An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(53)

She chanced a glance at Max. He appeared amused, his lips twitching as though fighting a grin. “Sure, I’ll come over. Especially if you’re cooking. Man’s gotta eat, right?” He shoveled another slice of pizza into his mouth.

As he lifted his arm, Grace noticed a large scar that ran from under his left pec, horizontally across his ribs, toward his back. Her fingers reached out to touch it before she could stop herself. Not that Max appeared to mind. He looked down at where her fingers traced the deep groove of healed flesh.

“Ah. That,” he mumbled around his food.

“What did this?” she asked quietly.

“A bullet.”

Max’s answer was so matter-of-fact that it took Grace a moment to comprehend what he’d said. When the words settled in her brain, she startled, yanking her hand away. “A bull— Are you serious?”

He nodded, still chewing.

“What happened?”

“My best friend and I got caught up in some shit.”

“Carter?” Max spoke about his friend often. He clearly cared for him, talking of him as more like a brother than a friend.

“Yeah.” He placed his hand on the scar. “This was from a car boost that went wrong.”

Grace sat back, bewilderment prickling her skin. “You’re so cavalier about it.”

“I don’t mean to be. It is what it is and it happened a long time ago.”

“Did it do any damage?”

“Only what you can see. I was lucky. The doc said because of how I pushed Carter out of the way, the bullet missed its true trajectory.” He patted his chest. “My heart.”

Grace frowned. “Wait. You pushed Carter out of the way?”

“Yeah. The f*cker with his finger on the trigger aimed at my boy from across the street.”

“Jesus.” Grace crossed her arms over herself, suddenly cold despite the humidity of the room. “You could have been killed.”

Max shrugged. “He’s my best friend. No one’s allowed to shoot him but me.” He smiled toward the floor.

The plot surrounding Max O’Hare thickened. Bullets, car boosting, and drugs. Oh my. To any normal, sane individual, they were all words that should have had Grace bolting for the door, and hightailing it far, far away. Yet the modesty with which he talked about saving his friend’s life kept her ass firmly in place. There was so much more to him than swagger and rehab and Grace couldn’t deny the hunger to learn it all. The paintings were a mere glimpse into what made him tick.

Max placed his can on the floor and turned toward her, resting his palm on the bed. “I’m not proud of my past, as you well know, but I can’t change it. This scar is just one of the things in my life that remind me of who I don’t want to be.”

“And your tattoo?” she asked, gesturing to the curve of black ink that swept across his shoulder and the upper bicep of his right arm. Grace wanted him to turn around so she could see the rest of it.

He smiled wryly, shaking his head. “That’s a story for another day, I think.”

Disappointed, she nodded in acquiescence.

Grace could understand his point about trying to get away from the past, however. The scars on the skin of her ribs and hip were an ugly reminder of what she’d never allow herself to go through again. Wanting to share, she shifted from her place on the bed’s edge, turned, and slowly lifted her T-shirt.

For a moment, Max appeared puzzled, before his stare landed on the pale scars running in zigzags from underneath her right breast to her hip. Max inhaled deeply, his jaw twitching.

“What did this?” he asked, repeating her question, even though the tone of his voice suggested he knew.

“A size-eleven foot and a kitchen knife.”

The deep rumble that emitted from Max’s throat sounded like a growl. “Motherf*cker.” He exhaled and reached out his hand. “Can I?”

Grace blinked in reply. His large fingers whispered across her scars as if she were made of glass.

“They’re ugly, huh?” She tried to smile around the words, closing her eyes to the sensation of his touch, the tenderness that he drew on her skin with his fingertips.

“No,” Max retorted firmly. “They’re not.”

“You don’t have to lie. It’s okay.”

Max sighed, dropping his hand from her. “When my dad first got cancer, he had tons of surgeries. He had scars everywhere from the top of his head to his belly. I asked him once if they embarrassed him, if he hated them. He laughed and said, ‘How can I hate them? They show everyone what I’ve survived.’ ”

He pressed his palm to her side again, its heat soaked deep into Grace’s bones. His dark stare pinned her in place. “These scars show everyone what you survived, Grace. Don’t you dare be ashamed of them.”

Tears pricked Grace’s eyes and her breath shuddered out, his words fracturing years of self-conscious anxiety and indignity in mere seconds. He moved his hand, cupping her side, moving down toward her hip. The span of his hand was mammoth against her small waist. He licked his lips, his tongue a gorgeous pink. “You’re so soft.”

He shifted closer, their knees touched, and his fingers skimmed the underneath of her bra, sending Grace’s lungs into a frenzy. “I love your hands on me,” she breathed, because it was the truth, because she needed him to know, because she’d die if he took them away.