Where does this leave us now?
Whatever this indefinable connection between us is, I can tell he feels it too. I sense it in the way he is around me—in the way he looks at me. Dominic has seen me at my worst; his calming voice and warm embrace has smoothed the edges of my ragged nerves. I can’t possibly avoid being affected by him after last night, and I can’t forget how it felt to sink back into the protective band of his arms as sorrow overcame me.
I tried so hard to ignore my body’s awareness of the nearness of him in bed, of his strong arms and powerful body as it pressed up against mine.
Attraction is a powerful thing, an overwhelming force I am helpless against. I can no longer deny that a part of me yearns to forget this constant hurt, shut my emotions off, and let my physical attraction for this man consume me. Consume us.
A ghost of a memory of me twining my hands around his neck and pulling him to me last night flits through my mind. I take in a sharp breath and shake my head. My mind is really doing a number on me. In addition to flashbacks, it seems I can add hallucinations to my growing list of mental short-circuitry. Great.
Hearing the shower running, my voyeuristic mind immediately envisions a very R-rated image of a very wet, very naked Dominic. Squeezing my eyes closed, I bring my hands up to my temples willing the sordid images to fade away.
I need to distance myself from this man. Right away.
Thinking I’ll just quickly grab my things, write him a thank you note, and leave his unit before he emerges from the bathroom, I hastily dress into my own clothing, pad across his bedroom, glancing briefly towards the bathroom door. Which. He. Hasn’t. Closed. Shit.
I stand rooted to the spot: one hundred percent prime cut male, showcased within tile and glass, the steam swirling around him adding to the mesmerising effect. I can’t pull my eyes away from this vision in front of me. Dominic is ridiculously attractive. His head back, eyes closed, water cascading down a body so mouth-watering, I have to swallow hard and bite down on my lip. His muscles flex and tense as he languorously lathers soap across a chest that looks as though it’s been chiselled by hand. He has a network of scars running along his muscled thigh, tattoos spreading around his bicep, and I just catch what looks like another tattoo on his chest, over his left pectoral. Inked men are my kryptonite. Long-forgotten warmth pools in my lower belly as I briefly allow my eyes to soak him in. He is beautiful, everywhere.
Yep, this man is definitely off limits.
Look away. Look away…what am I doing ogling another man other than Daniel? What’s wrong with me?
My humiliation rises to dizzying heights when he opens his eyes and catches me staring.
Oh God, could this be any more mortifying?
With a startled jolt, I tear my eyes from his glorious form seconds after his piercing gaze steals the air from my lungs. Face glowing with the blush of shame, I gather my wits and strung-out hormones, and quickly exit the room.
As embarrassed as I am at being caught admiring him, I’m a grown woman, so running off without at least leaving a note thanking him for last night would be immature. I look around for a pen and paper to write on. A photo frame on the recessed shelf in the lounge catches my eye. Taking a few steps closer, I see it’s a close up of a group of Marines in a huddle, some smiling, others making faces at the camera. Dominic is right in the centre. His handsome face lit up with a huge grin. This must be his last unit I’m guessing. Wondering how many of his fellow Marines are still alive, I tentatively pick up the frame as Dominic steps into the room.
“Mornin’,” he says, his accent rich, voice husky. My heart rate picks up.
His smile is broad and knowing as he looks across at me, then down to the photo in my hand. Instantly the smile falters, his expression shifting, as anguished emotions flit across his face for the briefest moment before he locks them down, schooling his features once again.
Yep, I’m not the only one hiding my hurt behind a mask of normality.
This thought makes me realise he and I are more alike that I’m comfortable with. I quickly place the frame back onto the shelf, sensing his military past isn’t a topic he wants to discuss.
“Hi, Dom, uh, thanks for last night. I didn’t mean to unburden like that, but thank you. I, um, well, I’m a good listener too if you…uh…ever need to talk. Sarah is picking me up in a few minutes.”
I internally cringe as I stammer through that sentence.
“Not a problem, darlin’. Anytime. You want some coffee before you go?”
“No thanks, I’ll just go down and wait for her in the meantime. She’ll be here any minute.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Pass me your phone, will ya? I’ll log my number into it. You call me anytime. I mean it. Anytime, okay?”
After saving his number, I leave the unit feeling a dizzying mix of guilt and something I didn’t think I’d ever experience again: Attraction. Attraction so strong, it makes my knees weak.
Chapter 12
FREE FALLING
~ Dominic ~
The door closes behind Kate. Shit, what a night. We crossed some kind of line last night and I don’t know if we can go back to being just friends when that’s not what we were to begin with. There was something more than friendship between us right from the get go.
I’m feeling a sensation other than the festering anger I’ve clung to since my deployment, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. I’m out of my comfort zone with these feelings, a million miles away from the safety of feeling nothing. Sex without emotional strings. Casual. That is me. The women go in knowing they’ll get nothing out but a wild ride, and I’ve been as happy as fuck knowing I’ll never need more, never again, not after Amber.
Nope, not gonna scratch open that wound again.
I am painfully familiar with this emotion that has re-surfaced though, the one that I’d sworn to never let myself start feeling again. Giving a shit about a woman makes you vulnerable. Opens you up to getting your heart ripped out. Been there, swore I’d never do it again. That I’d never allow one to get her hooks into me. But damn it to all, Kate has somehow gotten hers in without even trying.
How did I let that happen, and fuck, so quickly?
There is a fragility about her that has my protective streak on high alert, beating its chest and flexing its muscles. Something about her broken spirit calls to the wounded part of me. A kindred spirit possibly?
Right now, I know I’d want more with Kate. My physical need for her is a whole different story. It’s powerful. When she pressed up against me last night and huskily begged me to make love to her, it was pure torture, but it wasn’t me she wanted. I would have happily obliged to be a substitute, but that’s not what this delicate woman needs right now. I was privileged to hold her in my arms for part of last night, but one night with her wouldn’t be enough.
So much for my no attachment policy.
Swallowing back a freaking rock in my throat, the photograph she just had in her tiny hands, catches my eye. My unit who were mostly K.I.A.
Operation Anaconda, 2002. I was a fresh-faced twenty-year-old boot at the time. Almost ten years ago, yet the vivid nightmares of combat missions that went horribly wrong that year still prowl my unconscious mind, frequently jolting me from sleep. At those times, I’m left shaking uncontrollably, with sweat pouring out of every pore on my body. The casualties were staggering.
We entered the forces as young brave men, almost smug in our misguided belief that we were bulletproof—both emotionally, and physically—to the atrocities that would become part of our daily existence in the desert shithole north of Kabul. Bagram Airbase. We were fucking clueless really.
Five months in, the invincible bubble we believed we lived in was blown to bits with the first attack, which saw some of our men blindsided by the enemy, who had lain in wait in an ambush of sandbags. Nine of our men killed, four seriously wounded. Afghan fatalities: three. Gunfire lit up the desert that night like the Fourth of fuckin’ July. My closest friend, J
ake, was struck in the side by a rocket-propelled grenade. I watched in stunned horror as the impact blew his helmet three metres into the air, peppering his body with shrapnel. Due to the extent of his injuries, he, along with others, returned to American soil in a military coffin. Americans bestowing upon the fallen, a posthumous heroes tribute. For the injured, a heroes welcome.
We Marines deemed ourselves many things, heroes not being one of them. We’d lost more than half our unit. Injured warriors, returning for all appearances, as the same men who were deployed, were actually bloody and battle-scarred. That’s the bitch with appearances though; they can be frighteningly deceptive.
In reality, the men beneath the Marine façade were wrecks. Our minds reeling as we continued to walk the valleys of the shadows of death that was Af-fuckin-ganistan, which had been our living, breathing hell on earth for months. Our shell-shocked minds, torturously replayed the horrors witnessed that were just too heinous to share. I’ve got Jake’s dog tag tattooed on my chest; a reminder of a doomed mission I’ll never forget.
Then, four months later, it was my turn to face the fury of the beast of war and bear witness to the inhumane cruelty the insurgents were capable of inflicting. I know guilt, too. Know it well. It’s corrosive and if left unchecked, will eat away at your soul, and it has Kate in a death grip.
Shaking my head, I pick up my phone. I need to make an important call.
As most of the team were working a five-day week, including Saturdays, with two days off during the week, this has become a regular routine: down tools, head home for a shower, then to the local for drinks around seven.
I approached our regular Friday night jaunt: a lounge bar that had recently received an overhaul of sorts. Retro in a sense, jukebox, beer signs, and dark wood panelling adding to the look.
The place is buzzing tonight. Music pumping. Groups spilling out on the sidewalk. I recognise a few faces, with this being our Friday social stamping ground and all. Stepping inside, the sound of clicking cue balls can be heard over the mellow rock notes drifting from an amplifier. I make my way to the bar situated along the back wall.
Pulling up a stool, a hand grips my shoulder.
“Dom. How you doing? Good to see ya back in town.”
“I’m good. Likewise, man.”
We shake hands then order drinks.
“Been back long?”
“Nah, about a week. I uh, hope I’m not keepin’ you from being somewhere else tonight, Matt?”
“Not at all. But I’m intrigued by your call. What did you want to talk to me about?”
Matt’s a good guy. He’s had my respect from our first introduction months ago. Knowing he was the man who’d attended to Kate the afternoon of the quake—and who’d followed her up afterwards—has him sittin’ high on my very short list of men I’d reach out to for any kind of assistance.
“It’s Kate. I hear she’s tight with your woman. I think she needs help. By way of some counsellin’ of sorts. I figured, with you being a medic, you’d possibly have some contacts at the hospital?”
He sighs.
“Yeah, we see Kate from time to time. Mel more often than I have lately. From what I’ve noticed though, she’s mostly shut off, doesn’t say much. Only time she is conversational is pretty much when she’s tanked.”
I nod. Sadly, this is not news to me.
“You obviously know about her freak out after that last big shake? Mel tells me she’s apparently refused to take the medication that the doctors prescribed, and has flatly declined any counselling sessions they suggested, too. So, I don’t really know what I could possibly say that hasn’t already been broached and shot down by her. Look, a friend of mine is running some group counselling sessions for quake survivors and the like, so I could approach her about it, but can’t guarantee I’d have any more luck than the medical team and her family have had in trying to get her to give it a go.”
“She’s shuttin’ out those close to her, not takin’ advice from friends, so I figure we got nothin’ to lose with you tryin’. She may be more open to a suggestion from someone other than those in the inner circle, if you get me?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s worth a try. I’ll go ’round and see her tomorrow, mate.”
“Appreciate it, man. Next drink’s on me.”
“Thanks, bud. Can I ask you a personal question though?”
Shit, here it comes.
“Shoot.”
“I’m getting that she means more to you than this just being a passing interest in her emotional wellbeing. Am I on the money here?”
“You’re a perceptive man,” I reply, drumming my fingers on the bar counter.
“Dom, uh, don’t get me wrong, you’re a great guy. But do you think now is the best time to start something with a woman still in the early stages of grief? The doctors are talking about PTSD, she potentially has some serious issues, mate.”
Taking a pull of my beer, I contemplate just how much to tell him.
“I can relate to her, Matt, know somethin’ about loss on a grand scale man. 9/11 and Afghanistan. PTSD isn’t a foreign term to me.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Shit, Dom. Yeah, I guess if anyone can relate, it’s you. Mind if I ask you what made you enlist?”
I really don’t want to get into this with him. This is painful shit I’d rather not have to dredge up and have to discuss at length. I am quiet for a few seconds then figure, Matt’s a good guy, he’s not prying. Just genuinely interested.
“I’d been considerin’ it for a while, but when that second tower went down, I just knew it was time to do somethin’ about it.”
* * *
Entering my unit, I walk into the kitchen noticing the time.
9:00 p.m. I open the fridge and stuff a handful of luncheon into my mouth just as my phone signals an incoming text.
KATE: Sorry, hope it’s not too late. I cannot thank you enough for taking care of me like you did last night. Hope I can return the favour one day.
I smile to myself. She’s hurting, but still capable of thinking of others.
My phone beeps again. Frowning, I pick it up.
KATE: Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to imply that you’d find yourself in my bed as I did…uh, never mind. You know what I mean, I hope?
I chuckle at her fumbling delivery of a simple thank you.
I type out my response. She kinda walked right into it.
DOM: Awake still. As 4 finding myself in yr bed: A man can dream baby, he can dream... Seriously though, anytime you need to talk, or a shoulder to cry on, I’m here okay? (May charge next time for spooning though)
My phone beeps again.
KATE: Tnk u Dom. The spooning comment made me smile, typical male comment tho. I owe you one for last night. Sleep well:)
I chuckle into the dark.
DOM: Typical male...yeah been called that b4. Heads up babe, u cannot be putting words like spooning, last night and owe you one in a text to a man, and not expect his thoughts to turn dirty…
KATE: K. Duly noted :)
DOM: @}---,--- (a rose) Get sm sleep. G’nite swt<3
KATE: Yr rose made me cry :’) but I’m still smiling. Tnk u, that was sweet.
Sweet? If only you knew, sweetheart. My thoughts are anything but sweet with you in them.
Happy tears I could work with, but being called sweet? Well shit, if that’s how she wants to see me, then swe-eet I am, ma’am.
When alone with my thoughts, they more often than not float back to the evils of Afghanistan. Fixing the pillow behind my head and staring up at the ceiling, my mind drifts back to the previous night. Although her breakdown was rough to witness and left me feeling rudderless, sharing my bed with Kate appeased the demon of war that has taken up permanent residence in my head. The usual nightmares didn’t intrude into my subconscious while she was by my side. First time. In as long as I can remember.
Taking care of her, took care of me, too.
Shit.
Chapter 1
3
STRANGER SPELLS DANGER
~ Kate, 25 September 2011 ~
Leaning my forehead against a tree close to Danny’s grave, I wrap my arms around my middle. Guilt drove me to his graveside today. Having spent the night before last with Dominic, then a large portion of yesterday getting grilled by Sarah as to exactly what went down; a minute-by-minute account of what lead to me being in Dominic’s bed for the night—has my mind in turmoil and my emotions very close to the surface. Since spending the night at Dom’s, I’ve been agitated and tearful. I’m equally terrified and confused by the effect he has on me.
Yeah, he’s Dom to me now and what does that even mean?
Pushing a soft mound of earth around with my shoe, I lift Danny’s ring from under my shirt and clutch it tightly as I choke on the words I need to say to Danny, but can’t.
How do I explain to my Danny what this thing with Dominic is when I don’t understand it myself?
How do I explain to anybody, the immense comfort and connection I found in his arms, or the smile that lit my face and tugged at my heart on reading his touching text messages? It feels, in some way, that I’m betraying Daniel and his memory. Another man shouldn’t be capable of providing me with such comfort, nor stir up these mixed emotions so soon.
Nobody knows I visit Danny’s grave as frequently as I do. Other than my meltdown in hospital with Chase, and the night spent with Dominic, here, at Dan’s resting place, is the only time I let my grief flow freely.
Taking a deep breath, I bring Danny’s ring to my lips, kissing it as I wipe my eyes, then slowly make my way along the sunlit path back to my car.
* * *
I jump at the heavy rapping at my door, my body overreacting to any loud noise still. Opening it I find Matt, hands stuffed in his pockets. The expression on his face hints at this being something other than a quick “how you doing” visit. It’s been at least a week since I’ve last seen him.
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