Chased

by Hazel James

  A beardless DH is flanked by two girls—a brunette and a redhead—each wearing a baby blue dress. Their wrists have matching corsages and DH’s grin looks like a slightly more innocent version of the one he flashes now. I guess some things never change.

  I turn my head at the knock-knock-knock sound of Ruby pulling into the garage. DH kills the engine and pops the hood before getting out, all traces of our earlier conversation gone from his face. I cover another yawn and walk through the open door of the waiting room to the bay closest to me.

  “Well?”

  “I have a couple of ideas, but let me get in here and look before I give an official diagnosis.” He lifts the hood and peers at the whozits and whatzits inside. I haven’t had my car serviced since I was home for the holidays about five months ago. Chad topped off the fluids and replaced a fan belt. Or maybe it was the air filter? Whatever. It’s all the same. DH pulls a long piece of metal out of the innards of my car and asks, “Hey when’s the last time your oil was changed?”

  “Christmas,” I admit, feeling like I’m back at the doctor confessing how much I don’t exercise.

  “I can tell,” he scolds. “This is an older car. You need to stay on top of things.”

  “That’s what she said.” I wince and clamp my lips between my teeth, praying he didn’t hear me. I need to be more mindful of what I say when I’m overly tired—especially around DH. The last thing I need to do is give him the wrong impression. I peek my eyelids open to see him staring at me with one brow arched and his jaw cocked to one side. I suck in a breath, trying to calm the flip-flop feeling in my stomach. I may be exhausted, but my hormones seem to be running at full speed. God, I need to get laid.

  “Careful, Nurse Paige,” he warns before ducking below the hood.

  I turn and retreat to the safety of the small couch in the waiting room, figuring distance is worth the risk of me falling asleep. I snap a selfie (sans cleavage) and send it to Chad. If DH finishes up sooner, rather than later, I should have time to swing by the mall and grab some new thongs from Victoria’s Secret to spice things up in the bedroom a bit. Chad’s always been more of a sweet lover than an alpha. Not that I want or need an alpha… but I’m not opposed to some hair pulling every now and then. While I’m thinking about it, I set my alarm for tomorrow morning at six. If I leave by seven, I’ll be in Monroe by two, which leaves me time to freshen up at Chad’s apartment before he gets done with school. I should probably stop by and see Mom, Dad, and Evan, too. My little brother’s only twelve, but we’re still close. I absentmindedly trace the flowers on my dress, wishing I was lying on the couch with a book, a pair of sweats, and my favorite Sam Hunt shirt. Damn, that man is gorgeous.

  “Spark plugs,” DH calls out, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What?” I shout back.

  He wipes his hands on an orange towel stuck in the waistband of his jeans and struts through the doorway, stopping at the mini fridge next to the couch. “You have the wrong spark plugs. That’s what’s making the knocking sound. Are you using a local mechanic?”

  “Um, no. Someone back home.” Named Chad. He’s been the one to work on my car since we started dating.

  “Well, whoever it is doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” He pulls a can of Big Red out of the fridge and offers it to me. I shake my head because that shit is nasty. Tastes like liquid bubble gum mixed with Dr. Pepper, and that’s being generous. He shrugs his shoulder, pops the top, and guzzles about half of it. “I’m gonna let the engine cool off a bit and switch out your spark plugs.”

  I yawn again. “That easy, huh?”

  He gazes at me over the top of his can. “When you know what you’re doing, it’s always easy.” Then the smug bastard winks.

  “Go. Do whatever you need to do while Ruby cools down,” I say, waving my arm dismissively.

  “Why Ruby?” DH asks, finishing his drink. He crumples the can, tosses it in a recycle bin in the corner, and sits on the far end of the couch. My body naturally tries to lean toward him, so I scooch as close to the arm on my side as I can without being obvious.

  “Promise you won’t laugh?” I’ll probably regret telling him this. Who knows what he’ll do with this kind of ammunition. But in light of all he told me at Sonic, I feel I owe him a truth, too.

  “I promise.”

  I look down and go back to tracing the flowers on my dress. “My favorite color is red, and my favorite movie has always been The Wizard of Oz. I’ve dressed up as Dorothy every year for Halloween since I was two. My high school graduation present was tickets to Wicked on Broadway. I’ve gone through three VHS tapes and two DVDs of the movie. I accidentally crushed my last DVD when I was moving up here. I just keep forgetting to order a new one.”

  Petals. Stem. Leaf. Petals. Stem. Leaf.

  “Well that explains your scrubs and shoes the other night,” he mutters, rubbing his beard. That damn beard.

  “You remember what I wore to work last weekend?” I ask in disbelief. I don’t even remember what I wore to work last weekend.

  “It’s not every day that a hot nurse with Tin Man scrubs and sparkly red shoes helps fix a shoulder dislocation.” DH’s lips curve upward like he’s making me privy to a secret, then he rises and walks to the restroom across the waiting room.

  “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes and continue outlining the floral print. Now that I know what DH did with Whitney after work that night, there’s no way in hell that I believe the “hot nurse” crap. Whitney is everything I’m not—an ink-haired vixen with bronzed skin and a line of men a mile long. I’m just… me. Not that that’s a bad thing; I don’t have body issues or anything. But Whitney is freaking gorgeous. The only thing I have over her is boobs. Hers are small, just like the rest of her. Mine are the kind men get lost in.

  “You need anything before I head back out?” he asks, emerging from the restroom.

  “Nope. I’ll just be in here reading.” I pull Where One Goes out of my bag and prop my feet on the coffee table.

  “Paige,” DH whispers. His hand traces the length of my arm. It feels so good, and part of me wants to lie here and wait for it to happen again. It’s been too long since I’ve been touched.

  “Hrm?” My eyelids flutter open and I see DH’s fuck-hot face inches away from mine.

  “Time to wake up.” He stands up and pulls me to a sitting position on the couch. A Transformers blanket slips off my shoulders—one I don’t remember seeing before I fell asleep.

  “It’s Austin’s,” he offers, watching me eye the blanket. “He used to come here after school a few days a week and would always crash out on the couch. I know you were exhausted, so I wanted to let you rest.”

  I reach for my phone, which is resting on top of my book on the corner of the coffee table. “You were on page eighty-seven,” DH says. “I didn’t see a bookmark, and I didn’t want to dig through your purse.”

  “Thanks,” I reply with a small smile as I lift my phone. According to my home screen, it’s five after six, which means I’ve been asleep for about three hours. “I should probably get—”

  “Are you hungry?” DH interrupts. His fisted hands are buried deep in his front pockets, which gives him an innocent, boyish look. Well, until I glance at his crotch, which is definitely not innocent or boyish. Don’t stare at his dick, Paige. “I finished with your car about an hour ago and made some dinner.”

  “You cooked for me?” I ask, my mouth agape.

  He shuffles his feet on the worn carpet. “Well, I cooked. I usually make too much food anyway. I just figured you might be hungry after waking up.”

  “This isn’t some ploy to get in my pants, is it? Because I’m paying for my car repairs with my wallet, not my body.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. It’s the same carefree one from the restaurant a few weeks ago, and my heartbeat picks up in response. “It’s food, not sex. I promise,” he affirms, his hands raised in surrender. “Though now that you mention it, I’m always up for
some dessert.” He flicks his eyebrow and flashes a grin that would make the devil himself proud.

  “As long as we’re clear on the rules, then fine. Food sounds amazing, actually.” I stand, fold the blanket, and grab my stuff. “Except, how did you cook?” I look around, noticing that I’m still in the waiting room of the auto shop.

  “I live in the apartment upstairs. It used to be Eric and Maggie’s, until they bought their house. I have a grill outside.” He points over his shoulder at a doorway at the back of the building.

  “A grill? What’d you make?”

  “Steaks and some salad.” My stomach approves with enthusiasm.

  “All right, DH. Food. No sex.” I follow him out of the waiting room and up the staircase, my mouth salivating the entire way.

  “BE ADVISED, WE ARE LANDING at POI,” the voice cracks through my headset.

  Fuck. Point of injury landings are not my favorite way to start the day. Too much risk for secondary IEDs. I haven’t even had my second cup of coffee.

  “Thirty seconds. Left door, left door, left door offload.” Brown dirt and dead grass swirl around the bird as the ground gets closer. I signal to Patch that I’ll take point. We’re here to pick up an alpha, the most critical category of wounded. The MIST report said his left leg was amputated below the knee. If we don’t get him to the hospital in the next sixty minutes, his chance of living goes to shit.

  “Landing in three, two, one, brakes.” The helicopter hits the ground, and I disconnect from my harness. The clip catches in a small hole in my left glove, pulling me back. I reach around with my right hand to free myself and feel Patch tap me on the shoulder saying he’s taking point instead.

  He’s made it a good fifteen feet by the time I get out and follow his steps. Seconds later, an explosion throws me to the ground. When my head clears from the blast, I register the pain piercing my left calf. My pants are bloodied and torn, revealing a barrage of shrapnel embedded in my skin. I look up and shout Patch’s name.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I scream again.

  And again.

  And again.

  By the time I fight my way back to reality, the bile is already halfway up my throat. I sprint to the toilet and expel the contents of my stomach, wishing I could purge my guilt just as easily. When my gut settles, I rinse my mouth, flip on my lamp, and pull a black leather-bound journal out of my nightstand. It’s almost full. It’s lasted about half a year, which is better than the one before it. That one only lasted two months.

  With a sigh, I sit back against my pillow and start writing.

  An ammo can filled with rocks props open the door to Battles, the gym I belong to, allowing the familiar stench of sweat and bad memories to assault my nose from the sidewalk. It’s oddly comforting. It’s only six in the morning, but the usual crowd is here in full force. I tip my chin at Clay Prescott, who’s barking at a client about proper form. Clay is a bastard of a trainer, but he’s great at what he does. He has big goals for this place and the people like me who train here.

  I set my water bottle on the bench next to the dumbbells, pop my earbuds in, and jump on the treadmill for a quick warmup. My shoulder injury means I had to sit out on my last two sessions, and my body is all but screaming to release my demons. Last night’s nightmare plays on a loop in my head and becomes my cadence as I run.

  Fucked up. Too late. He’s dead. My fault. Fucked up. Too late. He’s dead. My fault.

  He’s dead.

  My fault.

  My fault.

  My fault.

  One heart-pounding mile later, I punch the stop button and take out my earbuds. Clay tosses me a towel, and I wipe the sweat from my face.

  “I forgot to mention—that’s the one I dried my balls off with earlier,” he snickers.

  “I thought it smelled good,” I retort. We move to the opposite side of the gym, where he has the battle ropes ready for me. He lifts the stopwatch hanging from his neck and clocks me in thirty-second intervals.

  “How ya been?” he asks between sets.

  “Fuckin’ peachy,” I pant.

  “The anniversary’s coming up,” he prompts.

  “Yup.”

  “You gonna make me drag this shit out of you?”

  “Isn’t that what I pay you for?” I offer up my middle finger and a wry smile before taking the ropes again. Clay was a parachute rigger who deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq. He also has PTSD. He got tired of the shitty help available in our area, so he went back to school and graduated with a bunch of letters after his name. Now he’s a counselor. He opened Battles to combine his two passions—fitness and helping people.

  I’ve done a lot of healing here, both physically and mentally. Still, it’s hard. Especially on days like today, when the guilt feels like a noose that’s getting tighter and tighter. I hate knowing that I have to talk about it. It’s like making yourself puke after you drink too much. Yeah, you’ll feel better after, but the process still sucks.

  I toss the ropes on the ground after the last set, and we walk to the boxes. “You got any plans for that day?” he asks, his eyes fully trained on me, waiting to catch me in a lie.

  “Working.” Clay doesn’t blink. “Watching TV in my underwear all day.” He arcs a brow. “Thought about going to visit Kelsey and Abigail after I go to Patch’s grave,” I say quietly as I approach the twenty-inch box.

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “And how does that make you feel?” I mimic as I jump up with my right leg—the good one. “You better watch out, Clay. Your counselor’s showing.” I step down to prepare for the next round. He crosses his arms and waits with the patience of a saint. I jump twice more before I answer.

  “Fucking pissed is how it makes me feel,” I spit out. “Fucking pissed that I can replay that moment in my head all damn day, but I can’t change a fucking thing. Pissed that there’s a little girl growing up without her father. That there’s a widow who will never have her husband again. Motherfucking pissed that the better PJ died, and the world is stuck with me instead.”

  I jump on the box with my left leg.

  It fucking hurts, but I do it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I deserve this small amount of punishment.

  “And you feel guilty.” It’s a simple statement that only pisses me off more.

  “Gee, Clay. What the fuck do you think?” I swipe my arm across my forehead and pace in front of the boxes, unable to hold still. My heart’s beating triple time, and my insides feel like they’re going to explode. Clay starts toward the tires but spins around when he realizes I’m not behind him.

  “Let’s go, Rhoads,” his stern voice calls out.

  “Fuck you, Clay,” I mutter, following his steps.

  “No thanks, you’re not my type,” he grins. I contemplate punching him in the fucking face, but manage to keep my fists to myself. We’re fairly even on build and muscle strength, and I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked today. He hands me a sledgehammer and points at the tractor tire. “When you were in that field last summer, what was going through your mind?” Clay prods. Of course, he had to fucking go there.

  I swing the hammer at the tire with as much force as I can muster. “Everything,” I bite out.

  “Explain,” he presses.

  “I wanted to fly.”

  Whack!

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to be free.”

  Whack!

  “Why?”

  “Because death was an escape.”

  Whack!

  “WHY?”

  “I didn’t want to live knowing someone died because of me!” I shout, unable to complete my last swing. Clay takes the sledgehammer out of my hands, drops it on the ground and points a finger in my face.

  “You purposely put yourself in the path of a tornado. You purposely got out of your truck and walked into a field as that tornado approached you.” He drops his finger and takes a step towa
rd me, invading my personal space. “You were so lost and so broken that you wanted to die. You wanted that tornado to swallow you up. What did you do, DH?” He’s inches away from my face now, and I can feel the intensity pouring off him.

  “What did you do?” he booms.

  “I begged for death! Is that what you want to hear? I asked for Patch’s forgiveness and begged for my piece-of-shit life to end!” My chest heaves with exertion and my stomach threatens to betray me in the middle of the gym. Hearing Clay recap what I hoped would be my final seconds makes me angry.

  Angry that I tried to kill myself, and angry that it didn’t work.

  “And what happened?” he asks quietly.

  I suck in a breath.

  And another.

  And another.

  “It turned,” I whisper, my voice too thick to make an actual sound. I flick my gaze away from Clay, but he shifts so that he’s standing in my line of sight again.

  “It turned,” he repeats. “You asked for forgiveness and death. Instead, you got forgiveness and life. Twenty-two veterans die every day, but you weren’t one of them. You’ve spent the last two years punishing yourself because some asshole buried an IED in a landing zone. What would have happened if you were the first one off that helicopter and Patch still stepped in the wrong spot?”

  I don’t answer. It’s not a question I’ve ever considered, for as many hours as I’ve spent thinking about the worst three minutes of my life. I glance down to make sure I’m still wearing clothes, because right now I feel completely exposed.

  “Would you still feel like it was your fault?”

  I walk back to the bench by the dumbbells, sit down, and chug half of my water bottle. “I fucking hate you, Clay.”

  “You don’t hate me. You just hate it when I’m right.”

  “That too.” I cap the bottle and lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “I had the dream again last night.”

  He sits next to me on the bench. “I figured that much. Did you use your journal?”