I want the normalcy of this moment, the normalcy of life untouched by war and violence and hate and regrets.
I should let her go. Walk away and pretend that this was a mistake.
But the soft warmth of her skin draws me closer. I'm like a man coming in from the cold, seeing the warmth of a glowing fire.
A better man would walk away.
But I am not a better man.
Abby
My heart is pounding. I don't know how to do this. Things like this don't come easy to me. With Robert, everything was pretty rational. I remember being so glad I wasn't alone. That someone found me desirable.
It was a nice fantasy while it lasted.
"I think it's a good thing," I whisper. I can't say what made me touch him. What made me reach across that space and press my palm to his cheek.
But with Josh, nothing makes sense. He captures my hand and there is no pulling away.
There is a hesitation between us. Something tangible and real that keeps me from closing the gap.
And then he moves. The barest hint of movement. His lips brush against mine. His breath is warm on my skin, luring me closer to everything that is Josh.
I want in a way I've never wanted before. My heart pounds in my ears and everything I am is focused on Josh. The feel of his hand on mine. His scent is a mixture of spice and leather. It draws me closer, wrapping around me like a warm summer day.
This. This is what it must feel like to be wanted. To feel like you are the center of someone's entire universe.
His lips are softer than I expected. A gentle, hesitant trust in that tentative gesture. He is warm and smooth and strong. Questioning.
I shift, wanting to open, wanting to deepen the kiss. Wanting more of the delicious sensation purring over my skin and through my veins. Wanting to push aside the doubt and the terrible memories that push me away from anything good in my life.
His other hand comes up and cups my cheek. Here, he is as rough and rugged as I expected. His hands are not manicured and covered in lotion. They are strong and calloused and completely at odds with everything I am.
I want more. I want very much to go into the darkness with this man and let the world fall away.
A small noise escapes me. Maybe it's desire. Maybe it's want or need in that tiny sound.
I don't expect him to notice. Most guys are pretty tone deaf to that kind of stuff.
But he does. His fingers tense against my skin, a reflexive touch that tells me more about the strength of his own reaction than any words could have.
In an instant, he shifts back, creating space between us. "Sorry," he mumbles.
I want to tell him no, it's okay and please touch me again.
But I can't find the words. They're too heavy, too filled with my own inadequacy and shame for not being strong enough to take what he's offering.
"Don't apologize," I whisper. It is as close to reassuring as I can manage. I'm not sure I could say anything more even if I wanted to.
He swallows and lowers his hand. "I, ah, the offer to walk you home still stands. You know, if you’d like some company."
There is such a sharp sense of loss beating in time with my heart now that I have to get away. I can't do this, no matter how much I might want to. Josh is one of the good ones. Which means I am guaranteed to screw it up somehow.
"Thank you," I whisper. I reach up and cup his cheek. "It's sweet of you to offer." I hesitate. "But I'm meeting friends after work tonight."
I wish it were a lie. I wish I could meet him later and explore the paths and hidden potential in that kiss. But I don't abandon my friends for the first hint of my blood running hot for a guy. "I've got to get back to work." Regret, honest and simple, in that simple sentence.
"Abby?" His voice is a quiet whisper in the darkness.
I turn back, looking over my shoulder at the man cast in shadows and light. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
He hesitates. "For everything."
And he is gone, leaving me standing there wondering at the complex mystery that is Josh Douglas.
Chapter 8
Josh
I don’t actually sleep. It doesn't count as sleep if you lie awake in the dark with the room spinning slowly.
I haven't slept well since the war. But I can't tell anyone that. It's not like I'm ashamed of it or anything. It's…If it wasn't for Eli and the guys, I'd probably be a hell of a lot worse off than I am.
My attempt to distract myself away from the burning memories tonight fell flat when Abby begged off a walk home.
It’s not her fault. Who just shows up at someone’s work and says Me Man, You Woman. Me walk you home. And expect everything to go swimmingly.
But the lack of a distraction means I’ve got to figure some shit out or the rest of the night is going to get real froggy real quick. So instead of heading home, I head to the campus fitness center.
I strip and change into my gym clothes, which I keep in a locker I rent for six dollars a month. It's easier than carrying that stuff around with me every time I come on campus, and luckily, tuition comes with a fee for the fitness center that us non-athletes get to use when the Division One teams aren’t using them.
I hit the treadmill and take off at a slow jog. I no longer have to keep up with my division commander, who liked to run marathons for funsies. I thought he was going to kill me on multiple occasions. It was strange how he kept me around. I was his driver. I should have been out running around with the other drivers, but instead, he had me shadowing his aide de camp and keeping him in line.
Damn it. I’m running to avoid the memories or at least run them into exhaustion and instead I crash right into them.
I crank up the speed on the treadmill.
But still. All I can see are Mike’s boots. He’d been standing in them a few minutes before. The tan leather is stained with blood.
We used to joke about what we'd do when we made it home from war. I remember just wanting to get laid.
Mike had just wanted to see his dog. She was some kind of giant Labrador or something.
I wonder if his mom still has her. Or if the dog even knows Mike is never coming home.
Christ, but I don't want to think about Mike. I don't want to think about the goddamned war and the anger and the rage and how fucking good it felt to unleash hell that day.
Or the shame that washes over me every single time I think about that godawful day.
I crank the treadmill up again. Trying to find my rhythm. Trying to find a way to outrun the blood and memories and crash into a fatigue that will force me to sleep. The pounding of my feet on the tread, my heart in my ears.
It's easy enough to pretend I'm back at Hood, my last duty station, running down Battalion Avenue, a hundred of us in step and in sync. There's nothing in the world better than falling into the formation and feeling like you've stepped into something else entirely.
God but I miss those days. Hard. I didn't think I would. I thought I'd be glad not to get up and head out the door to PT at the ass crack of dawn anymore.
Never thought I'd miss it.
Not after everything.
Except that now, I'd give anything if she'd take me back. I’d even bear the shame of everything if only I could spend one more day in the shit and the sand and the dirt. Laughing with Mike. Bitching about the heat.
I’d do anything.
But I can’t go back. I can’t give in to the darkness and the temptation the Army offers. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
And so I run. I fall into the memories of running in formation and pretend that I still belong somewhere out there in the world. That there is a place for me where I fit.
Because right now, I'm not sure that such a place exists. And I am terrified of the fact that I am completely and utterly alone.
I run until sweat pours down my spine and soaks my clothing. I run until my legs burn and I'm just this side of throwing up.
> I run until I no longer see Mike's boots or the blood on my hands or the twisted joy I felt every time I pulled the trigger that day.
I run until it dawns on me that I can’t keep running.
It is a long moment before I step into the shower. I let the steam blast my body, hands braced against the wall, and I make a decision.
I want. I want to belong. I want to do my job again. I want to make a difference. I want to believe that what I'm doing matters.
I want to stop fucking feeling like this. Like I'm buried, moving through life in muted slow motion.
I close my eyes and double over.
I want the fucking war to let me go.
Abby
I've got thirty minutes to get my assignment done for Quinn's class on violence. I should have done it during break last night but I didn’t. I can't afford to let my grades slide. It puts my financial aid at risk.
Given that I want to work with at-risk women, my advisor recommended I take Quinn's class to better understand what happens to people in violent situations.
I don't want to tell her that I know all too well what happens in these situations. But if I mention it, then I risk chipping away at the got-it-together façade that I've worked so hard to maintain.
It's a mask that’s slipped recently.
Okay, it didn't slip. It was pried away with the carefully placed knife Robert the Douche slipped beneath the defenses that I’d built up so carefully since I’d started school.
I give myself a quick shake and push that memory out of my mind. It’s too easy to blame Robert for the unraveling, but it’s not all Robert’s fault.
He’s a symptom, not the disease. My fingers start flying on my keyboard, my response flowing as though it happened to someone else.
Interpersonal violence is a difficult situation to understand. Part of this comes from misunderstanding the nature of the problem. If being involved in a violent relationship was the result of rational decision making, no one would ever be involved in violence; either as victim or as perpetrator.
"You look deep in thought."
Josh's voice slides out of the silence of the library and wraps around me. I look up from my assignment. He is standing there in the bright overhead lights, looking just as out of place here as he does in the Baywater.
The responsible part of me should be annoyed because now I have to be sociable when I have to get my assignment done.
But another part of me is doing a happy dance in my panties.
Down, girl.
"How's the eye?" The shiner is faded now, an ugly yellow and green, the scab mostly gone at this point. On campus, it's rare to see someone who’s not an athlete walking around with a bruised face. But beyond that, this one distracts me because it pulls my attention straight to Josh and only Josh.
And that's dangerous for me.
I don't want to feel anything for him. For anyone. Maybe someday. But not today.
"Better. Not sore anymore." I like the way he looks at me. Like he can see me. Not the stereotype everyone else seems to see.
Me.
"What?"
"Sorry," I mumble. Damn it, he caught me staring. "I was distracted."
I'm trying not to notice. Not his shoulders or the hard, clean lines of his collarbones and the little indent at the base of his throat. And the solid line of muscle that is his chest that makes me really want to get a little bit naked.
"By what?"
Shit. I need something witty and smart. Except that I'm not witty and smart. At least, not under pressure.
"Your ass."
Which I suppose is close enough to the truth to make him doubt that it is actually the truth. Did I mention I was terrible at reverse psychology, too?
A tiny crease forms at the edge of his mouth. I look away from the distinctly not-academic turn of my thoughts and the dangerous glint in Josh's eye. Suddenly, I very much think he is not doubting the truth of my response. How's that for a plan backfiring?
He makes a noise in his throat, and I very much remember the feel of his lips against mine.
"Careful. I might think you're flirting with me." I love the sound of his voice.
I want to feel him again. His taste, the softness of his mouth on mine. The rough scrape of his stubble against my skin.
“I have an assignment due.”
I look away. This isn't going very smoothly at all. I can't do this again. Not right now. And no, the parts of my anatomy that are currently standing up at attention at his proximity do not get a vote.
For a big man covered in tattoos, he surprises me with the vulnerability I see looking back at me, hidden behind a teasing smile.
"So what you’re saying is that I might have a better shot next week? Or after your assignment is done?"
I smile despite myself. Clearly, reason is not going to work with him. Or my own damn hormones. Traitorous bastards. "You're not listening."
"No, I am. In fact, I'll show you exactly how good I can listen." He snaps his fingers. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Why a few minutes?"
"Because judging by how fast you were typing a minute ago, the faster you get your assignment done, the faster I get to have you checking out my sweet ass."
And damn it, I laugh as he up and walks away toward the coffee shop in the library.
Because sure enough, he looks over his shoulder.
Just in time to see me checking out his ass.
I am so screwed.
Chapter 9
Josh
I didn't actually have a plan when I walked up to Abby. I just saw her sitting there and was hit with a sense of longing, a sense of being found that was so strong, so compelling, there was little I could have done to ignore it.
I can't stop thinking about the way she felt beneath my lips. The way she yielded beneath my touch as I kissed her. And when she'd opened, just a little, the want inside me damn near dropped me to my knees. She made me miss things I'd given up on. Things I thought I'd made peace with, the way my life had turned out.
I was wrong.
I hadn't meant to kiss her. To think about her. To start looking for her in a crowd. It had just kind of happened. Kind of like how I'd ended up at the Baywater to begin with.
My small obsession isn't going anywhere any time soon. But given that she just told me she was checking out my sweet ass, and then I caught her doing exactly that, my day was looking up.
It felt good to tease her. Like I was stepping into the sunshine after a long grey period. It had been so long since I'd been around a female who I was genuinely attracted to. I don't count the bullshit hookups back at Hood. Or my stalker.
I order coffee, and because I have no idea what she might actually want, I stuff a bunch of cream and sugar in my pocket. I count to one hundred before I go back to where she’s sitting.
"I managed to stay away for five minutes." I set the coffee down next to her computer. "Was it long enough?"
She looks away from her computer at me. Her eyes are liquid gold in the light, lined with a darker sable ring. And yeah, I've got it fucking bad if I'm noticing her irises.
If I close my eyes, I can see her standing next to me at the bar, her eyes dark and concerned. As though I mattered.
Like she really saw me and not the pretense I've been showing the world since I got back from the war.
She glances at the coffee cup in my hand. "What if I don't drink coffee?"
"Well, ah…I hope you'll be polite and drink it anyway because, otherwise, my notoriously fragile male ego might shatter into a thousand pieces. I might never recover from the rejection." I dump the cream and sugar packets on the table then look up at her, suddenly deeply unsure that I might have offended her. "Do you drink coffee?"
She laughs, and it's a full laugh, not some insipid giggle.
"Yeah, Josh, I drink coffee." She opens a creamer. "Thank you for this."
"Well, if your night was anything like mine, you're going to have a hell of a time stay
ing awake in Quinn's class today." I watch her dump all the cream and half the sugar into her coffee. "Want a little coffee with your cream?"
"You are not allowed to judge my caffeine preferences." She points that little stir stick in my face.
"You could never be in the Army," I say. "We can't run without caffeine, but half the time all we have is that instant coffee creamer."
She looks down at her coffee, her expression darkening just a little.
It takes me a second to realize what I've said.
Fuck. I clear my throat. "You don't have a moral objection to soldiers or anything, do you?"
I don’t advertise that I’m a soldier. I don’t hide it, either, but some supposedly educated people have strong moral objections to the Army. Oh, everyone will smile and say “thank you for your service” and all the while be thinking we’re just poor dumb bastards who should have gone to college in the first place.
Please don’t be one of them.
"No," she says quietly. "My dad used to drink his coffee black or with some of that fake creamer. It was so gross."
I hesitate, unsure how we went from coffee to her father but I'm sure there's a connection. "Used to?"
She pauses where she's stirring her drink. "He died in the war."
I'm not sure what shocks me more: the fact that Abby has a connection to the Army I've been running away from and back to at the same time, or the news that her dad died in the war.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. Because there is nothing appropriate to say. Nothing that will make it okay or ease the pain.
And the pain never goes away. Ever.
Her throat moves and she intently finishes stirring her coffee. "I was little. It's funny. I can remember the sound of his laugh. And I remember the coffee. But I have a hard time remembering what he looks like if I don't have a picture of him."
"Do you have one?" I'm suddenly insanely curious about her parents.
She turns her computer toward me. A pretty young white woman who looks exactly like Abby stands looking up at a powerful-looking black man in a uniform similar to Army uniforms but definitely not Army. Between them is a beautiful little girl with shiny bronze skin and a brilliant smile and curly brown hair in two poofs on the top of her head: Abby. "He was a Marine." Not Army like I'd assumed.
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