Sweet Seduction

by Anthology

  “He’s sort of been having these bad dreams.”

  Tyson leaned back in his chair and Sydney thought she saw a dawn of understanding in his face. “Oh. Every now and then or a lot?”

  “Lately, it’s been every night. He won’t talk to me about them.”

  “Is it just dreams? Anything else different about him?”

  She nodded. She’d called Julian before coming here to ask his opinion about whether or not she should talk to Tyson. He’d thought she was smart to come here and he’d mentioned some small things he’d noticed about Chas as well.

  “Not at all at first, but lately, something’s changed in him. We’ll be in the middle of a conversation and he’ll sort of drift away for a moment. According to his uncle, there have been some incidents on the worksite. A truck backfiring and Chas hitting the ground. They were doing some blasting yesterday. Apparently Chas went missing and when Julian found him, he was in his truck, sweating profusely, pale as a ghost.”

  “You’ve heard of post-traumatic stress, right?”

  Sydney nodded. “Yes. I wondered about that, but Julian suggested maybe it’s survivor’s guilt. Is that even a thing?”

  Tyson frowned. “It is. He lost friends in battle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Chas was there? He saw it all?”

  Sydney nodded, uncertain how many details she should divulge. She trusted her cousin implicitly, but this wasn’t her story to tell. It was Chas’ and he didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone about it. She knew he’d only told her because his inhibitions had been lowered by the rum in the eggnog at Christmas. She’d wondered ever since his return home, and his pointed refusal to talk about the past, if he would have confided in her at all if he hadn’t been tipsy.

  Once again, her chest tightened, her feelings hurt by his determination to hold her at arm’s length in regards to his personal pain. If they stood a chance at making this relationship work, they needed honesty and trust. She wanted to be there for him, but if he wouldn’t let her in…she wasn’t sure how long she could remain without his distance driving a wedge between them.

  Tyson turned to his computer monitor, tapping a few keys. “I know you, so I’m sure you’ve gotten on Google and done a web search.”

  Sydney laughed. She had a reputation in her family as queen of the Internet. She was constantly looking up random facts on Google whenever her curiosity was piqued. At the last family dinner, Evan had secretly kept count, informing everyone at the end of the evening that Sydney had consulted her smartphone and shared interesting facts regarding their discussions twenty-seven times. Everyone had laughed, while Sydney simply replied they were now all twenty-seven times smarter than they were at the beginning of the night.

  “I may have done a little bit of research.”

  Tyson winked at her. “Here’s some information that may be more detailed. I’m not saying this is what Chas is suffering from, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to speak to someone—me if he wants—and describe his symptoms before we take it any further.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell him that.”

  Tyson pulled the printed papers off the printer but before he handed them to her, he wrote something on the bottom. “I’m including the name of a colleague, a psychiatrist I know who has dealt extensively with PTSD. I can make a call if you want. Get Chas in to see him if you think he’d be more comfortable talking to a stranger rather than an old friend.”

  “Let me talk to Chas first before you call. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about counseling.”

  Tyson frowned. “If it is PTSD, this isn’t something that goes away on its own, Sydney.”

  “I know.”

  “It is, however, treatable.”

  She nodded, then stood. She was suddenly feeling guilty for doing so much of this behind Chas’ back. She hadn’t even told him her suspicions, but she was nervous about broaching the subject. She’d thought perhaps it would be easier if she was armed with some facts, some answers.

  But now that she was armed with information, she knew that wasn’t the case. This was going to be a hard conversation to have regardless of how much she’d learned.

  ***

  Chas reached up and cut off another tall piece of the bush. His gran had apparently been after Julian to trim the hedge for months, but his uncle—not much for yard work—had found excuses to get out of it. When he heard her mentioning it to Julian on the phone this morning, he’d offered to do the chore, grateful for something to do to pass the time between dinner and Sydney’s arrival at midnight.

  His gran had taken off for a long weekend with a couple of the old gals in her bridge club. They’d gotten cheap flights and were probably just landing in Vegas. Chas grinned when he considered his grandmother and her friends hitting the slot machines and shows. Gran had done nothing but talk about the trip for days.

  Chas turned off the trimmers and bent down to load the clippings in a lawn bag. He’d only just started when the sound of rapid gunfire erupted in the street behind him.

  Chas leapt into the hedge, barely feeling the sharp branches as they scratched his arms and legs. Twisting, he crouched, preparing to face his enemy, weaponless.

  He barely breathed as he scanned the nearly empty street. Then he watched Mrs. Michaels come out onto her porch and yell at her two teenage sons for making so much racket. The boys apologized, then begrudgingly handed over the rest of their firecrackers. The three entered their house, none of them aware of what the boys’ simple fun had done to him.

  Chas remained crouched in the hedge for a very long time, fighting to catch his breath. When his legs began to cramp, he rose slowly and carefully picked his way out of the hedge, grateful no one had seen his reaction to the firecrackers. He grabbed the trimmers, but left the clippings and the bag in the yard. His hands were still shaking, so trying to do any more work this evening would be pointless.

  A glance at the clock told him it was nearly eight. Still too many hours until Sydney came. He paced the floor of his bedroom, wishing she wasn’t working the late shift tonight. His head pounded as he tried to get a grip.

  Rifling through the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, he found some Advil. He popped three of them and lay down, hoping a quick nap would take care of his headache and loosen the tightness in his chest. He’d been sleeping like shit lately, so it was probably just exhaustion that had caused his overblown response. He’d been too tired. And caught unaware.

  Chas had gotten better at controlling his reactions on the construction site, holding himself tightly, mentally preparing himself for the jackhammers and other loud noises that sounded too much like war. While it was exhausting, he hadn’t lost his shit again at work, diving to the ground, looking like an idiot in front of the other guys. If something was scheduled that he thought would bother him, he separated himself from the group until he got a handle on his anxiety.

  He just needed sleep. Unfortunately, Chas had no sooner closed his eyes than the memories returned.

  Chas held a finger to his lips as he and Scott stood near the back door of the house. They’d received intelligence that insurgents were holed up inside. Their job was to wait in the back until hearing the signal, then enter from the rear door.

  If all went well, they could catch the men by surprise and capture them without gunfire. At least Chas hoped so. Peering in a dirty window, Chas tried to make out what they were up against. From the sound of the voices inside, it appeared most of the occupants of the house were in the front room. Which meant he and Scott would have to move through the back rooms fast in order to help their team coming in from the other side of the house.

  There was no movement in the room, or so Chas thought. He was just about to look away, to signal the all clear, when he spotted him. A young boy—no more than ten years old—lay on a cot on the floor near the corner, his left foot bandaged. Chas stilled when he saw the AK-47 lying next to him. He shouldn’t be surprised to see the child armed. He was in a house with known members of t
he Taliban and child soldiers weren’t an unknown enemy. Chas didn’t doubt for a moment that the boy would fire if they entered the house. Which meant Chas would have to fire back.

  The thought of killing a child didn’t rest easy on him. He felt Scott move closer beside him. Glancing to his left, he saw his friend peering through the window.

  “Kid,” Scott whispered.

  Chas nodded, understanding any speaking at all was dangerous, that it could alert someone to their presence. There were patrols in the area. One misstep and they’d be in deep shit.

  He and Scott had been in this position enough that they didn’t need to talk. Chas could see his friend found no more pleasure in this assignment than he did. Neither of them wanted to fire on the small boy.

  The sound of footsteps behind him caught Chas unaware. Scott’s eyes widened as he saw something coming and started to lift his gun.

  The scene changed from the house to the street, and once more, Chas watched the bullet hit Scott’s chest. He shouted, no longer concerned about remaining silent.

  “No! Scott! No!” His friend lay bleeding on the ground.

  They were right behind him. Chas lifted his weapon, prepared to fire, when someone gripped his shoulders, shaking him roughly.

  Chas jerked at the touch. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. “No!”

  The gun fell from his hands at the unexpected attack, so Chas raised his fist, striking out. He’d kill the bastards with his bare hands. Make them pay for Scott. For Jeremy.

  The sound of a woman crying out roused him from his dream. Chas opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light from a bedside lamp.

  Where the fuck was he?

  When his vision cleared, he saw Sydney on the floor, her hand pressed to her cheek.

  There were tears streaming down her face—and he realized he’d hit her.

  Jesus.

  He leapt from the bed, his heart shattering when Sydney’s eyes widened with fear.

  “Jesus Christ, Syd. Oh my God, baby.” He knelt next to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  Her stiff posture relaxed when he reached for her and he was surprised when she lifted her arms, accepting his embrace. He couldn’t breathe, his chest felt as if it was being squeezed in a vise, all air cut off.

  He’d just punched Sydney. He’d never forgive himself. Never.

  Over and over he murmured his apology, stroking her back, regretting that he’d ever thrust himself back into her life. Clearly he was damaged goods.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice finally permeating through the roaring in his ears.

  He gripped her upper arms and pulled her face away from his chest, forcing himself to see the damage he’d wrought. The entire left cheek was flaming red and she’d be lucky if she didn’t have a black eye.

  Remorse coursed through him. “Fuck. Jesus. Fuck!”

  She cupped his face in her hands. “Stop it, Chas. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He frowned. “The fuck it wasn’t. I hit you.”

  “I shouldn’t have come up to you like that. You were having a nightmare and I thought I could wake you. That was stupid. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I hit you.” Chas kept repeating the words, wishing there was some way he could take it back.

  “Please. Please don’t do this. Don’t blame yourself. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

  She was lying to him. There was definite pain in her eyes. She was still crying, sniffling.

  He rose from the floor. “Don’t move. I’m going to get some ice.” He put together a makeshift ice pack with a Ziploc and a soft washcloth, something Gran had done for him many times when he was growing up.

  When he returned from the kitchen, he found Sydney standing in front of his dresser, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  She smiled when he stepped up behind her. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t running out of this room as fast as her feet would take her.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “I’m not blind, Sydney. You’re going to have a black eye and a bruise on that whole side of your face.”

  She bit her lip, not bothering to deny the truth. He lifted the ice pack to her cheek, feeling a sharp, piercing pain in his gut as she winced when the cloth touched her. “I’m sorry.”

  He’d said the words a hundred times, yet they didn’t make up for what he’d done. They never would.

  “Chas. It was an accident. It’s over.”

  But it wasn’t. It was never going to be over. Not for him. For twelve years, he’d lived on the front stoop of death, his life in constant danger. Yet he’d never felt helpless or out of control. Not like he did now.

  In Afghanistan, he’d had a gun and he’d had his training. He knew how to fight the enemy. He didn’t have a chance against this one. No matter how many times he tried to ward off the memories, they kept coming, fucking with his head, scaring the shit out of him.

  She took his hand and led him to the bed. He stood, still as a statue, as she sat on the end. She patted the mattress but he couldn’t make himself move, couldn’t be that close to her. He didn’t trust himself. What if another flashback came? He wouldn’t keep putting her in danger.

  “What was the dream about?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters a lot, Chas. You think I haven’t noticed, haven’t seen the way you drift away every now and then? The way you jerk at loud noises? And you can’t sleep. Not soundly. What are you thinking about?”

  When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Afghanistan?”

  He swallowed heavily. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it hurt. “I’m not going to talk about it.”

  “I think you need too.”

  He shook his head, his headache returning with a vengeance. “It’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t be having these bad dreams. Tyson knows the name of a doctor—”

  “You talked to Tyson about this?”

  Sydney winced at his sharp tone. “I was worried. He thought if you talked to a psychiatrist, you might—”

  “A shrink? You think I need a shrink?” The walls of the room seemed to close in on him and he fought for air.

  “Chas. Please. I just want to help.”

  “Talking to someone isn’t going to help. I’m not weak! I can control this, Sydney. I just need some time!”

  Sydney fell silent. He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound so harsh. He’d hit her because he’d thought she was an enemy coming to attack him. She was absolutely right to suggest he get help. He just wasn’t sure what a doctor could do for him. It wasn’t as if there was a drug to wipe out bad memories. Nothing any shrink could do would bring Jeremy and Scott back.

  “Time?” she asked when the silence drifted too long.

  “Alone.”

  Chas forced himself to face her, to recognize the pain he was causing. Another blow. It needed to be done. She was in danger.

  “I think you should leave, Sydney.”

  She scowled. “What? No. Hell no.”

  “Please, baby. Be reasonable. You said this was an accident, but the truth is I can’t promise it won’t happen again. That dream…”

  He knew her. Knew she wouldn’t leave unless he made her.

  “Chas. The last thing you need is to be alone. I love you. I want to help you.”

  “You can’t help. And I don’t want you here.”

  Tears streamed down her face, but Chas didn’t back down. Not when the evidence of what could happen to her was written so clearly on her cheek.

  He should have left her alone. Kept the status quo and never kissed her in that airport. If he’d known then…

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Just go, Sydney.” When she didn’t move, he shouted. “Now!”

  She jumped, and for the first time, she seemed to genuinely fear him. T
he idea sickened him, but he didn’t reach out to her. Didn’t try to call her back when she turned to leave.

  The door had only just closed behind her when Chas sprinted for the bathroom. He fell to his knees before the toilet and threw up. Reaching for a towel, he wiped his mouth, then his ass hit the tiled floor, his back pressed against the wall as tears streamed down his face.

  The same words repeated themselves like a mantra in his head.

  I hit her.

  I hit her.

  Dear God, I hit her.

  Chapter Eight

  Sydney sat in a booth at Sparks Barbeque and watched the early morning crowd start to roll in. That crowd consisted of just a couple of retired guys who sat at the counter, drinking their coffees and gossiping like old women. They nodded to her as they claimed their usual seats, but the look on her weary face must have told them she wasn’t up for conversation.

  After leaving Chas last night, she’d driven here in a fog, not wanting to go home. The restaurant was much closer to Chas’ place and she felt the need to remain nearby. She’d been terrified when she’d left. Not of him, but of what he might do. He’d been consumed with guilt over hitting her. She knew him, knew he wouldn’t forgive himself for what was nothing more than an accident.

  At first light, she’d called Julian and asked if he’d meet her for breakfast. He’d promised to get there as soon as he could.

  Jeannette had arrived at dawn, surprised to find Sydney there, still wearing the same clothes she’d had on the night before. Mercifully, her cousin had honored Sydney’s request that she not ask her any questions. Sydney was exhausted, numb and one second away from a complete meltdown. Jeannette had clearly recognized all of that.

  Jeannette had agreed and headed toward the kitchen to start getting ready for the breakfast shift. Just before she left Sydney alone in the dining room, she’d turned to look at her. “I’m giving you a reprieve, Syd, but you might not want to hang out too long. Tyson and Evan come in every Thursday at eight for coffee before work. If they see that…”