by Reiss, CD
“Sure.” She went to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. “I’ve never seen you cook something so exotic.”
“One of us has to start experimenting around here.”
“I haven’t killed you yet, Captain.” She clicked around the drawer for the bottle opener. I reached in and pulled it out from under a whisk. “Thank you.”
She held her face up for another kiss, and I obliged. When she placed her hand on the bottle neck, the stove lights glinted off her ring.
She saw me looking at it as she cut the foil. “I’m still not used to it.”
“It really suits you.”
She drove the screw in, put the ledge against the rim, and pulled, but the cork didn’t cooperate.
“Here,” I said, trying to take the bottle away.
“Back up, soldier. I have it.”
“Really, I—”
She twisted her body around so I couldn’t reach, even with my arms all the way around her, while she giggled, sticking the bottle between her legs and pulling.
“Let me help you.” I tickled her, but she wouldn’t give up.
“Stand down!” she cried through hysterics. “Stand down!”
Pop. The cork came out.
She held her arms up, impaled cork in one hand, vanquished bottle in the other. “Victory is mine!”
“Fine.” I put two glasses on the counter, feeling somehow like the cork. As if I’d put up a fight and lost. She poured while I tended to the simmering chicken.
“You going to work tomorrow?” she asked, picking up her glass and handing me mine. We clinked.
“I have to keep a roof over our heads.”
What happened to her face could have been described as “falling” or “darkening,” but I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.
“When was the last time you went to Blackthorne for treatments?” she asked into her glass.
“I don’t remember.”
“So, you were Caden… the other Caden?”
“I assume.”
She put her glass down with a deliberate silence. “You need to make your next appointment.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to wash up. I think the rice needs attention.”
She pointed at the saucepot on the back burner. It was boiling over, frothing and hissing against the stove.
* * *
It was deep into midmorning when the beeper went off. Caden hadn’t pushed against me, so there had been no talk of a truce. With Greyson and I twisted together on the bed after falling in and out of slumber and each other’s bodies for hours, I no longer wanted to negotiate.
She sat up. “Is that your beeper?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, I’m wiped out.” She threw herself back on her pillow, and I looked at the number on the little black box.
“I have to go in.” My muscles were heavy with sleep, and my eyelids wanted to close. I rubbed fog out of my eyes. “Jesus, that… you. Last night.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her smile transformed her face.
“I think I’m supposed to get a full four hours sleep before I go on call.”
She pulled my pillow to her chest and hugged it. “Just tell them you can’t. They’ll find someone.”
“I’ll go in and see what it is first.”
* * *
Unstable angina discovered during heart failure. Four solidly clogged arteries. Relatively young and fit otherwise. I could do this. Five and a half hours, then I could crash.
Really, it wasn’t a big deal.
The patient had been prepped and anesthetized with a curtain between my line of sight and his face because we liked to pretend we didn’t cut open real people.
The nurses called out vitals, and the anesthesiologist called out his own stats. My assisting was an older doctor who smiled at me under his mask. I’d met him in the scrub room. He’d offered to assist because he’d heard about me and had to see my artistry for himself.
“It’s a go,” I said, holding out my right hand. “Scalpel.”
The tool was pressed into my hand.
Careful.
The voice was my own but not. It was his, and it came in the time between the beeps of the heart monitor. I glanced at the screen. It looked fine.
I pressed the blade to the skin.
It hurts.
I stopped. This time, the voice came from the hiss of the anesthesia tank.
Not me.
I handed the scalpel back. “Can I have a new one, please?”
“Yes, doctor.”
On the tail end of the last syllable of the nurse’s last word, his voice came again.
When you open them, it hurts.
A scalpel was placed in my hand, and without question, the voice was Caden.
Except I was Caden.
I smiled at my assisting and put the blade to skin again. I knew what to do, and I knew how to do it, but the gravity of cutting someone open froze me.
It hurts you.
I knew what he meant because he was inside me. Cutting people open hurt the soul. It broke a man into his component parts and spread them apart so they couldn’t hear each other scream.
I cleared my throat. Stood straight. Placed the scalpel back on the tray. “I need a minute.”
* * *
“What the fuck was that?” Abramson blew into the lounge like a four-star general after a lost battle. I was just coming out of the toilet. It was seven in the morning, and he stank of aftershave.
“That was me not puking on the patient.”
Abramson sat on the bench, shaking his head.
I stood at the end of the row of lockers. One was mine. How long would it be before I knew what was mine and what wasn’t? Just when I thought I had this under control, the simplest things caught me off guard.
“What’s been with you lately?” he asked.
I’m not myself.
I don’t feel well.
I’m still adjusting to being home.
Any one of those would have been sufficient, but Caden would never admit to a feeling, much less a weakness.
“Nothing,” I said, knowing he would have been cleverer in his denial. “You all right? How’s the family?”
“Joy of my life.” His tone was flat, as if he was dismissing my question. With that, I stopped thinking about Caden’s locker and let his body find it. “How’s Greyson adjusting to civilian life?”
“Good.”
The combination was set to zeroes, of course. And, of course, the combination was one of the things I hadn’t retained.
“They’re talking about making you head of thoracic.”
I turned to him. Heads of departments didn’t have to see patients. Didn’t have to cut living people open. I could.
But first, Abramson.
What would Caden say? How would he react?
He’d think he was entitled to the promotion.
“Let me know when they stop thinking about it.” My fingers knew the combination, clicking it into place and snapping the padlock open.
“When you stop bailing on quads, that’s when.”
“I must be coming down with a stomach virus.”
I opened the locker door and was knocked over by the smell of Greyson’s perfume. It was heaven on earth. A reminder of why I lived and breathed.
“And looking behind you all the time,” Abramson continued. “Staring into corners. That sorta thing.”
I took out the suit and considered what Abramson said. Caden must have been seeing and hearing me. I wanted to reassure my boss. That was my instinct, and again, it wouldn’t be Caden’s. “Am I being considered for head of thoracic or head of Not-Staring-Into-Corners?”
“They’re worried you have PTSD.”
I closed the locker. I didn’t know how Caden would answer that, and I didn’t care.
“I’d like to see one of those suits do combat surgery in Fallujah and not have PTSD.” Fuck this. I didn’t want the damn suit. I grabbed my duffel in
stead and clicked the locker shut. “Eight days.” I slid the padlock back in and snapped it closed. “I stood over bodies shredded and burned, choosing between legs and arms for eight days.” I spun the combination, leaving a random row of numbers. “So, yeah. Maybe I have PTSD. I’m still the best.”
That sounded exactly like him. Perfect.
“No one said you’re crazy.”
“I’ll say it then. I’m crazy. But if you need someone to lead the department, you’re not going to do better than me.” I slung the duffel over my shoulder. “And I’m taking a few days off to shit out this virus.”
“Take the rest of the week.” He pressed his hands against his knees to stand. “Whatever you got in your gut, we don’t need it.”
“I’d shake your hand, but…”
“Go. Please.”
We saluted each other, and I rushed out as if I had a virus to manage.
On the way out, I reviewed how I’d done. I’d been arrogant and entitled. I’d said I was the best. Even when I was talking about Fallujah, I hadn’t admitted weakness.
I liked being Caden.
Chapter Seven
GREYSON
Leslie Yarrow was finally opening up, but not about the abuse she’d hinted at in our first session. She still pretended that had never happened.
“It was like this part of me that I had to keep hidden had had enough.” She tapped her thumbs together, opting for the chair opposite my desk as opposed to the couch. Most of my military patients did. “You know, she was, like, ‘Get outta the way. I’m coming through.’”
“And how did she manifest?”
Yarrow was my first PTSD patient with a personality disassociation as distinct and high-functioning as my husband’s.
“She started creeping up on me at night. Like she was a ghost or something. She’d get stronger and louder, then she’d go away.”
“What made her go away?”
Yarrow shrugged and looked at anything but me. My mind listed questions inappropriately leading to whether she hurt her wife to get rid of the “ghost.”
“Beer.” She kept her face down. Drinking was as shameful to her as masochism was to me. “Lots of beer.”
“And what about the beer made it stop?”
“Well, she didn’t like it. It made her hide. Good Lord, I feel like I’m talking complete nonsense.”
“You’re not,” I reassured her. “Trust me. You’re not the only one.”
* * *
There wasn’t much in the fridge for lunch. I could go to the Korean joint around the corner, order in, or make something from scratch, which wasn’t how I wanted to spend my free hour.
The front door opened as I was on my way out. My husband came in from the rain. I was getting so used to his face as Damon that nothing about his posture or face seemed wrong or different.
“Hey, what are you doing home?” I kissed the storm off his lips.
“I took the week off.” He kissed the storm onto my neck and shrugged off his wet coat.
“Why?”
Arms around me, wet face buried in my neck, he said, “Let’s go on vacation.”
I wedged my hands between us, laying them flat on his chest. “I have sessions.”
“Cancel them.” He kissed my ear, down my neck, to the place where it met the edge of my sweater.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“People depend on me to keep my appointments. Speaking of…” He pulled up my sweater, and I encouraged him by running my fingers through his hair. “The Blackthorne office called. You had an appointment yesterday. You missed it.”
“Oh, really?” He pushed my bra up and sucked a hard nipple. This was going all the way. “I’ll reschedule.”
“You should tell them what you’ve been experiencing.”
“After I take you to bed.” He popped my buttons and slid his hand under my panties.
“I have forty-five minutes.”
* * *
His toes leveraged against the mattress, holding my knees up over the bed, he went in slowly, as if savoring every inch, then he pushed deep, stimulating my clit. That had been the pace since we got to the bedroom, and I loved it… at night.
“Ten minutes,” I groaned, bemoaning the lack of shower time. I didn’t want to go into session smelling freshly fucked.
He stood over me, grinding at the same tortuous pace. I jerked my hips, thrusting faster.
“Don’t rush.”
Don’t rush? Annoyance pushed arousal to the side.
“Rush or get off me.”
He was shocked at first, stopping deep, then he pulled out and thrust forward hard, tightening his grip on my thighs enough to hurt, face clenching with effort.
“Yes,” I groaned, touching his jaw. “Make it hurt.”
Before I had a chance to register what was happening, he thrust again, leaning on my legs until they were bent against my chest, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.
So good. It was so good.
“Greyson,” he said through his teeth.
“God, yes!”
In that position, he fucked me hard and fast. Already stimulated to near climax, I felt all of it. Every stretch. Every inch. The pain of his hands and the depth of his cock swirled with the pleasure. My body pushed toward his, eyes closing, neck arching when I came.
On the tail end of it, with the pain of his fingers sweeping the orgasm away, his face held me still. He wasn’t Damon. He wasn’t Caden. He was both and neither. Red-skinned with effort, jaw tight, eyes open but looking inward with a desperate intensity. He let go of my legs and came inside me, tensing and relaxing.
Blood draining from his face, he dropped his head. I couldn’t see him. I tried to make him look at me, putting my hands on his cheeks and forcing his face up. He resisted.
“Look at me,” I demanded.
He wouldn’t.
Rotating my hips, I flipped him over until I was straddling him. He hadn’t expected it, so he didn’t resist. Once he was on his back, there was no point in pretending I couldn’t see his face.
He was Damon. He’d asked me to call him Caden, but it was Damon.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“I hurt you.”
“Did you?”
“I’m not doing it again.” He pushed me off. “So, don’t ask.”
I got on my feet and pulled my clothes on. The silence between us was pounded away by the rain tapping against the windows. He was on his back, feet dangling off the edge of the bed, hands over his eyes.
“You have the right to say no,” I said, pulling on my shirt. “But something else happened.”
“Yeah.”
No elaboration followed.
“You need to reschedule Blackthorne for this week.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He took his hands off his eyes and bent his neck to face me. “Because I’m fine.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m doing fine. No one can tell.”
“I know no one else can see it, but I can. You’re not Ca—”
“Don’t say it!” He flopped back on the bed. “I’ll go. Just don’t say that.”
I checked my watch and sat on the bed. I put my hand on his stomach. “If that’s not working, then do Jenn’s art therapy. But something. You have to do something.”
“Okay. Blackthorne. Fine.”
“Promise?” I leaned on the bed.
“Promise.”
I kissed him and went downstairs to meet a patient.
* * *
Working in the house was great. Couldn’t beat the commute. But I had to make a concerted effort to get out. During his days off, Caden/Damon walked the neighborhood with me, ate lunch, took me out to dinner. We made love in the afternoon and evening.
It was great sex.
Really.
He had as much right to consent as I did. He could refuse any sex act in the lexicon.
But
I didn’t have to be happy about it.
In the midst of discovering new things about my desires through my husband, he turned vanilla, flipping like a coin. And I couldn’t ask him again to hurt me. No means no. But, damn. Making love had become an adrenaline rush. Now it was nice. Fine. Better than adequate. But I found myself thinking of the sex right before the change the way one might think of an unappreciated ex-boyfriend who’d slipped through her fingers.
He went to Blackthorne on Thursday but didn’t talk about it. I thought nothing of it. He hadn’t talked about the treatments before the change either. So, I was surprised when he asked about Jenn’s art therapy class.
“Are you ditching Blackthorne?” I asked.
“No, I just think it would be fun. You know, art’s fun.”
“It’s in Hoboken.”
“It’ll give me an excuse to take the car out.”
“All right then.”
* * *
Surprisingly, Jenn had a last minute cancellation in her Saturday afternoon Intro to Mask Making for Vets. I stepped into crisp spring air under a clear blue sky—not quite Iraq-colored, but close. Green leaves caught the breeze.
We didn’t have seasons in San Diego. I’d experienced full seasonal cycles all over the country. I’d experienced fall while stationed in Washington and Maryland, but New York City in the spring was magical.
There were never parking spaces on our block. It was hard to say who grabbed them, but it was always someone. The only empty space was by the hydrant. Sometimes drivers parked their cars there in desperation, and they were ticketed faster than leaves fell. So, when a black-on-black Ferrari pulled into that space, I figured the driver was an entitled prick or desperate after hours of circling the block.
The hazard lights flashed, and Caden got out of the driver’s seat.
Jesus Christ.
I trotted down the steps. “What did you do?”
“You like it?” His smile was wider than the gate he opened for me.
“What happened to the Mercedes?”
“Traded it in. It’s an old-fart car.” He opened the door for me.
“This is crazy,” I said.
“Get in.” He held out his hand and helped me in. The seat was so low I felt as if I had to crawl to get in.
