Tell Me What You Feel

by Susan Sheehey

  “Perhaps he didn’t care for your adorable sense of humor.”

  He shrugged the scarred shoulder, and rubbed his nose. “I wasn’t that funny back then.”

  She cocked her head. “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “I was angry.”

  “PTSD?”

  Something flashed across his face, or more specifically something vanished from his eyes. A light, that playful side she’d trusted when they’d first met. Now, it was gone.

  “Lost a friend.”

  She sighed, the familiar weight of loss dragging down her heart. I'm sorry had never made her feel better.

  He turned, and scrubbed his face, the water spray harsh across his skin.

  Clearly, his cue he didn't want to talk about it.

  Another white scar marred his back, the same one from the other side of his shoulder. Where the bullet must’ve gone through.

  Skylar ran her hands across his back, massaging his muscles. “Is that why you’re always telling jokes?”

  “They say laughter is the best medicine.”

  “You’re very good at making women laugh.”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  Skylar dug into the few knots under his shoulder blades.

  Riggs grunted.

  She let go. “Sorry. Those are deep.”

  “It’s a good pain. Keep going.” His hands dropped, reached behind him and grabbed onto her thighs.

  She continued, digging into those nodules to rub them out. “Best medicine, I find, is a tussle in the sheets. Or on the kitchen counter.”

  His fingers squeezed around her legs, to brace himself from the pressure. “They teach you that in nursing school?”

  “You taught me that.”

  “I can teach you a lot more.”

  “Deal.”

  “You free tomorrow?”

  “My shift starts at three. But I’m off in the morning, or the day after.”

  Riggs whirled again, giving her breasts a quick squeeze, then down to her ass. He pressed his clean body against hers, his dick thickening against her lower abdomen. “I want to take you somewhere.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Be prepared to get dirty.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Skylar

  Her heart raced as she tightened her grip on the reins. The big horse, Aspen, raced along the edge of the field, the hooves thundering under her feet. “Whoa, big guy.”

  Riggs came up beside Skylar, riding his saddle like he was born there. She barely heard his chuckling over the thumping of the horse’s feet. He reached across her, grabbed the reins, and pulled back slightly to slow the horse. “You’re fearless, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I’m terrified. He just bolted off, galloping into next week.” She swiped her hair off her face, the strands loose from her ponytail.

  He laughed. “That wasn't a gallop. He was barely cantering. Let’s stick with a walk for now.”

  “That would be great. I’d rather not be trampled.”

  The endless chirping of crickets filled the hot air, the sun beating down on her shoulders. Her thin cotton T-shirt might not be enough to keep the UV rays from burning her skin. With each step, a few grasshoppers jumped out of the way, causing a small ripple in the field, spanning more to jump off into the tall grass.

  “Your horse seems pretty calm. Did you give her anti-anxiety meds or something?” she asked.

  “Aspen is the calmer one. Trust me, you’re not ready to ride Laurel. If you’re calm, he’s calm. Find your rhythm.” Riggs gave back the reins, but stayed close to keep them at the same pace.

  His presence eased her fear, giving her the chance to catch her breath, and enjoy the country scenery. A grove of pecan trees shielded the property from the main road, providing plenty of privacy. The tall grass in the fenced off pasture sprouted dandelions and white flowers every few paces. The sky spread out like a giant powder-blue canvas dotted with wisps of clouds. “This place is beautiful.”

  “Not like Chicago, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  “This is your first time on a horse?”

  “One in an open field, not a hot walker at the county fair.”

  “What do you think?”

  Skylar gazed across the high grass, the white barn sitting at the top of the hill. “Peaceful.”

  “Do you miss Chicago?”

  The row of pecan trees swayed in the breeze. “I miss the lake. Anywhere I went, I could always feel it in the air. But I certainly don’t miss that cold.”

  “I bet. We have plenty of lakes here in Texas. Man-made, but still pretty views.”

  She pressed her lips together, keeping her gaze on Aspen’s coppery-colored mane. What she refused to admit was that she really missed looking at the lake without feeling that pain. That fear. The unbearable loss.

  The distrust of strangers.

  “I can take you boating if you want. When you’re ready.”

  She looked sideways at him. “When I’m ready?”

  Riggs guided their horses under the shade of the pecan trees, and stopped them. He patted Laurel on the neck.

  Skylar copied him by patting Aspen.

  “I called your sister. She told me what happened.”

  Shivers raced down her back. Goosebumps covered her arms instantly, impossible to hide. She bit the inside of her cheek. “I wish she would just keep her mouth shut.”

  The second time my sister betrayed me.

  “I’m really sorry, Sky.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and kept her stare on the row of trees. Her heart beat harder against her sternum.

  Aspen fidgeted under her legs.

  She patted him again.

  If I’m calm, he’s calm.

  “I’m sure that’s the reason Wren called me. She wanted you to feel safe in a new city. There’s no better reason for that than what you’ve suffered.”

  “What Phoebe suffered. Not me.”

  Riggs shook his head. “Obviously, it affects you, too. Believe me, I know.”

  She finally looked at him. “I invite you to tell me about that sometime. But I’m not ready to talk about Phoebe.”

  He sat up straighter, his expression so soft, it made her heart ache all over again. “When you are, I’m here.”

  She squeezed her legs around Aspen, and had him stroll back across the field. Praying the hot sun would dry up the tears threatening behind her eyes. From the thumping behind her, her lover was just a few paces away, silent.

  But there.

  Just like every date they’d been on. Always there. Right beside or behind her. Less than an arm’s reach away. Supportive, without overbearing.

  Just the way Phoebe was.

  Skylar forced a deep breath into her lungs, and reentered the barn.

  Riggs dismounted, and helped her out of the saddle.

  She gripped onto his shoulders, until her feet were safely back on the ground.

  He didn’t let her go.

  She wanted to look up into his face, but couldn’t. Not when those tears still threatened.

  “Skylar?” His voice was so tender, so caring, it chipped away at the wall around her heart.

  “She was jumped from behind, walking to her car after her shift…” She swallowed, the words foreign because she’d refused to talk about it to anyone. If she’d said the words out loud, they’d be permanent. The atrocity her sister had lived through and died from would be real.

  Riggs stood very still. Keeping his hands firm on her hips. He was like a sturdy tree, blocking the wind of grief while she etched out the words with the chisel of truth on his chest.

  “The police said she was strangled and raped. Then tossed into the lake.”

  “By a guy with a black ponytail.”

  She finally looked up. Skylar didn’t have to ask. Wren had given him that detail.

  Grief covered his forehead, but tenderness engulfed his eyes.

  “From the surveillance tape at
the hospital. They never found him. But they found her…a few days later.”

  His hold moved up from her waist to her elbows. “You were there.”

  “When they pulled her out…yes.”

  His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “So, the day I met you in the hospital parking lot…very poor form.”

  Skylar nodded.

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “You still agreed to go out with me.”

  She paused. “Yeah…”

  “Even after that fear, you still had dinner with me. Why?”

  She blinked. “You…”

  Why? Why did I say yes?

  "You made me laugh.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Which started your trust.”

  Skylar grabbed his arms, him still holding onto her elbows. “I guess so. Because Wren knew you.”

  “That’s all part of life. Laughter, trust, even fear. It’s all part of the same package. As long as we don’t let fear overshadow trust, or snuff out the laughter. That’s all Wren wanted for you. I’m sure Phoebe, too.”

  She nodded. Nothing she hadn’t heard before.

  Live your life, Sky, Wren had told her countless times. Live it for her. For yourself.

  “You trusted me enough to share that heartbreak. Thank you for that.” Riggs’ hands slid to her back, and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “It would make me a hypocrite if I didn’t,” she replied.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You have your own torment. Obviously.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. Over the scar. “I’m here to listen…when you’re ready.”

  A muscle flexed along his jaw. Then he lowered his face, pressing his lips to hers. Soft, slow, sweet.

  So worthy of her trust.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Riggs

  He squinted at the arena lights, his stomach full of dread.

  Back here again?

  The dirt arena was untouched, the tractor lines pristine. Strangely enough, the standard smell of hay and horses was missing. Instead, the building held a coppery stench.

  Riggs turned. The horses stood in their stalls.

  Eerily quiet.

  A high-pitched neigh pierced the air, angry and tortured.

  He spun.

  The arena was no longer empty. A lone stallion stood on the far end.

  “Aspen?” He’d know that gray and white speckled coat anywhere. “What are you doing out? It’s not your turn yet.” He moved forward, holding a carrot to coax him over. Then he tripped. He looked down. A jagged rock rolled away, as if a strong breeze blew.

  But there was no wind.

  When Riggs looked up again, a rider sat in Aspen's saddle. A knight from the show. Light glinted off his boot spurs.

  Jackass.

  “How many times have I told you—”

  The knight dug his spurs into Aspen’s flanks.

  The stallion shrieked, and reared up. Then charged forward.

  Dirt kicked up under his thundering hooves.

  Riggs swore he could hear the pounding of the horse’s feet, but there was no vibration.

  The knight lifted a lance, held it straight out.

  Poised to strike.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Riggs shouted.

  His feet filled with lead. They wouldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. A rushing flooded his ears.

  Aspen was only two strides away. His nostrils flared.

  Riggs dodged aside at the last second, grabbing the lance as it slid by. He forced the momentum to the ground, the tip spearing into the dirt.

  The knight jumped from the saddle and rolled to the ground.

  Aspen trotted off into the darkness of the stables.

  The knight stood, not a breath from his helmet nor a wrinkle in his red tunic. There were no eyes in the slit, just an empty shadow.

  “Come on, man. The show’s over. Knock it off.”

  The fighter lunged. His ice cold fingers wrapped around Riggs’ throat.

  He gagged, all oxygen cut off. No matter how many punches he threw, the knight didn’t relent.

  None of his defense maneuvers worked, his body felt like bags of sand.

  Riggs grappled in the dirt, and his fingers found the sharp edges of the rock. With every ounce of strength he had left, he grabbed the rock and bashed it against the knight’s head.

  The metal clanged through the air, and he let go.

  Only long enough to readjust his weight. He jabbed his fingers into Riggs’ shoulder, right over the scar.

  Knives ripped through the muscles.

  Riggs howled.

  He slammed the rock against the dented helmet, and rolled him over. Then threw a fistful of dirt in the facial slit.

  As the knight grabbed for his face, he ripped off the helmet and started throwing punches. As fast as he could with his waning strength. When his shoulder screamed from the onslaught, he stopped.

  The knight had a face, now pale, bloodied, and cold.

  Murphy’s face.

  Riggs reared back. His stomach somersaulted, and threatened to heave.

  His friend’s dead eyes locked onto him. The blue lips moved, as if saying something, but the world had turned silent.

  As he stood over the knight, he realized the tunic wasn’t red. The fabric dripped with fresh blood. The coppery smell amplified.

  The blood dripped from his hands, as well. He wiped them on his jeans, nausea ripping through his body. But the red only spread more.

  “It doesn’t come off.” The coarse words ripped through the air and echoed off the walls like a death whisper.

  “What do I do?” His mind was in a panic. Hearing his friend’s voice like that struck a new level of fear.

  Murphy wasn’t wearing the knight’s tunic anymore. He lay there, bleeding out, in his field gear in the Afghan desert.

  “What you always do,” the frigid voice replied. A trickle of dark blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Run.”

  Riggs jolted. Winced. “Run?”

  “Run until your feet stop.”

  Riggs jerked awake.

  A ceiling fan spun overhead.

  A cold sweat covered his face and neck, and his palms tingled.

  He looked over.

  Skylar slept soundly beside him, her arm curled under her pillow. So much like a cherub.

  His mouth was dry, like he’d sucked on cotton balls. The clock glared an angry red, 3:55 a.m.

  He carefully climbed out of bed, as not to wake her. Then retreated to the bathroom to splash water on his face. Then drank a gallon straight from the faucet.

  Jesus Christ, help me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Riggs

  He lumbered into the gym, his eyes like dented billiard balls. Today’s workout would be brutal.

  “Damn, man,” Bennett called from the squat rack. “You should’ve charged extra for whatever she put you through.”

  “Eat shit.” Riggs threw his bag in the locker, and started off with bench presses. Ignoring his friends and their banter.

  He wasn’t in the mood.

  “What’s up with you?” Roarke asked from the leg press.

  “Nothin’.” He exhaled through another push.

  “I’m serious. Something’s wrong.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “No, but I just got off yours.” The big man smirked. “Seriously, what’s up?”

  “Seriously, mind your own business.”

  “Fine.” He threw a towel at Riggs’ feet. “Just tryin’ to help, stubborn ass.”

  “If I wanted help, I’d roll over and ask your mom.”

  Ben shook his head. “Easy, Riggs. No need for that.” His stare was a little too persistent.

  A loud crack echoed through the gym.

  Riggs ducked and spun, his heart now lodged in his throat, pounding a thousand beats a second. A cold vice gripped his neck, and he was back in the
desert.

  The stinging sand smacked him in the face as vicious as the heat. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t close them.

  The air roared like a lion, but the words screaming from his earpiece were muddled. Debris flew toward his face. A bloodied leg ripped at the shin hit his helmet, and a hand still holding half a rifle.

  His XO’s wide-eyed expression staring up at him from the turret of the Humvee. Just the man’s head. No body.

  He clutched the MK19, and fired. No aiming, just squeezing the trigger, shooting hundreds of rounds into the ball of flame and smoke before them.

  “Riggs!” someone below him in the Humvee screamed.

  Something smashed into his face. There was no sting.

  “Riggs!”

  He blinked.

  Roarke held onto his arm. The death grip on his skin finally registered. As did Bennett’s concerned stare.

  The random stranger picking up metal weight discs that’d crashed to the floor on the other side of the room was looking his way, too.

  Riggs took a deep breath, but his lungs would barely expand.

  He was back in the gym. Sitting on a weight bench, white knuckling the edge.

  Roarke pressed his fingers into his neck. “Like a racehorse on steroids. I’m calling an ambulance.”

  He smacked his hand away. “I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit. PTSD is nothing to sweep under your receding hairline.”

  “Don’t throw that word at me. I just haven’t slept well the last few nights.”

  “Exactly. That’s another symptom, Riggs.”

  He wanted to shout a few curse words, but his dinner from last night threatened to climb up his throat.

  “Either I call an ambulance and they take you to the ER, or you let me call Dorian. Which is it gonna be?”

  He tried to say neither. From the look in Roarke’s eyes, he wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Might as well be Dorian, instead of a stranger. Or worse, Skylar.

  Maybe he could avoid the off-chance she was working the ED today and would see him like this. Nauseated and pathetic.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Riggs

  “How long have you been having these episodes?” Dorian asked, his arms crossed. The fabric on his shirt pulled tight against his biceps, revealing his tattoo with his mother’s name, Evelyn. The man’s normal, permanent smirk that women had claimed to find charming was gone. Instead, the serious expression he’d worn in their two tours in Afghanistan marred his face. The dark stubble was thicker, too.