The Craving - Marooned

16. Scars

I clambered ashore, eyes on the ground before me.

He may be naked, but I was a grown-up woman. He had nothing about him I hadn't seen yet.

And I would get out of my wet clothes, too.

Breathing deeply, trying to calm the blood that tried to rise into my cheeks, I peeled off my jeans. Not an easy task when you're standing barefoot on rocky ground and your pants drip with seawater.

I finally succeeded without falling over and hung them over a rock. My blouse joined them moments later.

I considered taking off my bra and panties, too. They were cold and wet against my skin. He wasn't looking at me anyway.

I gave him a furtive glance.

Still facing the sea as he sat there, stony-faced, sharp jawline, his elbows rested on his thighs, his hands clenched into fists—a predator, coiled and ready to jump.

How would it feel to touch that man and to be touched by him?

Stop it.

I'd leave my underwear on.

As I passed behind him to get a rocky perch of my own, my gaze fell onto his back.

I drew an audible breath before I could stop myself.

Scars formed a crisscross pattern all over his skin. Old, white scars, long and straight, from his shoulders all the way down.

I gritted my teeth, looked ahead, and sat down on a rock. He didn't move, perched on his own boulder two steps away from me.

These weren't the scars you get from an accident. They were too many, too methodical, too deliberate. Just thinking of the pain they implied made my stomach cramp.

Who would do that to a human being? Why? Where?

Where—that question was innocent enough.

"Where are you from?" I said.

He shrugged, briefly, without looking at me. "I've spent time in more places than I could count."

"And originally?"

"Morocco."

I looked at his scars again. I've heard tales about unwarranted police violence there, but Farid didn't seem the type who'd attract that kind of attention. Or would he?

"It's not what you think," he said.

"What?"

"The scars. Aren't you thinking about them?" His gaze was still on the water, and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

A sensitive topic. Still, I couldn't stop myself. "Who did that? And why?"

He huffed. "It was a long time ago. And some things are best left in the past, where they belong. My scars... they are one of them."

The finality in his last words prevented me from digging further into the topic.

His stance hadn't changed. He sat there like that famous black sculpture of a thinker. But his body was more a fighter's than a philosopher's. He wasn't tall, but wiry muscle moved under his smooth skin. Smooth everywhere but on his ravaged back.

Realizing that I was gritting my teeth, I tried to relax. It had been a long time ago, he had said. But wounds like that would change a man for life, no?

They would breed hate and bitterness.

He uncoiled, sat straight, and looked at me. "And you? Where are you from?"