Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point Book 2)

by L. A. Witt

  “That’s probably not a bad idea. And I’ve had people over before. She knows about you. So, it wouldn’t bother her.” I blew out a breath. “All right. If you’re sure you’re up for it.”

  “I am. I’d be a hell of a hypocrite not to be.” He cupped my face and kissed me. “We’ll get dinner, maybe watch some TV. Whatever you need to relax.” He ran the pad of his thumb along my cheekbone. “And after that, we’ll take the night as it comes.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Don’t mention it.” He kissed me again. “So, for now, do you want to go grab some lunch?”

  My stomach turned. “I think I’m going to hold off on lunch for a while. Why don’t you go on without me?”

  His brow pinched. “Do you want me to bring you anything from the food court?”

  That made me want to gag even more, so I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll figure something out later.”

  “Okay. If you change your mind, shoot me a text.”

  “I will. Go. You’ve got classes this afternoon. Eat.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.” He kissed me gently, and then left.

  After he was gone, I still pressed my hip against my desk. I let my head fall forward. Rubbing the back of my neck with both hands, I sighed.

  Tonight was going to be rough.

  If we were going to do this, though, if we were going to make a relationship of some kind work, then sooner or later we had to cross this bridge. Might as well do it now, see if we could handle it, and move on if we couldn’t.

  And I tried not to think about the fact that relationships were dangerous territory for me anyway. What if things were okay when we slept in the same bed? What if we could handle each other’s PTSD? What if . . .

  I exhaled.

  What if I let myself get as close to him as I had to Dion?

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to force that thought out of my mind. It was irrational. Dion and Clint had nothing to do with each other, and there was no reason to believe things would turn out the same way. Right?

  Well, we’d see how it went.

  All I knew was this was the first time I dreaded going to bed with Clint.

  Between the PTSD flare-up and my back pain, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck by the time we were calling it a night. My mind was still going a million miles an hour, but I was too exhausted not to sleep.

  In my bedroom that night, I started to take off my shirt, but winced.

  “Need a hand?” Clint asked.

  “I got it.” Holding my breath, I peeled my shirt all the way off. “See?”

  His lips quirked. “Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  We finished undressing—him more easily than me—and I got into bed. He joined me, but didn’t settle in quite yet. “Go ahead and arrange the pillows however you need for your neck. I don’t want you making it worse.”

  “I think you’re the first guy who’s ever waited for me to organize all this shit.”

  He laughed. “Eh, I’ve had stiff necks before. Not the same thing, but I know what it’s like trying to sleep when my neck hurts.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We both left on our boxers and climbed into bed. Though we hadn’t broached the subject of whether sex was on the table tonight, the clothes seemed to telegraph that we both knew it wasn’t. Sex would have been a welcome distraction too, but naturally, my back was killing me. The tension in my neck and shoulders had spread down my spine, and well, that was all she wrote. My night would be made of TENS, Motrin, and attempts at relaxation.

  If Clint was annoyed or frustrated, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he lay beside me with his arm over me and kissed behind my ear. “How’s your back?”

  “Good as it ever is.”

  “That bad?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” He kissed me again. “You took some Motrin, right?”

  “Always.” Tonight, Motrin was about as effective as using paper airplanes for an airstrike, but it was better than nothing.

  And even though I was supposed to use ice rather than heat, I had to admit Clint’s body heat felt really nice against those painfully tight muscles.

  I closed my eyes. Just being beside him was enough for me to start getting hard. Judging by the way he drew his hips back slightly, it might’ve been the same for him.

  I was way too tired and sore, though. And Clint didn’t push.

  Before too long, my dick gave up. Not much longer after that, Clint was asleep.

  So I closed my eyes and followed suit.

  Every time I tried to swim to the surface, the pain in my back paralyzed my arms and shoulders. Every time I stopped swimming, I sank deeper into the cold, dark water. My lungs screamed for air. My muscles screamed for rest.

  A shadow hovered in the water nearby, barely illuminated by . . . the moon? Searchlights?

  It was Charlie. I knew it was. I couldn’t see him, but it was him. He didn’t move. Didn’t try to swim. Just sank deeper.

  Lungs burning and body on fire, I tried to get to him. Couldn’t.

  Swimmers. Their masks and insignia were vivid. The only thing I could really see.

  But they couldn’t get to me.

  Sinking too fast.

  My motionless RIO floated away.

  Swim harder. Swim. Harder.

  “Travis, can you hear me?”

  The question jolted my surroundings. Scrambled them like a glitch in a computer program. The water wasn’t quite right anymore. Different somehow. Why was there a ship in a swimming pool?

  I choked and coughed. Salt. Fucking salt.

  A wave crashed over my head. I thought I’d go under, but something solid kept me in place. Why was I lying down?

  “Travis?” Calm. Firm. Soothing. “Travis, do you know where you are?”

  I held on to his voice like a lifeline.

  “Travis?”

  Warm, dry fingers touched my face, and suddenly everything around me was warm and dry too. I wasn’t submerged in cold saltwater. My lungs were clear.

  “Hey. Can you hear me?” More soft, calm touches.

  My eyes are closed.

  I forced them open, and the nightmare vanished.

  I sucked in a breath of air. Slowly, the world around me came into focus. It was dark, but some light came in through the window, and the blue numbers on my alarm clock glowed beside the bed.

  The bed. Where I was lying next to Clint. Safe and sound on dry land.

  The warmth of Clint’s body as reassuring as it was alien. Normally, partners kept me at arm’s length after an episode like that, as if they were afraid to touch me, or they wrapped me in a suffocating bear hug until I nearly collapsed into a fresh panic.

  Even as I caught my breath and my heartbeat slowly came down, he stayed close. He didn’t hold me—he just stayed here, his hip against mine and his arm loosely over my waist.

  I looked at the clock again: 11:26. Shit. Still a lot of night left between now and daylight.

  “You okay?” he asked after a while.

  “Yeah.” I started to get up, and he lifted his arm off me. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rested my elbows on my knees as I rubbed my neck with both hands.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Need anything?”

  “One of those mind-eraser things from Men in Black would be nice.”

  “God, wouldn’t it?” He kneaded my shoulder, and I closed my eyes and exhaled. For a long, long time, we were silent, and I focused on his gentle touch while I waited for the room to stop rocking like a ship on rough seas.

  Eventually, I lay back on the pillows. Clint was on his side next to me, barely illuminated by the streetlights coming in through the window. He ran a hand up and down my arm.

  “Doing better?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I paused. “You ever dream you’re drowning? Not as a flashback, I mean. Just in general.”

  Clint no
dded. “Sometimes, yeah.”

  “That’s what it is. Every time. Drowning.” I licked my lips, and was genuinely surprised when I didn’t taste salt. I ran a hand through my damp hair. Sweat. Not seawater. Sweat. “The fucked-up thing is, I don’t actually remember it. I don’t remember anything. So when I dream about it, I don’t know if that’s what really happened, or if my subconscious is filling in the blanks. And to be honest, I’m not sure which option is worse.”

  “Wow. I don’t think either option would be pleasant.”

  “Seriously.” I glanced at the clock. It was after midnight now. “Shit. We should get some sleep. The workday comes early.”

  “You going to be able to sleep?”

  “I hope so.” I paused. “I’m going to end up keeping you awake, though. I can take the couch if—”

  “Jesus, Travis.” He slid closer and draped his arm over me. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed. Especially not over something like this. We’ll take the night as it comes.” He kissed my shoulder. “Both of us.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed. I was too tired to argue with him, and admittedly, I was grateful for his company even if I was keeping him from getting a decent night’s sleep.

  So I didn’t argue. We lay in silence, and before long, he’d drifted off.

  After that, I would’ve liked to say the rest of the night was quiet and uneventful.

  But it wasn’t.

  We didn’t talk about it the next morning.

  Over showers and shaving and shuffling out the door with coffee cups in hand, we didn’t say much of anything. I was exhausted, so I could only imagine how he felt, especially with the heavy shadows under his eyes, and the way his limp was more pronounced.

  At work, we both clung to our coffee, and I cringed as we walked up the stairs together. As sore as he obviously was, that elevator down the hall had to be tempting as hell today. Still, whether out of pride or God knew what, he insisted on taking the stairs. This time. Every time.

  Then we went our separate ways down the hall to our respective offices.

  Now that he was out of sight, I couldn’t stop worrying about him, not to mention reliving last night. I’d known exactly what was happening, but I also knew all too well what it was like to be in his position. Afterward, it was obvious that it had been a nightmare or a flashback. In the moment, though, the only obvious thing was the bone-rattling panic. I didn’t envy him in the slightest.

  On the bright side, I hadn’t had to deal with any of my own nightmares last night because I hadn’t been able to sleep long enough. And at least I worked in a mostly admin position these days. I didn’t need to be piloting a zillion-dollar remote aircraft while my brain kept wandering off and my eyelids kept sliding shut.

  After I’d returned a few urgent emails and put out a couple of fires, I had a cup of coffee chased by a Red Bull, left my desk, and headed down the hall toward Travis’s office. The door was shut, so as always, I knocked.

  “It’s open,” came the response.

  I glanced over my shoulder, then slipped into his office and closed the door behind me. “Hey. I wanted to see how you were doing after last night.”

  Travis’s face colored. “Uh . . . better now that it’s daylight. Definitely better.” He pushed himself up out of his chair and came around to me. As he put his arms around me, he said, “What about you? Did you get any sleep?”

  “Enough to get me through the day. I’ll be all right.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry. I really—”

  “Don’t apologize.” I kissed his forehead. “Honestly. And weren’t you telling me it’s nothing to apologize over?”

  “Yeah. I did. And it’s . . .” He lowered his gaze. “It’s actually kind of ironic. I’m constantly telling Kimber it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but . . .” He looked at me. “Guess it’s different when it’s you, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I tilted my head. “Out of curiosity, what happened to her? If it’s something you can talk about.”

  Travis scowled. “Well, my crash shook her up pretty bad. But more recently . . .” He pulled in a breath. “The reason she came to the Navy Ball with me is that she wants to be able to go to parties, have a few drinks, and dance, but she’s scared to go alone or even with friends. She goes to things like the ball with me because she feels safer.”

  I blinked. “Safer?”

  He nodded. “She and some friends used to go to parties when she was in college. Then some guys got drunk, and . . .” He gulped, shook himself, and quietly added, “Things got out of hand.”

  My stomach flipped. “Jesus.”

  “Someone intervened before anything got too far out of control. Shook her up pretty bad, though. Especially when she realizes all the things that could have happened if someone hadn’t stepped in.”

  I shuddered. “I can imagine.”

  Travis sighed. “She’s tough. Always has been. But that whole incident left enough of an impression that even if she can work up the nerve to go to a party or a club, she’s too anxious and wound up to have a good time. And I know it bothers her that she can only relax if her dad’s there. What woman wants to have Daddy babysitting her, you know?”

  “There’s a difference between babysitting her and giving her a place where she can actually have a good time without being nervous.”

  “That’s what I tell her. And it’s why I go to the Navy Ball with her even though I hate it—she can dress up, have a few drinks, maybe dance, and she knows no one’s going to mess with her because of me.”

  “It’s still a damn shame she has to be that worried.”

  “It’s a damn shame I never got my hands on the guys who fucked with her.” The murderous tone left little to the imagination about what would’ve happened if he had. “And last year, some dick-bag thought it was creepy that I brought my daughter as my ‘date.’ I straightened his ass out, believe me.”

  “Good,” I said. “What an idiot.”

  “Yep. So yeah. My kid’s got some things that trigger her. I’ve got some things that trigger me. It sucks that past traumas kind of dictate our current normal, but it is what it is.”

  “At least you’ve got support. You can talk to each other.”

  He nodded. Then he offered a tired smile. “I can talk to you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to one side, then the other, as if trying to relieve some of the visible stiffness. “Thank God mine doesn’t trigger very often anymore. It’s been years since—” He cleared his throat. “Since the crash that caused it.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, they say it gets better with time. I’m holding on to that, believe me.”

  “It does,” he said softly. “But, I mean, as you saw last night . . . it doesn’t necessarily go away.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I grimaced. “Man, that must be hard, having it yourself and knowing your kid’s going through it too.”

  “Yeah. Hers has always been fairly mild, thank God, but if she’s expecting me to come home or call, and I don’t, she . . .” He pursed his lips, and his eyes lost focus, as if he couldn’t find the right word. “She struggles, let’s put it that way. She won’t quite have a panic attack or a flashback or anything—it’s never been that severe—but she’ll get really anxious. Can’t sleep. Can’t concentrate. One thing I absolutely do not do with her is text her or leave her a message saying she needs to call me right away. She’d rather I just tell her whatever it is in the message.”

  “So she doesn’t amp herself up with all the worst-case scenarios?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does she see a therapist?”

  Travis shook his head. “She did for a while, but hasn’t really felt the need since we moved to Anchor Point. It doesn’t really impede her ability to function from day to day. If she changes her mind, she knows how to reach Fleet and Family, or she can see a civilian doc in town. It’s up to her.”

  “Makes sense. What a
bout you?”

  He waved a hand. “Nah. I did for a while, but I don’t anymore. It’s mostly nightmares and the occasional bad night if something sets me off. Which . . . it’s weird what can trigger it, you know? I mean, I don’t even remember anything after my plane hit the flight deck. I sure as fuck don’t remember being in the water. And even if I did, it was saltwater, for God’s sake. But five minutes into a SAR demonstration in a goddamned pool, and . . .” he tapped his forehead, “something goes haywire.”

  “Oh man, I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “It’s the weirdest thing. I had a buddy who was hurt in a mortar attack in Afghanistan. After he came home, he could handle fireworks shows, the gun range, violent movies—you name it.” I exhaled. “Then we were at a restaurant one day, and a certain song started playing in the background. He just . . . he lost it. Full-on flashback.”

  Travis’s eyes widened. “From a song?”

  I nodded. “Turned out that song was playing when the mortar came in.”

  “Jesus.” Travis whistled. “Amazing what can set that shit off.”

  “No kidding. Fortunately, he was with a group of guys who knew a flashback when they saw one. I can only imagine what would’ve happened if he’d been out with his family. Or driving!”

  Travis grimaced. “Shit. Yeah.”

  “So he absolutely could not have the radio on when he was driving after that.”

  “Oh wow. I hadn’t even thought of that. Amazing how this stuff permeates every part of your life.”

  “It is. And people wonder why I drank myself stupid the first year.”

  “I feel that. I did my fair share of self-medicating, believe me.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. But things are better now. I mean, aside from nights like last night.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. If he still had nights like that eight years on from his crash, how long would it be before mine were less of a problem? Fuck. One of those mind erasers would’ve been really, really nice.

  “You know . . .” Travis put his arms around my waist. “In a weird way, I feel better after last night. Like, it’s out of the way now.” He laughed. “No surprises.”