by L. A. Witt
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” I shifted a little and turned onto my back. “Seriously—did I wake you up?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I didn’t kick you or anything, did I?” Panic shot through me. “Oh shit, your leg! What if I—”
“Logan. Relax.” He gently pressed me back down, and as I eased onto the pillow, he kissed my temple. “You didn’t kick me.”
“Not this time, no.” I wiped my hand over my face. I was sweating. Big shock. And my mouth was dry. Sighing, I pushed myself up. “I need a drink.”
“What?” Casey grabbed my arm. “Wait, you—”
“Water,” I croaked. “A drink of water.”
He hesitated, but then eased his grip and let his fingers slide off my elbow. “Okay.”
I wanted to be insulted that he thought I meant A Drink, but could I blame him? He knew I’d spent more of the last few years drunk than sober. He had an addict in the family. It wasn’t judgment—just concern. It was a habit to get defensive when someone questioned me. My hackles still went up when my therapist asked about it, and I was paying her for that.
In the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and filled it. The water helped un-parch my mouth, but admittedly, I craved something stronger. I didn’t want to backslide into a bottle. I was bound and determined to stay sober. No matter how tempting that blissful numbness was.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. Normally I’d be knee-deep in a sketch by now, but I felt weird about it while Casey was here. What kind of crazy was I to bolt up out of bed in the middle of the night to draw a picture, for God’s sake? And I didn’t want him to see it. It was okay that he knew I was haunted by my time in a war zone, but I wasn’t ready for him to see into my head yet. Not that far.
I could go one night without sketching, right?
Footsteps brought me out of my thoughts, and I looked up as Casey stepped into the kitchen. He’d put on some boxers, but no boot, and he was keeping his weight on his good leg.
“Should you be up and around without something on that?” I gestured with my glass at his leg.
Casey shrugged. “I’m not going for a run or anything. I’ll be fine.” His forehead creased. “What about you? You gonna be okay?”
I took a deep swallow of the tepid water. “Yeah. It’s . . . It happens sometimes.”
“Stuff from the war?”
I shuddered. “Remember that photographic memory I told you about?”
“Yeah. Makes the dreams worse?”
I nodded. “That’s what my therapist says, anyway. I hope other people aren’t having nightmares like this.”
I turned to put the glass in the sink, and paused there, hands on the counter, just trying to breathe. Distantly, I was aware of Casey moving closer. He put a cautious hand on my arm, and when I didn’t jump out of my skin, he snaked his arms around me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”
My first instinct was to say no and to grab a sketch pad like I always did. Except there’d never been anyone here for those late-night drawing sessions. One of the reasons I’d started sketching when the dreams shook me up was that I’d been alone. There’d been no one to talk to.
But Casey was here.
“You don’t mind?” I whispered.
“Of course not.” He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. Then he released me and let me turn around to face him. “What were you dreaming?”
I moistened my lips. “It sounds kind of stupid, but . . . I was dreaming about trying to sleep over there.”
He cocked his head.
“Sometimes those are the worst,” I said. “The ones where my guys and I are in one of those shipping containers, trying to sleep, and we’re just lying there, waiting for a bomb to drop.”
“That’s the silence you talked about, isn’t it?” he asked. “That triggers you?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I guess because during a firefight, we were running on adrenaline and trying to survive. Sleeping meant time to think, and . . . I mean, it was almost impossible to sleep. You learned pretty quick what incoming fire sounded like, but everyone says you never hear the mortar that kills you. And I guess that got under my skin, knowing I could literally be blown to pieces at any second and I’d never even know what hit me.”
Casey fidgeted. “I don’t know which sounds worse—hearing it coming or getting caught off guard.”
“I guess if you get caught off guard, at least you don’t have that panic beforehand. But knowing you’re in a place where a bomb could take you out at any second, you’re constantly feeling that panic anyway.” My skin crawled. “And it never totally goes away.”
“It doesn’t?”
I hugged myself even though the room was warm. “That’s one of the reasons I drank so much. If I was fucked up, I couldn’t feel it anymore. The fear, I mean.”
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
“Yeah. Rationally, it’s stupid—I know no one is going to mortar my apartment. But you spend enough time being on high alert for something like that, your body and your mind forget how to not be that way.”
He exhaled and stepped closer, putting his hands on my waist. “I’m sorry.”
I sighed as I kissed his forehead. “This wasn’t what I signed up for. I mean, I knew war was horrible and it wouldn’t be fun, but no one told me it would be this bad.” My throat tightened around the words. “Not for this long.” Not forever.
Casey raised his head and kissed me softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Like I said, this is why I used to drink so much.” Even now, the shame burned hot. “Shit, with me being so fucked up all the time, it’s a wonder I didn’t do worse than losing my jobs, you know? Well, and Clint.”
He smoothed my hair. “You were really into him, weren’t you?”
“I . . .” Sighing, I closed my eyes. “I think I could’ve been if I’d been sober. He’s a great guy. A really great guy. But he was going through his own shit then, and the last thing he needed was a boyfriend who had to stay drunk to keep his mind quiet. Looking back, there’s really no way to know if Clint and I could have gone anywhere. We were both in a bad place, and I was such a dick to him, so . . .” I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled. “I’m just glad he forgave me and is willing to be friends. Maybe it helps that he went through the same thing. I don’t know. But I’m grateful for it.”
“I’ll bet,” Casey said. “And the drinking . . . I mean, you’re clean now, right?”
I nodded. “The temptation’s still there, but yeah. Haven’t had a drink in months.” My voice shook as I added, “I don’t dare.” No matter how much I want to sometimes.
“It’s hard, though. I know it is.”
“Yeah. It is.”
He said nothing and pulled me close to let me press my face against his neck. For the longest time, we stood there in my kitchen, no sounds except my heartbeat and the iPod playing in the other room. Talking about any of this always left me raw and shaky, but Casey’s warm, steadying embrace tempered it.
“Thanks for this,” I finally said. “Letting me talk about it.”
Casey met my gaze and smiled. “Don’t mention it. If you need it, I’m here.” He cupped the nape of my neck and kissed me softly. Then he searched my eyes and whispered, “Should we try to get some more sleep?”
“Yeah. Good idea.” Between the dream, the conversation, and the fact that it was oh-fuck-thirty in the morning, fatigue was kicking in hard. It was kind of like that feeling I got after I’d sketched a nightmare—drained and relaxed. Ready to try sleeping again.
In bed, Casey molded himself to my back, draping an arm over me as he burrowed against my neck. His jaw was a little scratchy, and I liked the roughness of it, especially next to the softness of his lips and breath. I closed my eyes and let his body heat radiate into my skin. I always woke up cold after a nightmare, and his strong, solid presence stilled some of the shivering.
I swallowed. “Can’t promise that’ll be th
e last dream I have tonight.”
“It’s okay.” He held me tighter and kissed behind my ear. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I released a breath. I didn’t know if his promise would chase off the dreams or that stubborn residual fear, but it did make me feel better. Even if the dreams were here for the duration, maybe there was a chance he would be too.
Was that possible? That my PTSD could scare me out of a sound sleep, but it wouldn’t scare away the man in my bed?
God, please. Let that be possible.
And let it be him.
Logan and I were both struggling to keep our eyes open while he made coffee the next morning. I was swaying on my feet from lack of sleep, and he looked like he was ready to nod off right there at the counter.
It wasn’t surprising. He’d had a few more dreams. I’d been restless because I’d wanted to be vigilant in case he started thrashing. I’d snapped awake every time he’d moved, even when he was just rolling over or shifting in his sleep, and he’d picked up on the tension enough to wake up too. The alarm going off had almost been a relief because trying to sleep had become so stressful.
And my own thoughts had kept me awake too. Seeing him in the throes of a nightmare like that had shaken my foundation. Badly. One thing continued to rattle around inside my head, keeping me from going to sleep and now making me wonder if I could hold my coffee down:
If I’d been to combat, that could have been me.
Could I have handled that?
I fought like hell to tamp down that question. I’d known what I was getting into when I’d started the process to become a SEAL. I’d known PTSD and nightmares and all that shit were par for the course.
But . . .
The strained, raw sound of Logan’s voice while he’d been reliving his time in combat—that shit haunted me. I couldn’t stop hearing it. Even when he’d been sleeping peacefully beside me, the cry of fear and pain and God knew what else still echoed in my ears.
It wasn’t any better now that I could see his face. He’d lost some color, and he looked zoned out. Maybe from lack of sleep. Maybe because he was still mentally there.
How do you live like that?
Would I have been able to—
“You gonna be okay today?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His voice sounded raspy. “Just a rough night.”
“I know.” I kissed his temple. “I was there.”
He winced. “Sorry. If I’m keeping you awake, you can—”
“It’s fine. I promise.” I smiled, then pressed my lips to his. “I’ll get used to it.”
Another wince. I could hear the apologies coming from a mile away, and headed him off: “We should probably get ready for work.”
“Yeah.” He sighed, rubbing his neck. “I don’t even want to hear what Sarah or Diego will say if we both show up late.”
I laughed. “We’d never hear the end of it, believe me.”
“I’m getting that impression, yeah.” We exchanged looks, and both chuckled.
He gestured toward the bathroom. “Shower?”
“Good idea. But we’d better keep it quick.”
Logan nodded. “Agreed.”
I joined him in the shower, and we did keep it quick. If there was one thing the military instilled in everyone, it was the ability to shower thoroughly in the time it took most people to reach for the bar of soap. Somehow we both retained that ability even while we were naked together.
That wasn’t to say I didn’t steal a few glances at him, but I kept it to a minimum so I wouldn’t start getting hard. We really did need to get to work.
As we were getting dressed, I noticed Logan’s hands were still shaky, and I touched his arm. “Hey. You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He gestured dismissively and went back to buttoning his shirt. “Just, uh, happens sometimes. After a rough night.”
I grimaced. “Those nights happen a lot, then.”
“More than I care to think about.” He exhaled as he tugged at his sleeve. “You’re lucky.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you don’t have this shit going on.” He tapped his temple.
Instantly, my chest tightened with frustration, and I gritted my teeth. Really? Now he was going to play that card? Fucking seriously?
But what if he’s right and—
I cleared my throat. I wanted to point out that my broken leg DQing me from BUD/S wasn’t exactly something I felt “lucky” about, but I just quietly said, “Yeah. Guess I am.” If my irritation made it into my voice, he either didn’t hear it or didn’t acknowledge it. Probably for the better unless either of us wanted this to turn into an argument. I got it—he was shaken up after last night, and he hadn’t meant to be flippant about my situation. He hadn’t been aiming for a slap in the face. I could bring it up later when he was on level ground. Not now while we were both this exhausted. Not unless I wanted one of us to lose his temper and turn this into something it didn’t need to be.
We finished getting dressed without much more conversation, and I went over to my place to grab my uniform. As soon as his apartment had faded in the rearview, I exhaled.
Goddamn it, Logan. Really? You went there? You really fucking went there?
He hadn’t meant anything by what he’d said. I knew he hadn’t. But it grated on me. Especially since I’d spent half the night and part of the morning wondering if I could have lived with the nightmares that were apparently a regular part of his life now. It had driven me insane when people told me I’d dodged a bullet by washing out of BUD/S, but I’d always been able to roll my eyes and tell myself they didn’t know me. They didn’t know who I was and what I was made to do.
But what if I didn’t know?
Thumping my fingers on the wheel, I took a few deep breaths and talked myself down. I was just tired. Exhausted and rattled. Getting a little emotional wasn’t below me when I was running on fumes, and anyone who knew me could attest to the fact that a sleep-deprived Casey could get a little . . . testy.
“That’s gonna be your SEAL team’s secret weapon,” my brother had joked three months before I’d gone to BUD/S. “They’ll fuck up your sleep for a few days, then turn you loose on the bad guys. Won’t be anybody left.”
In spite of myself, I chuckled at the memory. I couldn’t argue with him. Hell, it had turned out that my exhaustion-induced anger was a powerful motivator during some of the hard-core physical training. When my body was ready to give out, my sleep-starved brain would drive me forward through sheer force of pissed-off will. I didn’t lose my focus when I was tired—I laser-focused on the endgame. On Hulk-smashing through whatever it was that stood between me and a bed.
There wasn’t an outlet like that in an office, though. No hills to force my aching legs to climb. No icy-cold surf to roll in until I had sand in places no man should ever have sand. No forced march or torturous run to knuckle through in a flurry of curses.
Just paperwork. PowerPoint. Classes. Office banter.
And . . . Logan.
My stomach clenched.
I was going to have to address that one way or the other. Or maybe not. It had just been an offhand comment, after all. He’d been half-asleep, the comment had come out, and even though I was irritated now, I’d be all right. Once I caffeinated and really woke up, I’d be fine. Things didn’t have to get weird between me and Logan. I just needed to get a grip, get some caffeine in me, and pull myself together. Then we could talk, and everything would be fine. It was a speedbump, not a crisis.
At my place, I quickly shaved and put on a clean uniform. Then I headed to work, thankfully with enough time to grab some high-octane coffee from Starbucks before I went on base.
Okay. Caffeine. A little time to collect my thoughts. More caffeine.
I took a deep breath outside the admin building. I could do this.
Upstairs, I went into the office, took one look at Logan, and . . . Yeah. Things were weird.
He d
idn’t seem to notice, but I couldn’t ignore it. The way my chest tightened whenever I saw him or heard his voice. That miserable ball of lead in my gut. How I couldn’t concentrate, and not in the fun distracted way I had when we’d first started fooling around.
It wasn’t one of those momentary things, either. Throughout the entire day, I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. I was glad I had to leave the office a number of times—any opportunity to not text, not flirt, and not exchange looks was fine by me.
I didn’t like that. At all.
But was I overreacting? Again and again I reminded myself that I knew what he’d been getting at. Nobody wanted PTSD. Nobody wished for flashbacks or nightmares. Still, it grated that he wanted me to think positively at all about not having my trident. Especially when he knew—tired or not—how much that sentiment pissed me off.
So did I have a right to be mad?
And was I mad at him, or mad at myself for ever believing I was cut out to face that kind of trauma without breaking?
It didn’t matter—I was mad. And the longer it festered, the worse it got. By the time I came back to the office after my last class of the day, I was seething, and hoping Logan had already left. I felt like a dick, but there it was—I was pissed and I didn’t want to face him. Not yet.
No such luck. He was at his desk, still balls-deep in that project Diego had him on. Maybe he’d stay late tonight to make some headway.
But he closed the folder in his hand and looked up at me. “You calling it a night?”
I nodded as I dropped my backpack to the floor. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.” He stretched, back popping a few times. “You want to come by my place?” His hopeful smile didn’t do much to unknot my stomach.
On the other hand, maybe that was what we both needed. Sitting here stewing all day hadn’t helped me at all, and I was still as irritated as I’d been this morning. I needed an outlet, and he was offering me one, wasn’t he? A good fuck would release some of the tension, and maybe we could talk after that.
So I smiled and hoped he didn’t notice I wasn’t feeling it. “Yeah. I’ll follow you.”
