Fighting For Valor

by Patricia D. Eddy

  This makes her laugh, and she reaches for a box of tissues on her bedside table, pulls out two of them, and dabs at her eyes. “Did I wake you?”

  “No. My nightmare was quieter. This time.” My fingers reflexively clench and unclench on my thighs, and I stare down at my feet. One of the few places the scars aren’t as evident. Rubber hoses to the soles don’t leave marks. Just bone-deep bruises you never forget.

  “Where’d you go?” Her fingers are cool on my arm, and as if she can sense how close I am to the edge, she eases herself closer. “Hold onto me.”

  I shouldn’t. Fuck. I should leave and never come back. But when she touches me, the constant stream of self-destructive thoughts running inside my head stops, and I don’t feel so broken.

  I have my arms around her before I realize I’ve moved. “Nowhere good. I…I don’t know if I can do this, Cara.”

  If I can’t manage a single night—hell, even four hours—I can’t take care of Charlie. The idea of abandoning him breaks me, and I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to give myself a headache. It’s either that or start sobbing, and I won’t let myself break in front of Cara.

  She rests a hand on my thigh, then makes a soft snorting sound. “No wonder. You’re wearing jeans. Those can’t be comfortable for sleeping. In my bottom dresser drawer, you’ll find a pair of loose shorts,” she says, her lips close to my ear. “They’ll probably fit you. Go put them on, then come lie down with me under the weighted blanket. See if that helps.”

  “Cara…” I draw back, unsure if she’s the most empathetic person on the planet, reckless as fuck, or trying to seduce me. “I can’t sleep with you.”

  “When we were on the couch, you were relaxed. And then…you weren’t. Trust me, Ripper. I’m not trying to get into your shorts. Just get you into a pair of mine so you don’t have to sleep in your jeans. Then see if we can reclaim some of that calm from earlier.”

  As ridiculous as I think her idea is—there isn’t a damn thing that’s going to get me to sleep tonight short of someone knocking me out with a blow to the head—I extricate myself from her arms and go to her dresser.

  A few minutes later, once my dick has calmed down and I’m wearing the black basketball shorts over my briefs, my jeans folded under my arm, I emerge from her small bathroom to find she’s scooted to the far side of the bed. Making sure there’s nothing between me and the door.

  When I lie down, she pulls the heavy blanket over us, then fits herself to my side. We’re touching shoulder to knee, and damn if it doesn’t feel…like I’m at peace for the first time in more than six years.

  “I want to ask you for something,” she says quietly as I close my eyes. “But if you can’t do it…”

  “Ask.”

  “Will you…um…if you’re not busy…could you walk me home from the bus stop tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cara

  My muscles are all loose and warm under the weighted blanket. And then I remember…it’s not just the blanket. Ripper’s wrapped around me, sleeping on his side, his breath tickling my neck. The thin curtains let in the first of dawn’s light. It can’t be much later than 5:00 a.m.

  Three times in the night, he started shaking, whispering words in a language I’ve never heard before. But as soon as I drew his arm tighter around me, he settled.

  The last time I had a man in my bed, we didn’t sleep. Too bad that guy turned out to be a jerk and had sex with my sous chef two days later.

  With Ripper, I feel safe. Despite barely knowing him, the valor running through his veins shines so brightly, it’s almost blinding. Closing my eyes, I try to eke out a few more minutes of sleep before I have to face the day, but before I drift off, the solid band of muscle wrapped around my waist disappears. By inches, he slides out of bed, and the sound of him shedding the borrowed shorts and donning his jeans leaves me sorely tempted to turn over and pretend I just woke up.

  But I don’t. I’m shocked he stayed this long, and though my eyes burn a little when he creeps from the room without so much as a whispered goodbye, I understand. Some secrets are too painful to face in the light of day.

  With more than five hours until I have to leave for my shift at the diner, I start my weekly deep-clean of the apartment only minutes after he walks out the door. I’m about to crush the paper pouch from the peach tea bag when the black scrawl catches my eye. A phone number. And a single word. Ripper.

  We’re not friends. Not lovers. He’s just a man who was in the right place at the right time to make me feel safe. Special Forces. And at one point…a prisoner. The thick scars around his wrists, the way he doesn’t like to be touched. His response to the scent of cardamom tea. Something very bad happened to him, and my mind wanders to all sorts of dark places.

  I shouldn’t care that he left me his number. Yet, I rush to enter it into my phone. Not the burner Leland called me on last night, but Cara Barrett’s phone. The one I splurged on when I’d passed the six-month mark in Seattle.

  I’ve been so careful. Lindsey is the only person I’m close to, and she thinks I ran away from a cult when I was in my early twenties.

  After I finish the wash—and the repeated trips up and down the stairs to the basement laundry room, I make myself a cup of instant coffee—a sacrilege in Seattle, but it’s all I can afford—and then rifle through the industrial size box of assorted teas.

  Every single packet of the orange-cardamom blend goes into a plastic sandwich bag and then into the trash. I don’t know if I’ll see him tonight—or ever again—but if I do, I won’t take the chance that something in my apartment will hurt him again.

  Pulling out my precious notebook, I write down every word Leland said to me last night. Every word I remember, at least.

  “Cara, I need you to listen very carefully…”

  And then, a little over an hour later, another call.

  “Cara, I’m sorry. I was driving through a tunnel, dropped the phone, and then my battery died. I’m going to send you some extra cash. I don’t want you to have to worry about every penny. Keep this phone on. I’ll call you in a day or two and tell you how to access the money.”

  Closing my eyes, I try to replay everything that happened. Giving Ripper the lasagna. Sitting down next to him. Seeing his tattoo. My burner phone’s ring tone.

  Times like this, I hate my broken brain. The meds that help keep my raging ADHD in check wear off by 10:00 p.m., and my thoughts wander. I’m not as observant as I need to be.

  I can’t remember Leland’s voice. What it sounded like. Was he worried? Calm? All I remember is hearing my heart pounding in my ears.

  By the time the coffee’s gone, I’m on the edge of a panic attack, and the only way I can think to diffuse it is to snuggle into Ripper’s sweatshirt with my phone clutched in my trembling hands and send him a text message.

  It’s Cara. I wanted you to have my number too. Just in case.

  I don’t know what I expect him to say, or how I’ll pull myself out of this panic spiral if he doesn’t respond. Burrow under my weighted blanket in the bed that smells like him? Probably. At least until I have to leave for the diner.

  Before I have to find out, my phone beeps.

  I’ll be at the church when you get off the bus.

  It’s enough. Knowing that despite how he snuck off this morning, he won’t go back on his promise.

  As I go through my short routine, making sure I have everything I need for the day, the phone beeps again.

  I ordered a weighted blanket.

  My laugh chases the last of the panic away, and as I head for the bus, I send him an “I told you so” GIF, followed by “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I’ve been safe for a year. Maybe it’s time I started to let people in.

  Ripper

  When Cara’s message comes in, I’m standing on the shore of Green Lake, looking out over the water. Halfway between her place and mine, it’s become one of my favorite spots to
try to ground myself.

  Runners, walkers, cyclists, women pushing baby strollers fill the path around the lake. It teems with activity most of the day. Kids splash in the water, chase the ducks, and laugh with abandon like only little kids can.

  I hope Mateen’s okay. Ry would know. Or Ford. Scrolling through the phone’s contacts, I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable just texting or calling someone out of the blue. And then Cara’s second message comes through.

  The corners of my lips twitch, and before I know it, I’m smiling. Actually smiling. It doesn’t feel forced. Foreign, maybe. But not forced.

  Snapping a photo of the calm lake, sunshine just breaking over the tops of the tall trees to the east, I start another message to her, but stop when I can’t figure out what to say.

  Who is she to me? A friend? I slept with her, for fuck’s sake. Actually slept. In her bed. With my arms around her. And though I woke up with the world’s worst hard-on, what we did…it wasn’t sexual. Comforting. Calming. Reassuring.

  I can’t open myself up to more than a friendship. Not after what Faruk’s men did to me. Hell, I haven’t even rubbed one out since before Hell. I tried. A month ago. Ended up on the shower floor shaking, remembering the agony, the helplessness, and how I’d curled into a ball in the bottom of that fucking well, the God-awful stench clinging to me, knowing I’d never feel anything but broken again.

  Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I stalk across the path and head up the hill to the street. Walk her home tonight. Walk her home every night if you want. But don’t get close. It won’t end well for either of you.

  I’ve almost convinced myself I can do this when my phone buzzes. The photo looks out over Puget Sound. There’s a green and white ferry on the left and a cruise ship almost out of frame on the right.

  And a message.

  Cara: There are days my job sucks ass. But at least it comes with this view. When does your blanket arrive?

  I stop, the sudden desire to talk to her, to keep this connection going, almost overwhelming.

  Ripper: Tonight by nine. Of all the shit that didn’t exist when I left the States years ago, same-day shipping might be my favorite.

  I attach the picture of Green Lake, and only hesitate a few seconds before I hit send. Maybe I can do this. Make a friend. Talk. A little. It’s easier with someone who doesn’t know about my past. The guilt creeps in slowly, then rushes over me like a tsunami.

  Ryker and Dax are my brothers, our family bond forged through training, combat, and the tortures of Hell. And yet, these text exchanges with a woman I barely know are easier than anything I could possibly say to them.

  An hour later, when I code myself into my apartment, I make a beeline for the windows and my balcony. With the sun on my face and the cool breeze carrying the scents of orange and passionfruit to my nose, I feel strong enough to send Dax and Ry a message.

  Ripper: Before Dax heads back to Boston, maybe we could all get together for a beer?

  I know they’re giving me space. Trying to let me heal. I’m not sure I ever will, but after last night, I know one thing. I can’t do this alone.

  Walking into my apartment a little after midnight, I clutch my phone tightly. When Cara got off the bus, I met her with a thermos of hot tea—passion fruit and guava, like her shampoo—and a cupcake from this little place around the corner from my building.

  She brought gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches from the food truck, and we spend a couple of hours together, eating, dancing around various subjects until we landed on a discussion about the best coffee shops in Seattle.

  Before I left, she gave me the name of the relaxation app she uses on her phone, and I pop my ear buds in before I close and lock my door. “I can do this. This is my place. I have the lock code. I’m safe here.” Still, my heartbeat skyrockets, and I rush for the window. Once I’m out on the balcony, I can breathe again.

  And then she texts me.

  Cara: Home yet?

  Ripper: On my balcony. Going to stay out here a while.

  Cara: Get the weighted blanket. And check your backpack. I put something in there for you.

  Telling myself I’m only going inside for a minute, I pull the new weighted blanket off the bed. Twenty-five pounds of little glass beads sewn inside a navy blue shell. It’s ridiculous to count on something so simple to chase away my panic attacks, but once I have it around my shoulders, I do feel marginally better.

  In the front pocket of my backpack, I find a tissue paper-wrapped cylinder that smells like passionfruit. A candle in a glass jar. Once it’s lit, I set it on the little table next to the bed in the center in the room, then sit with my back against the door jamb. I’m not inside, but I’m not outside either.

  Ripper: The blanket’s helping. And the candle smells like you.

  Cara: It’s my favorite. Good night, Ripper. If you need to, you can text me. I’ll keep my phone on.

  The phone goes next to the candle, and I’m suddenly more inside than out. It shouldn’t be this hard for me to sleep in a bed or this easy for me to share my problems with a stranger. But nothing else in my life makes sense. Why should this?

  Out on the lake, a solitary boat cuts across the water, its lights floating across an inky black expanse. The city lights frame the darkness, and the candle’s scent wafts over me. Maybe…I can move a little closer.

  With the heavy weight all around me and Cara’s scent filling the room, I can take myself back to last night. To the few hours I felt at peace. And soon, I’m lying on the floor next to the bed, my eyelids heavy, a deep sense of calm spreading through my limbs, and I let myself go.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ripper

  “Where are you right now?” Ryker asks when I pick up the phone.

  “Safe Haven Animal Shelter. Woodinville. Why?” Charlie nudges my hand, and I skim my fingers along his good ear. He hasn’t stopped wagging his tail since I let him out of his kennel and told him he was coming home with me tonight.

  “We’ll be there in thirty minutes. Stay out of sight.”

  “Out of sight? What the fuck is going on, Ry?” Heading for the office, I hold the door open for Charlie, then point at the blanket Melissa has folded under the desk for him.

  “Not over the phone.” The call disconnects, and my stomach twists into a knot. For three days, I’ve tried to be a normal guy. It’s getting easier to clean the kennels, and at night…I walk Cara from the bus stop to her apartment. We talk about…normal things. Her favorite—and least favorite—customers at the diner, the antics of the kittens at the shelter, even the weather. Nothing serious. Nothing risky. Hell, Ry would probably read me the riot act if he knew I hadn’t introduced myself to her as Rick.

  Last night, though, things turned serious for a few minutes. When she got off the bus, she was on edge, distracted—almost confused. I had to press. And she admitted that she has a sensory processing disorder. That certain scents and sounds actively hurt her, and yesterday afternoon, her food truck boss came to work wearing one of the scents that turns her stomach. A scent she had to work next to for hours. She was practically in tears by the time we made it to her apartment, and I bundled her into bed and made her a cup of raspberry tea.

  Caring for someone felt good. Like maybe I’m not worthless. I almost offered to stay, but she knew I needed to go.

  So I walked home. To the apartment Ry pays for, but that I’m slowly making mine. Two days ago, I bought a plant. Last night, I texted Cara a picture of the dog bed I picked up for Charlie.

  It feels good. Making a friend. One not tied to my old life. She has her secrets, but in some ways, she’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. Only problem? Every time I’m around her, I want more. And that’s something I can’t ever have. Not after what Faruk’s men did to me.

  But I fall asleep at night with her scent all around me. Under the weighted blanket that reminds me of her. And while I don’t sleep well—unsure I ever will—I do sleep. For a full two hours last night,
I even managed to find peace in the bed before moving to the floor.

  Melissa comes in from the stable with bits of hay stuck in her gray hair. “That new filly is a piece of work. She won’t eat if she can see another horse.” After a pause, she frowns. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  “I don’t know. One of my buddies is on the way. Can we…um…finalize Charlie’s paperwork? I might need to get out of here in a hurry once he shows up.” Fuck. If there is something wrong, I can’t bring the pup into it. But he raised his head when heard his name and the look in those eyes…

  Melissa pulls out an adoption application, then calls for Charlie to get his license number off his tag. When the dog pads back to my side, I bend down and show him the new collar and leash I picked up on the way in today.

  “What do you think, Charlie?” He’s wriggling like he just won the lottery, and I try to buckle the collar around his neck, but my equilibrium picks that moment to go sideways. I end up on my ass, Charlie licking my face, and then I’m laughing. Actually laughing. It feels so good, tears spring to my eyes, and I remember a little more of who I used to be.

  Melissa stands over us, hands on her hips. “Okay, you two. Enough rough housing. Charlie? Sit. Rick? Sign this.” She passes me the clipboard once I lumber to my feet, and I stare at all the crossed out fields—including the ones for my address and last name.

  Arching a brow, I angle the paperwork towards her. “Breaking the rules is one thing. Ignoring them completely…?”

  “Rick Mercury.” She snorts. “I’ve known too many vets to believe that, son. You’re a hard worker, and I think I’m a pretty darn good judge of character. But if your name’s Rick Mercury, then Charlie there’s a pure-bread toy poodle. Now scribble something on the signature line and we’ll call it good.”

  Last time I checked, I was a grown-ass man who’s seen the worst of humanity, yet there’s no way I’m going to cross Melissa. She hands me a carbon copy of the adoption certificate and a folder with Charlie’s tracking chip info, coupons for dog food, vet services, and numbers for some of Seattle’s doggie daycare options, then smiles. “There you go. Charlie’s officially yours.”