by K. S. Adkins
I’d do anything for her.
My recovery went into overdrive the second I made the decision to fight back. I’ve been home for about a month now and a few things have happened. All pretty amazing, and one really fucking wacked development, but let’s start from the beginning.
Venessa and Rogan had cleaned, cooked, and pretty much made my coming home seamless. Boner, the little nugget, still likes to snuggle on my belly. But no lie, Rogan can really cook. Jonas waited on me hand and foot and keeps tally on the fridge of the blow jobs I owe him for his acts of selflessness. A few days ago, he brought me home a candle that we lit and took in the baby’s room, where we had a small vigil for him. Hoping to fill the room with kids someday, we chose to keep the door open at all times because that’s how we decided to keep our hearts.
From time to time, I’ll catch Rogan looking at me, and when I give him a funny look back he just winks. Honest, I think he’s on to me, but doesn’t want to spill to Jonas that he knows what I did. But what do I know?
While the four of us sat here watching cartoons, which you should know Venessa hates but Rogan loves, I was really caught off guard when the women from the basement showed up. Jonas and Rogan didn’t seem surprised, but I was.
Right away, they asked how I was then started telling the group tales of my “bravery.” It made me uncomfortable to hear them explain it with such … excitement. I don’t remember every move I made, but they did. Courtney, the youngest, I asked me if I was a fan of the Matrix because “You Neo’d that shit.”
Looking at Jonas I whispered, “Who’s Neo?” to which he laughed and kissed my cheek. No, seriously, who is that?
When Tara asked me about my research, I was proud to tell her I have given it over to the department in hopes they can continue its development, and I am only a consultant these days. If they can pull it together, it would be a huge success for science and for cancer patients around the world. I’m more than okay with this decision, too. I get to be a part of the process, and for me, that’s enough.
Dawn asked if we would have more children. I was proud to say that in fact, yes, when the time was right we would.
Chelle wanted to know if Jonas had a brother.
All in all, each of these women were amazing. They endured weeks in captivity and still held onto their humanity, and obviously their sense of humor.
The only dark cloud was Jules. This is what’s fucking wacked. She stopped over yesterday to say goodbye, right? She was headed back to DC today, but when she called me this morning she was screaming in the phone, “Macy! I’m calling in a favor. Keep Max the fuck away from —”
And then silence …
Of course, I started to flip the fuck out. I told Jonas, who in turn called Venessa, who had Rogan listening in while she called Max, who told us to “Mind your own fucking business, I’m getting my wife back.”
See? I told you … fucking wacked.
Jonas said simply, “A man wants his wife, ain’t no one gonna stop him, so the best we can do is watch it play out.”
To which I said, “But what if the wife doesn’t want to play along?”
His answer was “Your friend was Special Forces and is now DEA. Ain’t no cage that can hold her. If she wants out, she’ll get out.”
How can I argue with that? Jules does take badass to whole ̓nother level. So for now, we wait. Poor Max, he has no idea the trouble he’s just borrowed.
My wife has been home now for six weeks. Today was her second follow-up appointment and we were told she’s right on target for healing, and outside of lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, she can begin light exercise. She decided we should go out and do some shit, but personally, I want her inside the house where I know she’s safe and there ain’t no trip hazards. That pissed her off because she swears she’s not a klutz, but I disagree. Doc also says for the next few weeks she’ll tire easily, which he wasn’t bullshitting about, because no sooner did she want to argue about leaving, she fell asleep on the couch holding the bear.
I know eventually I have to let her out of the house without me, but today ain’t that day. Last night while we showered together I saw the lashes on her back in full light, and it took her twenty minutes and her tongue in my mouth to calm me down. Had she not taken number three out, I would have. That motherfucker whipped my wife with a goddamn belt. It’s those moments that threaten to consume me. It’s that shit that’s going to take for me time to overcome.
Even her being in one room and me in another is hard for me. I just really never want to be apart from her again. Part of me knows I’m smothering her, but the other part doesn’t give a shit.
“Jonas?”
Flying through the door because I just happened to be waiting outside of it, I took one look at her and stopped dead in my tracks. “The fuck is wrong with your face?” I ask her.
“It’s a mask,” she says, pouting.
“No shit,” I tell her. “I saw that flick once, Princess. This is worse, trust me.”
“Jesus,” she says, closing her eyes. “Were you standing outside the door again?”
“No,” I lie. “I was just passing through.”
“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes with white shit all over the lids. “Since you were in the neighborhood, will you change my dressing? I can’t see shit with this mask on.”
Grabbing the medical tape and thin bandage I steer her over to the sink where the light is best. “Good thing you can’t see anything, Princess,” I tell her. “Nothing good could come of it.”
“My face was dehydrated,” she explains while I tape her up. “I needed to feel pretty.”
“How’s that workin’ out for you right now?” When she doesn’t answer me I look up and see her eyes are closed. Shit. My fucking mouth again.
“Even with that shit on your face, you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her. “If you looked like that in public I’d still tell people I knew you.”
“Really?” she asks. “Not that I’m your wife, but that you know me?”
“Princess,” I say. “Come on now, you can’t see yourself.”
“You are so lucky I love you, otherwise —”
“Otherwise, what?” I ask her, serious because I worry about her answer.
“Can we finish this discussion after I rinse my face?”
“Thank fuck,” I say. “I don’t like it when I can’t see your face.”
“You’re forgiven,” she says, kissing my cheek.
I was so happy I dug myself out of that hole, I didn’t even rinse my own face off when I left the bathroom. About fifteen minutes later, though, I wished I would have, because that shit dried to my face like cement. I wish my wife could see her like I see her. Sometimes when I look at her it’s like there’s a light that surrounds her, like an oracle. She always tells me she’s not perfect, but I call bullshit on that. Ain’t no other woman as perfect as she is.
Not too long ago, Venessa asked me if it was possible to die from sexual frustration. My answer was “God, I hope not.” But truth? I think it’s totally possible. What I didn’t think was possible was that my relationship with Jonas was right back to where it started, with him blocking the cock. The only difference is now his cock is mine by god, law, and a piece of paper registered with the county, and I want that cock back. That cock is mine.
The days and nights of “It’s too soon, Princess,” or “What if my cock comes out the hole? I mean, it’s just started to heal,” or my personal favorite, “The longer we wait, the tighter you’ll be.” Swear to god, if he gives me one more ridiculous excuse I’m going to kick his ass. It’s been seven weeks.
I miss the feel of my husband, the connection. So many times, I find myself wanting to crawl in a hole and cry at the loss we’ve had to deal with, but as always, my husband brings me back. That reason alone has kept me from kicking his ass. But you can only push me so far. I need to get us back to being intimate. So walking into the living room I st
and in front of him, block his view of his laptop, and drop my towel.
“Need me to change your dressing, Princess?” he asks with a hoarse voice. My inner slut does a fist bump. He still wants me.
“I need you for something, Captain,” I tell him. “But it isn’t to change my dressing.”
“You hungry, Princess?” he asks, rubbing a hand down his jaw.
“Starving,” I tell him, leaning in.
“Aw hell,” he growls. “You ain’t hungry for a fried bologna sandwich, are you?”
“Not unless you slide it in between two pieces of wheat and the bologna is your cock, no.”
“The doc said six to eight weeks, it’s been seven.”
“Seven too long,” I say. “Why are you stalling?”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers. “You been hurt enough.”
“It hurts not having you, Captain,” I whisper back. “We’ll go slow.”
“How slow?”
“As slow as you want.” Noticing he isn’t convinced, I go on. “If I so much as flinch, we’ll stop.”
“Shit,” he says, looking at the floor.
At that point, I lose my confidence. Standing here naked isn’t doing anything but causing him distress, so I bend down grabbing my towel, ready to head back to my room where I intended to admit defeat, followed by crying. I know my stomach is swollen and bruised, I know the bandages are repulsive; I just had hoped he could see past it. Seeing he can’t is hard, so to make it easier on both of us I wrap my towel with the intent to leave.
The moment my back is turned and I take one step, he’s there pulling me toward him. Locking his arms around me, he puts his chin on my shoulder and asks me “Where you headed, Princess?” Hiding my face, I don’t answer.
“Princess?” he asks. “Going somewhere?” When he lifts my chin he sees my tears falling, and his face gets hard. “Don’t leave,” he mumbles. “Fuck, I need you so bad. I just don’t wanna hurt you. We got time, Princess.”
Silently nodding I break away, and once I round the corner to the hall I run to our room, close the door, crawl into bed, and cry myself to sleep.
If I hadn’t been so consumed with my own grief and what I saw as failure, I’d have heard him sitting outside of our door crying, too.
There ain’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. But make love to her while she’s still healing was the exception. The fact is, I could hurt her. One wrong move, and fuck. Listening outside the door while my wife cried herself to sleep had me feeling like an asshole. Once I wiped my own eyes I stood up, cracked the door, saw her sleeping, and went to the porch to make a phone call.
Sitting down, I take in my block before dialing. It’s quiet, no one is out, kids are asleep, and neighbors are probably getting ready to crash. I’m still up because I’m too much of a goddamn pussy to face my wife. Looking in the driveway at my truck it hits me I never went to pick up Macy’s SUV. Just another fucking failure, another reminder of what we lost.
Swiping the phone I put my finger on his number and dial.
“Hello?”
“I’m losing my wife.”
“I had a feeling you’d be calling, and you’re not losing her.”
“Where’s Rogue?”
“He’s right here,” she says. “But I wanted to talk to you first. You’re not losing her, Rafe.”
“Feels like I am.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants things I can’t give her yet,” I tell her. “What if I hurt her?”
“This is your partner,” he grunts.
“I know that. I dialed your fucking number, didn’t I?”
“Whatever,” he says. “When mine came home and wanted to uh …”
“Fuck,” I tell him.
“We don’t call it that,” he growls. “When she was ready to —”
“I follow you,” I say. “When she was ready to —”
“Be with me,” he starts, “I kept telling her no, thinkin’ I knew better. Know what?”
“What?”
“I didn’t know shit,” he tells me. “They know their bodies, partner, and last I checked, you married a nurse, so that means she knows more than most. She wanted to —?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She wanted to.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“I want to more than anything,” I say. “It’s the thought of hurting her. I want her so much I can’t fucking think straight.”
“Then trust your wife.”
“She cried herself to sleep tonight thinking I didn’t want her again.”
“Tell her straight then,” he says, then mumbles “Okay” to Venessa. “Angel says use the app. She thinks it will help.”
“Fuck,” I say, groaning. “I forgot about that.”
“Now you know,” he says, then disconnects.
Touching the app I see two new recordings, and I listen in. I’m pretty sure the guilt will catch up with me later for doing it. At least I figured that until I really started to listen.
The first message is from a week ago when the hospital called with a follow-up, which I assume is normal. Then the lady on the phone asked her if she wanted to begin counseling sessions for help dealing with her loss. In a firm voice she says, “No, my husband and I are working through this together.” When the lady insists it will help her deal with her loss she tells her and I close my eyes as she does it. “Have you ever wanted something so much that you’d do anything to keep it?” Tears started forming as I heard her speak on how much she wanted our son. “That’s how I feel about my husband. We suffered a tragedy. Both of us. Not just me. He did, too. I was able to feel our son, connect with our son. He didn’t get to do that. Don’t you ever fucking suggest to me tcounseling would help me deal with this loss. The loss is ours and we will deal with it in our way, tofuckingether.” All I could do was sit there and blink.
The next message is her talking to Venessa earlier tonight, and I wanted to stop listening, but I couldn’t. Jesus, my wife is a goddamn pillar of strength. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been leaning on her, and when she needed me …
“I’m losing him, V,” she cries into the phone.
“Macy,” she says. “You’re not, I promise.”
“I am,” she cries. “He does everything for me and all I do is take. I’m weak and sad all the time, and I miss touching him, and I just … fuck, Venessa, I miss my husband.”
“Macy,” says Rogan coming on the line and I swallow hard. “You both gotta cut each other some slack. He was helpless when his wife was taken, he watched his wife get shot in the stomach, he lost his son, and he almost lost his wife twice. He’s runnin’ scared. You gotta bring him back.”
“How?”
“Don’t got all the answers, but you two got love. Don’t give up on my partner, he sure as fuck ain’t givin’ up on you.”
“I’m not giving up,” she cries harder. “I’m afraid he doesn’t want me anymore.”
“He tell you that?”
“Of course not.”
“Then show him you want him then,” he says, and I really close my fucking eyes. “My partner loves his wife.”
“Thanks, guys,” she whispers. “For everything.”
Leaning back in my chair, it all makes sense. Her wanting to go for walks, go out to eat, play cards and … just be close to me. Even though we’re always together we haven’t been together. Fuck, and the towel. Man, I fucked up. My wife was trying. She thinks I don’t want her anymore. All of her attempts I threw in her face because I was so fucking scared. How did I not see it? How the fuck did I not hear her? Because I wasn’t listening after I promised her that I would. The quiet times she wanted to talk about what happened, but it upset me to hear it, so she finally quit asking.
How many times did she roll over in bed looking for me, and I wasn’t there because another nightmare forced me to the couch so I wouldn’t wake her? How many times did she walk into the room looking sexy and perfect and I tuned her out b
ecause I wanted her so fucking badly, I didn’t want to stress her out if she wasn’t ready for sex. How many more nights was she going to cry herself to sleep because I can’t fucking listen? She thinks she takes? I took everything from her, and it’s my job to give it back. It’s my job to get us back. We have kids, grandkids, barbecues, and a future to plan. The second I accept that my life could be good, I mean really fucking good, it hit me. Every second with her consists of all the firsts I’d been searching for.
Me and her have had misunderstanding after misunderstanding. Enough is enough.
I was having the best dream. In it, Jonas was wrapped around me telling me the story of our future. About our two rowdy sons and our even rowdier daughter. How they protected her, defended her, and picked on her every chance they got. He told me how Venessa and Rogan spoiled them rotten, taught the boys how to fight, and that when the girl grew, Venessa and I would teach her everything we knew. He explained how we’ve had to fight for everything we’ve been given, but our love and our family was worth the brawl.
He told me how we stood firm on the no-pet rule, but Rogan said fuck that and got the kids a puppy anyway. Rogan said the puppy will teach them care, patience, and responsibility. He said we spoil that puppy rotten, and even though he’s enormous, he still sleeps attached to me, his mother.
He also said that through the years not a day went by that we didn’t love and miss MJ, the son we lost. Oddly enough, I felt so safe here. No tears fell for once. I actually felt like smiling because that sounded like a damn good future. If anyone could make this dream a reality, it was us.
When I felt his hands roam down to my stomach, over my wound, down to my mound and then between my legs, I let out a beautiful moan. I fucking loved my husband’s hands. I missed them. When his hand started making circles over me I felt my hips move. As his lips met my throat I felt my belly quiver, and when his free hand cupped the back of my head I felt like I was home.
“Open your eyes, Princess,” he tells me. “I need you here with me, starting our future together.”
