Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits, #1)(62)

So, Noah smoked pot. I drank beer. We made a beautiful couple. “I’ll never smoke pot or do drugs. I don’t want to do anything that messes with the mind. It’s a delicate thing.”

Because I was terrified to do anything that would flip the switch that would make me like my mother. Studies suggested there was anywhere between a four and twenty-four percent chance I’d inherit her manic little genes. “If you’re going to try to get custody of your brothers, aren’t you scared they’re going to do a drug test at some point? I mean, if I was the judge, I would.”

He had been feathering kisses into my hair, causing goose bumps on the back of my neck, when he abruptly stopped. “I guess you’re right.”

I pulled away and stared into his eyes. “I don’t care that you smoke pot. I mean, I’m not going to join you and I’d prefer to hang out with you when you’re sober, but I’m not looking to change you.”

Noah shifted so that his hair fell into his eyes and kept his face expressionless, not even a smile. He scratched at the stubble on his face. “Why didn’t you go to Hoffman?”

“Because my father thinks art is as evil as the devil himself.” And that if I continued to indulge my talents, I’d turn exactly into my mother.

“That makes no sense.”

No, it didn’t, but what could I do? “My mom was an artist. He associates her talent with her behavior.”

Noah tugged on a curl. “You’re not crazy.”

I tried to force a reassuring smile onto my face, but came up short. “My mom came off her meds because they inhibited her creativity. For every painting my mom accomplished, I could tell you the time frame of her manic episode. Like when I turned nine and instead of taking the time to sing happy birthday, she painted the Parthenon on our living room wall. You can’t blame my dad for wanting to protect me from becoming someone who could do this.” I held out my sleeved arms as proof.

Noah reached for my arms, but I snapped them away. He pressed his lips together and then unexpectedly yanked off his shirt, revealing all of his six-pack glory. He thrust his bicep in my face.

I sucked in air. “Oh, God, Noah.” A circle of red skin protruded from his arm, the same exact size as—my stomach dropped— a cigar. I reached out to touch it then withdrew my hand.

“It’s okay. You can touch it. It stopped hurting a few days after it happened. It won’t bite your fingers off. It’s a scar. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

I placed my fingers over my mouth, swallowing bile. “What happened?”

“Foster parent number one. My fault. I decided to go hero and keep him from beating his biological kid.” He said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly, as if branding happened to everyone. “And this—” Noah touched the top tip of his tattoo on his other arm “—is from where I used my body to protect Tyler and Jacob from debris falling in the fire.”

The one-inch wide scar ran down the middle of his cross tattoo and stopped at the bottom edge. The top of the scar continued onto his back. I tore my eyes away from it to study the design of his tattoo. A single rose weaved through the black Celtic cross. Each tip of the cross bore the name of his mother, father or brothers. The heaviness in my chest squeezed my lungs. I traced the line of the cross, not the scar.

“It’s a beautiful tribute to them.” I couldn’t imagine losing everything. At least I still had my father. I might have to jump through hoops for the rest of my life to please him, but at least for the moment, I still had … I think … his love.

Noah took the hand tracing his tattoo and kissed my fingers. “Yes, it is. My parents would be proud of each scar.”

My eyes snapped to his. “I didn’t mean … I meant the … tattoo.”

He licked his lips before flashing a mischievous smile. “I know. I showed you mine, now it’s time you showed me yours.”

I shook my head back and forth before he even finished his statement. “It’s not the same. You’re strong. You helped people. I … I trusted the wrong person and then I go all pathetic and don’t remember a thing. Anyhow, you’re a guy. Scars on guys are, like, sexy. Scars on girls … that’s just … ugly.” And there, I said it—out loud.

His hold on my hand tightened and his eyes darkened into thunderclouds. “Fuck that. There is no shame in trusting your mother. She f*cked up. Not you. And as for that pathetic bullshit—f*ck that, too. You are not pathetic. You had the guts to return to school and continue to live your life like nothing happened. Me? I lost it all and flushed anything left of me down the damn toilet. Now that’s pathetic.”

Noah released my hand and advanced on me like an angry lion. In lightning-fast movements he wrapped his arms around my waist and laid me flat on the bed. My heart pounded as he hovered over me. “Baby, no one would ever make the mistake of using the word ugly with you. Especially with me around.” He pushed the curls off my face, his fingers leaving a burning trail. “Everything about you is beautiful and sexy as hell.”

I turned my head to the side, unable to hold his gaze. “There’s more.” Because there’s always more. My mother guaranteed that. I grabbed the hem of my sweater and before I lost my nerve, tugged the material over my head and twisted slightly, revealing not only my black lace bra and arms, but the one scar no one but my mother and father knew existed.