I drain my glass and watch her, daring her to go.
Go now—while you can.
The way I’m looking at her has her flustered. As if I care. I don’t. I like it. I let my gaze linger on her pretty face until her soft, smooth skin is cherry red. Until she takes my jacket off, revealing a light green sweater and dark gray pants that, from where I stand, seem to have a button and a zipper.
“I—” she starts.
I pour more wine into my glass, causing her to bite down on her lower lip again. “I’m going to go now.” She looks over my shoulder, at the clock, I realize, following her gaze. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. I shouldn’t have come too late.”
Inside my head, it burns and roars. My wants and needs and shoulds; desire and discipline.
Protect her.
Have her.
Soothe her.
Banish her.
I even think of getting on my bike and driving off, just riding far, far, far away until she isn’t near enough to touch and smell. Until I’m not so tempted I feel like I can’t breathe.
I try to swallow, loosen up my throat. Around my glass’s stem, my fingers clench.
My gaze rips up and down her. What’s so special about her? Of all the women, why this one?
I try to focus on her mouth: the defect. I look at the left side of her mouth and think of what it represents and how it looks—all things that should repel me. I think about her ankle, about the scars I felt on her silk-soft belly as I ate her pussy. I try to tell myself it’s not even me she wants. She’d take any company, perhaps.
Or maybe it’s my body. I see the way she looks at me. She wants my abs, my chest, these shoulders that are waning every day I don’t work out. I can’t work out, not for more than an hour or two at a time. I’m so low on sleep, it makes my heart beat fast, and then I think of Ly and end up with my head between my knees.
I conjure an image of myself hugging the toilet bowl—and crying. What woman wants a man who cries every time he falls asleep? What woman wants someone who’s seen a child bleed out and walked away, who’s choked on smoke that billows up off burning corpses?
I can feel her hugging me at her house, on the couch that night. The night I should have realized I can’t do this with her. I can’t creep so close to her. The ground begins to crumple and I slip and fall.
“Anyway…” She steps to the counter, lays my jacket on it. Her brows lift as her eyes roll down me. “I hope you have a good rest of your night.”
She turns toward the door and takes a small step toward it.
“Hey—wait.”
Her feet stop moving and she looks over her shoulder.
“Don’t you want to…come sit down?” I motion at the couch and watch the indecision flit across her face.
“Umm, I don’t—”
“C’mon.” I step toward her, hand out. “Just for a few minutes.”
What are you doing?
I close the distance between us, all thoughts silenced by the rush of blood between my ears and my loud heartbeat. Distantly, I hear myself say, “I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“About business property. In downtown Gatlinburg,” I lie.
Her brows lift, and she turns a little more toward me. “You’re buying something in town?”
I nod. I can feel the pressure in my chest ease as I watch her face…the interest on it. Words pour from my mouth, unplanned and somehow also calculated. “I’m opening a martial arts place, I think. If I can find a good storefront.”
I watch her frown, then swallow. She looks stricken. “Oh. I— didn’t know.”
“It’s a new idea,” I blather—even though it’s not. It was always an option I’d considered, part of the larger plan to get her taken care of. “I don’t know the area, but I’ve looked at a few places. I was hoping you could take a look at a few of the listings and share your thoughts.”
Her brows draw even more tightly together. “Right now?”
I nod, and feel the fist just under my throat loosen. “I’m going tomorrow to see more.”
She looks at me, then quickly down, licking her lips. “Okay. I guess that would work.”
SEVEN
GWENNA
He looks relieved for a long moment, and then puzzled. Maybe I’m giving him a wide-eyed look, because right then he laughs—that chuckle I love, his striking face gone soft and gentle. “Gwenna…I won’t bite you.”
He holds his hand out. “Come with me.”
I look down at his hand. My body starts to sing, and a scared kind of anger simmers in my chest. “You know…you don’t owe me anything. Like…hanging out. From my angle, things are fine between us.” I take a small step back, away from his hand, and struggle for something to tack on. Something about being neighbors. But I can’t think of anything to say to frame our experience in significance.
We sparred. We messed around one night. The end.
It’s a painful almost.
I shake my head and look back toward the door. I can’t even trust myself to sit on the couch with him. He could spread me on the floor right now and I would let him have me. I have never, ever felt this way—and I’m not sure I like it anymore.
The dazed pain in his eyes is enough to make me take another step back.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. His eyes squeeze shut. He bows his head and rubs his forehead with his fingers, letting out a long, unsteady breath.
“I messed things up.” His eyes flash briefly up to mine, but they sink quickly to the floor.
“What do you mean?” My stomach feels like someone turned it inside out.
He blows another long breath out and shakes his head again. Through the barrier of his fingers, I can see his eyes are shut.
He turns away from me. I watch his shoulders rise and fall…and rise…and fall. He walks over to the couch and puts his hands on the spine, letting his head hang in between his outstretched arms.
I messed things up. So…he cares? Is that what that means? My heart races. I step closer to him. Whether I’m responding to his obvious distress or creeping closer because I want to be near him—for my own selfish purposes—I can’t be sure.
When I get within arms’ reach, he turns around, propping his hips against the couch’s spine. His eyes on mine are gravely serious. His face is tense.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
When he doesn’t answer, I, too, lean against the couch. I look at him, and find his eyes trained on me. I can’t read them, but there is something about his gaze that makes me feel compelled to answer.
I exhale and look from him down to my boots. “My childhood cat. Sugar.” I look out in front of me before my gaze gravitates to his. “She lived to be seventeen in human years. Spent most of them very healthy. The day we put her to sleep, I told my parents I had a final exam. I could have gone there…to the vet where they were…” I shake my head. “But at the time, I didn’t think I could. Do it.” I seek his gaze and find it gentle. “Then my Dad died suddenly, and more than anything on earth, I wished I could say bye to him. It’s funny how that works, I think.”
When he doesn’t answer, just continues looking at me, I swallow. “Why’d you ask?”
He shakes his head. There’s something weird about his eyes. Like…he’s not blinking. He closes his eyes, his hand clenches, and I can see his shoulders rise, his chest expand, as he tries to inhale. The tendons in his neck stand out. He holds his breath a second, then his Adam’s apple bobs.
And it’s not rocket science. He doesn’t want to look at real estate. I think he just wants me to stay. Instead of alarm bells—the kind that should alert me to protect myself—all I hear is the fast thud of my heart behind my ribs.
Here I am again, I realize. Totally ensnared. But you could go, I tell myself.
I look at him. At his pale face. What do you owe him to be here?
But it’s just futile.
I tell myself I won’t stay long. Just long enough to see what’s going on with him, and then I’ll go.
As for right now…I reach out and take his hands—and it feels good. So good I almost shut my eyes to relish it. He shifts our fingers so his hands are cupping mine, then bows his head again.
I stroke his fingers. “Tell me, why’d you ask?”
I watch his shoulders rise as he inhales.
I swallow. “I think I know.”
His eyes, so cold and hollow, shift to mine.
“You’re having PTSD issues. Is that it?”
He lets a slow breath out, then drops my hands and walks around the couch and sits. I watch him lean over his lap and hold his head, and then I can’t stand it anymore. I reach over the couch and lay my palm on his warm back. I feel his muscles twitch under my hand.
“It’s okay.” I rub in little circles like my mom would do when I was little. I’m rewarded with an easing of the tension in him. My hand trails up his spine and brushes the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
“Why’d you come?” The words sound breathy.
I stroke his neck, my hips digging into the couch’s back as I lean over him. “Because I had your jacket. And I wondered how you were,” I say quietly. It’s not untrue. “I have PTSD too, remember? From my accident. I know it’s probably nothing like yours, but I can empathize a little bit at least. I can’t stand to think of you feeling that way. Whether we’re friends or neighbors or whatever. Whether…anything with us.”
The fire crackles in the wake of my soft words, and Barrett leans over his knees, hands in his hair as if he’s tugging.
I see his ribcage expand without the rise and fall of his shoulders. I don’t know how exactly, but I can tell from the movement that he can’t get air into his locked-up lungs. He shifts back, lifting his arms off his knees, resting his head against the couch’s spine. Again the low, hollow inhalation. He lets out a little groan and starts to pant a little.
Shit. I come around in front of him and kneel there at his feet. I reach out slowly. Take his hands. I scoot a little closer on my knees, then gather his big hands against my chest, pressing them gently against the warm skin just above my breasts. I wrap one of his hands around my throat and inhale deeply. “Breathe with me, okay? Count to five slowly as you breathe in. Hold it for a second. And then count to eight as you exhale.”
EIGHT
BARRETT
I can’t do it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
You can.
You will.
You don’t have a choice.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Underneath my hand, I feel her warm, satiny throat move as she does the same. I smell her fruity lotion as I inhale; try to do it slowly.
“That’s right.” Her right hand holds my larger, half-curled left one tenderly against her collarbone. Despite not looking at her face, I’m pretty sure I feel the kindness of her gaze—just like I always do when I’m with her.
“Just breathe when I count. Okay? Exhale and hold for…one Mississippi, two Mississippi…” She counts to five, and I’m unable to do anything but breathe in time with her words.
“You’re Operators now. You have to manage your anxiety. Most of that is in the breathing.”
Shame moves through me in a sting of heat. I lose track of her counting, then try to grab a few, more shallow breaths to catch back up. It doesn’t work. My lungs feel like they’re shrinking. I feel my hands twitch.
“Do you have a paper bag?” her soft voice asks.
I shake my head, hating myself for this.
Her left hand on my right one presses gently. “What about some Xanax?”
I shake it again.
“That’s okay.” After a moment, she lets my left hand go and joins me on the couch. I feel her small, soft body as she moves in close beside me. Her free hand closes on my shoulder, urging me closer. But…I can’t.
Gwenna scoots closer to me, until she’s almost in my lap. She wraps a soft, warm hand behind my head and urges me to lean against her. This time, my mind is so fuzzy, my lungs are so damn tight, I can’t fight her. My face presses in between her chin and shoulder.
She inhales.
“You feel me breathe?” She wraps an arm around my shoulders—or tries to. I’m too wide for her to get it all the way around me, so she settles, pressing her small palm in the center of my back.
“Relax against me. Listen to my heartbeat. If you were to pass out—not that you will; worst case scenario… I’ll just hold you till you wake up.”
I manage to get a tiny breath.
“Good,” she whispers. She relaxes just a little too; I feel the softness of her chest against my pecs. “Just breathe when I do.” Her hand rubs my back.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel a wave of pressure build behind them. This is wrong. A fast, hard shudder jerks me. Gwenna holds me tighter.
“You can…go now.” I inhale with effort. Lift my head and blink, ignoring the hollow feeling behind my eyes. “I just need to sleep, I think.”
Her brown eyes are warm pools of concern. Her hand slides from behind my neck up to my shoulder, then strokes down my triceps.
“When’s the last time you slept?”
Her hand wanders to the crease inside my elbow, fingers playing so gently, it causes goosebumps on my skin. Sound escapes my throat on a soft exhale.
Fuck. I lean away from her as my dick twitches. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear the blood whoosh in my head.
“This didn’t used to happen,” I rasp. I didn’t plan to speak, but suddenly it’s vital to me that she know.
I feel her nod. “It’s okay. It’s just anxiety. Something must have built. Bothered you for a while and then snowballed. It can happen to anyone.”
I shake my head. I’m not like other people. I’m not anyone.
Do it now. This would be the perfect moment.
My eyes throb, then sting.
Her hand touches the side of my neck. “I’m so sorry, Barrett.”
I spread my legs and lean down, holding my head.
I try to think about the truth of things between us. It should be more than enough to shut me down, but I’m so fucking tired and weak. Gwenna wraps her arm around my shoulders, and my dick gets harder.
I sit back, shift so that I’m facing her. My hand goes for her breasts, then, at the last minute, slides up her neck, into her hair. My fingers curl into a fist.
“You need to go,” I mumble.
“Why?”
With no forethought, my hand snatches hers and drags it in between my legs, pressing her palm against my hard cock.
Pleasure ripples through me, and I hear her soft inhale.
“This is what you do.” I push her hand against me as I say it. When she doesn’t move—in fact, I think her hand rocks up against my aching length—I pull her arm away and bolt up off the couch.
She looks frozen there, her brown eyes wide, her cheeks afire.
“It’s wrong. You don’t need this.” I can feel the color draining from my face at just the thought of what I could do with her. With Gwenna White. If I fucked Gwenna White…
Her lower lip is caught between her teeth. She releases it, licking that succulent lip with the tip of her tongue as my dick throbs and the scene takes on a surreal sheen.
“Maybe I do.” She gives a little laugh. “Maybe I need it even worse than you do.”
Her words make my heart beat hard: it’s like a gong is being hit, and I can feel the vibrations all through me.
I shut my eyes. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I’m a wolf in lamb’s clothes. Touching her would be a sin. Would be a lie. I try to think about her eyes—how they would look when she found out.
I rub my hand over my face and try to remember what she said last. Anything but the insistent pounding in between my legs, and in my head. I push my own raw misery aside and replay her lovely words.
“Maybe I need it even worse than you do.”
No.
“With someone else.” I let a long breath out, open my eyes. “Not me.”
I try to read her face, but it’s so still. I can see the fast throb of her jugular in the shifting firelight. “Why not you?” Her voice is tiny.
Gwenna wants me.
I see her grinning over me, her hand curled over my face, her legs straddling me in her yard. And then I have this fucking flash of Landstuhl—nauseating Landstuhl and the room is empty, no more Breck; I can feel this deep sting in my head; my scalp is tight; my eye is blind; my hand. I feel, for just a flash, my heavy body; numb and cold and dead. My mouth is dry, but I’m too tired to speak. I think I’m trapped like Mom was.
Nurses come in, shift me over on my side. Their eyes flit over me. They talk—English or German?—and I want to stop them but can’t get my voice to work. Someone peels the bandage off my back, and I hear words like shock and Ativan and poor guy; days and days and days of white walls and white ceilings, and I think I’m never getting out; but then I do and…why?
I see myself upstairs lying on the floor, the bed skirt in my line of sight, and I can’t even close my eyes and find peace there.
I don’t feel alone; I just feel dead.
And Gwenna looks up at me. I don’t think she’s even breathing.
Answer her, you pussy fuck. My throat thickens. “Because I can’t.”
“But why not? I…don’t get it. Not wanting to…I could see…” Her face loses its blush as she shakes her head. “But can’t?”
My secret snakes through me, it writhes its way around me and it chokes me: dead, the way I’m meant to be.
And I can’t say it. Can—but won’t.
The words come out unplanned. Desperate. Hoped for or dreaded? I don’t know what she will say. I don’t know why I do; I throw the only thing at her that I can think of that might work, besides the truth.