering for the moment.

  It’s almost amusing how fast she sniffs them out. Seconds later, like a moth to a flame, she breaks away from the group and marches toward me. Three sets of eyes bore holes on the side of my face.

  Don't worry guys; you'll be freed from your money as soon as I get my refill.

  “Scotch?”

  The bartender snatches the bills from my hand and turns around before I have the chance to respond.

  “Please.”

  I smirk, watching her as she pours a few fingers worth of Cutty Sark into a glass. She brings the bottle upright and begins to place it on the shelf when I ask her to add a little more.

  Her body tenses for a moment, but she tips the bottle forward and allows more of the scotch to trickle into the glass.

  The amber liquid swills as she slides it over to me, some of it sloshing over the rim and spilling onto the bar’s sticky surface.

  I lift the glass up, inspecting it in the dim light.

  “I think this might be the most expensive glass of Cutty Sark I’ve had.”

  “Is that so?”

  I smile and nod, taking a sip a few seconds later.

  “Don’t be an asshole and you don’t get the asshole tax.”

  I nearly spit out the small amount of scotch in my mouth, but I manage to swallow it. She was beginning to grow on me…

  Like a tumor—but growing on me nonetheless.

  “Thanks for the tip, sweetie,” I say, throwing her word back at her.

  There’s a slight twitch in her left eyelid as she stares at me, splotches of red forming on her neck and cheeks. Her lips part for a moment, as though she’s about to fire off another verb
al assault, but she clamps them back down into a thin line.

  I could reel her back in with a few kind words—it might even be fun. A little challenge. I consider it for a moment but realize I've already been here for far too long, and it simply wasn't worth it. I'd fill my needs later.

  “Is Libby working tonight?” I ask, taking another sip.

  A smile spreads on her lips, growing wide until two full rows of bleached teeth gleam back at me. She has something over me. Information. And the expression on her face tells me that she thinks it’s sufficient leverage.

  How cute.

  “Libby?” she asks, blinking. “I don’t know a Libby. Well…” She pauses for a moment, tapping her knuckle against her chin. “I have been a little forgetful lately. Maybe…” she says, nodding to my wallet. “Maybe you can refresh my memory.”

  A twenty, a fifty, or a hundred? Hell, she could take every bill in my wallet; it wouldn’t make a dent in my bank account. I might do it just to see her reaction.

  Her eyes widen as she watches me flip through the bills. She’s like a kid waking up to new presents under the tree on Christmas morning. So many possibilities…

  I take out a crisp hundred and set it on the counter in front of her.

  She tries to snatch it, but I pin it down with my fingertip. Not so fast, dear.

  “How’s that amnesia?” I ask, arching my eyebrow.

  She folds her arms across her chest. “She’s working tonight.”

  “Right now?”

  Before she responds, I hear a crash of glass behind me. Chairs screech against the wood floor and topple over as shouts and cries cut through the shitty music blaring overhead.

  “You goddamn fuckin’ bitch!”

  I turn to see a scrawny, scraggly-haired man, a bit shorter than me, shaking the waitress I noticed earlier. Her cowboy hat nearly falls to the floor as she tries to cover her face with her hands.

  Blood pounds in my head as I listen to her squeals and pleas for help. No one’s responding.

  Fucking coward.

  My knuckles turn white as I grip my glass. A few more seconds and it would likely shatter in my hand. I let it drop on the counter as I launch myself in the direction of the waitress. The bouncers swoop in just as I make it halfway there, snatching the asshole up and dragging him away before any more damage is done.