Vonnie: Book Two of Broken Girls Series

by J. A. Hornbuckle

  Then he shut up.

  Which gave me my ‘in’. Because I was good with a camera. This wasn’t bragging by any means, but a simple statement of fact. And Newton’s reaction to my pics, or lack of words in viewing the sampling I’d emailed him, more than told me so.

  If only I’d thought to increase the price, I advised myself as even I admired the light that hit his kids as they frolicked in the leaves of the park. Of the one of him and his wife, her head on his chest, arm around his waist as they’d watched their children at play…both their faces beautifully captured in the filtered sun of Grantham’s autumn afternoon.

  “These are amazing,” he finally breathed.

  Yeah, they were.

  But I gave him some space to admire the photos some more by being quiet for at least a minute and a half.

  “I have twenty-seven more, Mr. Newton, although only a few are as good as what I sent you.” I worked hard to keep the note of pride out of my voice as I spoke. “Why don’t you review them with your wife and, if you both agree, give me a call or shoot me an email back with what you decide? Remember, its $99 for an 8x10, two 5x7’s, ten 3x5’s and sixteen 1x2’s…or the smallest photo resized to fit onto a professional Christmas card.”

  “How do we get payment to you?” Yeah, that was the sticky shit as far as a lot of people were concerned. Giving money to a stranger was tough especially when it was in exchange for something they wanted.

  But I’d learned to work that angle as well. I had to, if I wanted to pay my mortgage and eat at the same time.

  By the time our call concluded, I counted Mr. Newton as another fan of my work. One of the steady, though small, fish in the pond of definite aficionados (or of paying customers to be blunt) who might look me up again or recommend me to their family and friends in the future.

  So I could’ve been forgiven for the confident sash-shay of my hips as I wandered back into the living room.

  Only to find Rio well and truly asleep, spread out on my couch but looking just as delectable as he had when I’d opened the door to him. Because, believe you, me—early or not, the man who I’d greeted on the other side of the door was yummy in the extreme. Although I couldn’t have told you if my attraction to his manly form was because of his thick, muscled biceps, achingly and enticingly showcased by his short-sleeved t-shirt or due to the way his bittersweet, chocolate brown eyes bored into mine as his mouth gave me one of his half-grins.

  All I knew was it took only a quarter of a heartbeat before my nipples tightened and other parts, more secreted places on me woke up as my eyes took the scenic route over his large slumbering body which was stretched out and lightly snoring—one buff arm over his head, one foot on the ground.

  The worst part of it was, to see him asleep on my couch, in the most vulnerable state he’d ever shown was…hot. As in screamingly white-hot, causing me to clutch my thighs together as I paused in the small area where my hall emptied into my living room.

  At my appearance, Pookie raised her head from where it rested on his forearm, as if to remark, ‘Yeah, he’s gorgeous. But he’s mine. What do you need, human?’

  But suddenly I ached for, needed my camera. To capture the well-built, former Ranger in my lens in order to show a warrior at rest. An amazingly beautiful man who America had depended on to fight the war for freedom in his down time. To freeze the moment and its light, as it lovingly gilded him in its golden rays as he fully took his own measure of peace.

  Oh yeah. That’d be a pic even I’d be willing to view again and again.

  Turning on my thick-socked heel, I raced back to my office. Pulling out my camera and checking which lens was in place, I idly noted the clickety-clacks of Pookie’s nails on the floor as she followed me. Swiftly changing things out, messing with the f-stops, I tried to set things up so I could just go back to the living room and click away.

  But as I stepped out into the hall, the Pookster shot a look behind her, over her butt and back to the living room, going completely still except for her twitching ears.

  Which made me stop as well.

  And it was only a quarter-second before she raced down the space, returning back from whence she came that I heard it. It was either a low heartfelt moan, or a tortured groan. One of the male variety, offered on such a deep bass, I somehow knew it came from Rio.

  Racing to follow the small dog, I skimmed and skidded along the tile of the hall in my stocking feet, cursing the fact I hated to wear shoes when at home. But as soon as I stopped (which was only due to a well-timed grip of one of the hallways corners), I saw it.

  Saw Pookie perform the same move I’d experienced only hours earlier.

  Paws on his broad chest, pushing and pressing as she alternated her front legs in a move I’d called her version of a ‘tap dance’. With curiously well-timed licks to his chin and jaw, she whined as if her heart was breaking.

  Rio’s large body started, jumping at her movements causing my heart and body to do the same as the little canine tried to wake him.

  ‘Arf,’ she said, only on a voice that was louder than I’d ever heard her speak in (which included when we’d both been freaked right the hell out by ‘staring guy’). “Grr, arf!”

  His eyes fluttered, giving both his dog and I a measure of hope as his arms began to flail, conveniently avoiding the weight of Miss Pooks and her chest ministrations. But until he opened his eyes, spoke words that made sense, I didn’t feel brave enough to vacate my safe place by the wall.

  “Wha’,” he kinda, sort of, pseudo yelped. I mean, it was harsh and firm but his voice held no volume…no real volume at all. He stopped all body movements, with his arms over his head as his over-widened eyes took in the tiny pooch on his chest before they drifted to me.

  Then he cleared his throat, never losing my gaze as he sat up, bringing PK to his chest with careful, tender hands. “What’s going on?”

  I honestly didn’t know how, nor even had the necessary spit, to reply. His moans and the involuntary punches he’d been throwing in his sleep had created ice in my veins, making me stop to the point I found myself holding my breath. This, I found, was easily regained by exhaling long and slow. “I th-think you fe-fell asleep.”

  His eyes, that were opened so wide the whites around his iris were visible, narrowed as his eyebrows lowered. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” I breathed on a raspy, uneven breath. “Moaned a little and then waved your arms around.”

  His face took on a deeper hue; one I would’ve called a blush if I’d seen it on anyone but Rio. But I couldn’t tell if that extra color was due to anger or embarrassment.

  I let out a soft, sort of raspberry noise as I ordered my stiff shoulders into a shrug. “No biggie and nothing to be concerned about. So, you hungry? I’ve got stuff for sandwiches.”

  “C’mere,” he demanded, remaining in place with the back of his neck cradled against the arm of my couch, his long, thick thighs stretched out with his boot-heels propped up on my coffee table. But there’d been a subtle shift in his posture, one I could sense but couldn’t define as he went back to the Rio I’d always seen.

  And silently admired.

  When I didn’t move, except to blink at his demand, he stretched out a hand and called me to him nonverbally with nothing more than the curling, the waving of his fingers as he bent them to his palm. “C’mon, princess. Humor me, okay?”

  On unsteady legs and while gripping my high-end camera in both hands, I made my way to him, only stopping when the coffee table hit my kneecaps. I was trying to appear unconcerned, breezy even, as I stood before him. Allowing his eyes to roam over me, assessing my reactions, comparing them to my earlier words as if to find the truth of what was going on inside me.

  “I have smoked turkey, tuna or ham lunch meat,” I started, bringing the heavy camera body to rest between my breasts. Cuddling it much like I’d done with Pooks especially in the hours after he’d left to go to Denver. “But I only have cheddar. Do you like tomato and lettu
ce with your mayo and mustard or—”

  “Stop it, Vons,” he growled, dropping his hand to inveigle it in the curls and fluff of the adoring canine companion on his lap. “You’re babbling and to tell you the truth, I’m not up for it at the moment.”

  Closing my opened mouth with an audible click, I dropped my ass to the coffee table in almost the same position as we’d started. My voice was small and quiet as I asked, “But aren’t you hungry?”

  His eyebrows went back to their normal position as his mouth quirked in a one-sided grin. “Yeah, pretty girl. But can I have a hug first?”

  And it was then I got my very first two-armed, face to chest embrace from a stalwart, proud warrior. One that settled not only the electricity of the fear I held in each of my muscles, but steadied my heart.

  Because I somehow knew, Rio got the same sort of comfort from me as well.

  *.*.*.*.*

  He was careful with his sleep; never allowing himself more than an hour or two before his mental clock woke him up. Typically getting six hours of rest per day, in only one to two hour increments, he’d hoped to beat back the demon of what everyone tagged as his PTSD.

  The aftermath of his time working clean-up in Iraq and then Afghanistan.

  A time his subconscious couldn’t forget, even as he willed his brain to do so when he was alert and in full control.

  The fact his little spitfire saw him in the grips of his almost daily nightmare, in his mind’s re-enactment of losing yet another teammate, a brother who’d taken a mortal hit in that lonely third-world country? A lonely place so much different than the land he and his buddies fought for.

  And just like every time he woke up from the horrors his mind threw at him when he was defenseless in sleep, he felt ashamed. Disgraced by his inability to maintain the same control as when he was awake. But as it had been since he’d taken on the care of PK, she was the one that saved him, that pulled him up and away from the frightful images that replayed in his head whenever he slept too long and too deeply. Back to awareness all achieved because of the little mutt his aunt had put so much faith in—citing the little canine as a ‘rescue dog’.

  Claiming the little beastie saved her life on more than one occasion. A fact he couldn’t deny or shove aside. Because the little dog made a point of waking him up each and every time the blasts from his past made an appearance. Bringing him up and out of the nightmares of war. Helping him to appreciate the sweetness of his life outside the arena of the battleground as soon as the residuals of his dreams, those remembered terrors left him.

  Which meant Rio couldn’t refute Alma’s claims. Not after spending almost fourteen months in the company of the dog, without his aunt giving him instruction. With his ‘fur-baby’ as the spitfire had called her.

  The same woman who had seen him in the throes of his latest nightmare and from her wide, unblinking eyes and trembling posture he knew what she’d seen had scared her. Although she’d tried to play it off. And he took full advantage of her reaction, giving him an ‘in’ in order to hold her. Unabashedly asking her to hug him—which wasn’t technically a ruse. One of them needed comforting and Rio was more than happy to give it.

  And once she was in his arms, pressed tightly chest-to-chest, her head tucked under his chin, he felt himself relax and absorb the solace she offered. Although she broke their embrace far too soon for his taste.

  Pulling back, she stared up at him. “So yes or no to the sandwich?”

  “Yes,” he rumbled, trying to restrain his grin. She was hella cute as she tried to get back to her version of ‘norm’. “Ham, cheese, mayo, mustard and lettuce.”

  “No tomatoes?” Shoving her top down to meet the top of her jeans, she climbed up and over the coffee table to get to the kitchen.

  Slowly following her curvaceous behind, his eyes on her bouncing back pockets, he shook his head. “Don’t like the texture. Too slimy for my taste.”

  Hitching a hip on one of her barstools, he watched her pull out all the different ingredients she’d need. “Thought you said you couldn’t cook.”

  Glancing up at him, she blinked. “This isn’t cooking. It’s just slapping edible stuff together. No stove involved.”

  “Ahh, so it’s only ‘cooking’ when heat is used?” Shit, she was a kick. The way that sharp, little mind worked was amazing in his opinion.

  “You got it, soldier boy.” After plating the towering edifices and filling the open area of the dish with chips, she took a seat next to him and dug in. “So what was that thing?”

  He knew what she was referring to and, since she’d seen it firsthand, he felt he owed her an explanation. “The shrinks call it PTSD or post-traumatic stress disorder. Used to be worse when I first came back. Certain sounds or situations have me thinking I’m back in Afghanistan, battling for my life and the lives of my buds.”

  Rio took another bite of his sandwich and glanced to see her reaction, to gauge whether to keep explaining or move on to some other subject. She seemed okay, delicately eating her chips. “With the therapist’s help, I’ve learned how to control most of it when I’m awake. But it comes back when I sleep, when I don’t have command of my thoughts.”

  “What about drugs, you know, like sleeping pills or something. Do they help?” He liked that she was interested enough to ask a question.

  “Not really. The over-the-counter shit doesn’t help and the prescription crap is addictive.” He shrugged and stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing he decided to tell her the rest. “I do catnaps throughout the day, but if I can’t catch a few zzz’s then I use booze to help knock me out at night. But that doesn’t always help keep the dreams away.”

  She nodded as if she understood and Rio counted that as a win. Especially since he’d never taken the time to explain it to anyone other than his shrink—thinking other people didn’t need to know about the broken bits inside him. And just as he was about to thank her for understanding, a knock resounded from her door.

  Vonnie’s eyes shot to the clock on her microwave before climbing off her stool and moving to answer. Going up on tiptoe, she used the spy-hole as he’d demanded and whispered something that sounded like ‘Beta’ before she opened the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Shit! I’d forgotten Beta said she’d be over around noon to drop off the concert tickets and, like always, my girlie followed through. When Beta told you she’d do something, she’d move heaven and earth to make sure it happened. “Hey, girl.”

  Beta took a step forward and opened her arms. Seeing her intent, I took a step back while giving her the stink eye. She knew I wasn’t the kind of person who did the whole hug thingy. For the most part, I didn’t like to be touched by other people if I could help it. Which made the clinch I’d engaged in earlier (and without even blinking an eye as I did so) one of the rare variety. But I didn’t want to leave her hanging, so I bumped her arm with my shoulder which seemed to meet her need. “How you doing, honey? Like the hair, by the way.”

  Very conscious of the behemoth still sitting at the bar who I knew was watching us avidly, I tried to remain calm. Maybe if I paid her as fast as possible, she’d leave without me ever having to explain who he was and why he sharing my lunch. But just as I finished that thought, Beta’s eyes caught on Pookie doing her twirl and dance move at our feet. And was only seconds before her gaze drifted to Rio. “Oh, hey. Hi.”

  He wiped his mouth and fingers with the paper towel I’d provided as a napkin and stood. “Hi.”

  There was no help for it, dammit. I was just gonna have to introduce them. “Beta, this is Rio. Rio this is—”

  “I know, Vons. I met him at the Surly when he was with Ryker and his brother, remember?” How could I forget, for god’s sake? “Nice to see you again.”

  He moved and came to my side, resting his fingers lightly on the lower part of my back as he reached to shake the hand Beta held out. “You too.”

  The heat from those fingers leeched t
hrough my lightweight sweater, one digit at a time, providing an awareness of his presence in an unmistakable way. “Let me go get my wallet,” I started but realized my voice sounded a little strained even to my own ears. Peripherally I saw their faces turn toward me, but I peeled away and moved down the hall to my bedroom, the lingering feel of his fingers chasing me as I grabbed my wallet from the camera bag.

  When I returned, Beta was crouched down in from of Miss Pookie, giving the tiny canine all the physical affection I’d denied her. “You’re just the cutest widdle fing, aren’t cha? Yes, you are. Oh yes, you are!”

  I glanced at Rio to see him glaring at the top of her head, with arms crossed and feet planted. Uh-oh, time to run some interference. “Uhm, Bey? Rio doesn’t like people to talk to her in baby-talk.”

  Frowning in confusion, Beta looked up at me before glancing at Rio. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The big man just gave her a chin-jut as a reply before turning on a heel and going back to the breakfast bar.

  “C’mon, let’s get this over with,” I said trying to smile to cover the awkward tension filling the room. Moving to the couch, I dug deep in the bowels of my wallet in order to find the bills necessary. Beta plopped down next to me.

  “He’s kinda scary,” she whispered, her eyes flashing to the man who was taking care of our dirty dishes.

  I nodded not in agreement, but only to let her know I heard what she said. “So two tickets at ten each is twenty bucks, right?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, pulling out an envelope from her coat pocket. “Have you decided who you’re bringing yet?”

  Finished with his self-imposed duty, Rio came back and took a seat in my large, overstuffed chair. “What’s this?”

  “The university is sponsoring a Scottish Heritage festival on Saturday. And there’s a group of us who’ll be giving a concert that evening out in the gardens, performing a selection of old Scottish music to help end the day.” I liked how Beta faced him dead-on, especially after she’d called him ‘scary’. “I typically play the cello, but for this event I’ll be working the fiddle.”