The Problem with Peace: Greenstone Security #3

by Malcom, Anne

  I really had been living in a fantasy.

  It wasn’t a huge lie. But lying was lying, right? I did go to the meetings. That was correct. Heath dropped me off with a kiss on the forehead, a tortured look in his eyes and a promise to be back in an hour.

  I wasn’t sure if he even actually left. I had a sneaking suspicion that he just sat at the curb. He didn’t probe about the meetings. Didn’t push me to talk. He’d just kiss me again when we got in the car and let me have my silence, maybe thinking I’d had enough talking for the night.

  There was talking at the meetings.

  Just not from me.

  I sat there, was insulated against my own horrors by hearing those of others. No one judged me in my silence. I certainly wasn’t alone in it either. I wasn’t alone in my pain either. That was the thing that had me coming back, even though my skin crawled every time I walked through those doors. Every time I faced a pale, gaunt, haunted woman who was trying to repair herself, recognize herself. Because I was forced to face the entirety of my own pain then.

  I knew I had to. In order to heal, I had to embrace the pain. I taught that to my new students. To embrace the discomfort, for it’s only through discomfort that we grew. These meetings were me trying to practice what I preached.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to talk. Physically couldn’t. A lump settled in my throat as soon as I walked through the doors. Again, I knew what this meant. I wasn’t getting the flu. Didn’t have mono.

  I studied physical manifestations of spiritual imbalances in college and then got farther into it as I began my yoga courses. Not for everyone. “More new age horse shit,” were Lucy’s exact words.

  But I believed in them. And there was no hiding the evidence. Technically, I was in perfect health. Until I walked through those doors and it was almost impossible to swallow. The entire class, my throat was sandpaper. It was about my throat chakra and my inner truth. It was the link between my heart and my head, and the harder I tried to suppress my emotions, the bigger the lump grew to.

  But this afternoon it was worse than it ever had been. I could only take a strangled breath around it. I knew that meant I had to speak the unspeakable.

  I waited until almost the end of the class. Because I was a procrastinator in everything in life, obviously it would work tenfold for having to vocalize something I’d previously kept quiet with a ferocity that my life depended on it.

  And it did, in a way.

  But I knew that this silence would slowly kill whatever was left in me.

  I stood on shaky legs, wiped my sweaty palms on the thighs of my yoga pants.

  “My ex-husband said that it wasn’t rape when I’d willingly ‘let him in there’ before,” I said, my voice flat and clear and scarily detached. “My screams, my pleads, my struggles, that still didn’t make it rape,” I continued. “Not even when he punched me in the face so hard that he fractured my cheekbone.”

  I touched the smooth skin that had a small mark, slowly fading, sinking into the skin to join the scars on my bones.

  “It wasn’t rape even though he’d kidnapped me because he wanted money.” I laughed. “Money. Three million dollars was the price of whatever was left of my innocence. My faith in the goodness of the world.” I paused. “No, that’s not right. I still have faith in the goodness of the world. I just lost faith that I would get that. Because apparently there is a dollar amount where the man who promised to cherish you and love you, decides to brutalize and violate you.” I paused because I had to. Because images were assaulting my mind with a stark reality that made me blink rapidly to bring the room back into view and chase away the shitty hotel room.

  Chase away the squeak of the bed.

  The rough breaths in my ear.

  The pain of being split in two.

  I forced myself back into reality.

  “Of course, his ability was always there, with or without the money,” I continued, voice hoarse. “Maybe he would’ve done it anyway. If not to me then the next woman to fall in love with that mask he wore. It’s a lot of maybes, and I’m not allowed to work in those.” I looked at the faces around the room. They were full of kindness. Understanding. Pain. “Because then I go into dangerous territory. Maybe I hadn’t left Heath’s. Maybe I didn’t answer that door. Maybe I fought when he uncuffed me to let me use the bathroom, and I escaped. Maybe I died in the back of that truck.”

  My voice was still cold. Still empty, even though I was filling all of my haunted and tortured thoughts into it.

  “Or maybe I didn’t marry him in the first place,” I whispered. “Maybe I went with a man who promised me the world and not the fantasy that Craig had constructed to hide my nightmare. Maybe I didn’t lose my baby, maybe I made the right decision for once.”

  A tear trailed down my cheek, which was weird since I didn’t feel sad.

  “So I’m not allowed to play maybes,” I said. “It happened. And despite what he said, it was rape.” The word was ash on my tongue. “And I’ve been feeling so ashamed. Of his actions. I’ve been feeling like it’s my shame to hold onto. To let rot my insides. When it’s his shame. This is not something I should hold inside because it makes me feel dirty to admit to the world, let alone myself. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault, but that doesn’t mean anything. Because it happened. And I’m here. And I’m lost.”

  Heath

  “Hey dude, you feel like fucking up some drug dealers?” Rosie asked cheerfully, entering his office belly first.

  He glanced up. “I do not feel like getting murdered by your husband, so no,” he replied dryly.

  She scowled at him. “No one’s any fun anymore,” she moaned.

  “I would’ve thought Polly and an excessive number of tacos would’ve cheered you up.”

  She frowned. “Yes, Polly and an excessive number of tacos would cheer me up. Where is she? I’ll call her. No, her phone is probably dead, and you’ve put some kind of tracking device on her in her sleep, right?”

  Heath had been frozen the second she started speaking. “You haven’t been getting tacos with her.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  But Rosie answered anyway. “No, as you so shrewdly pointed out, tacos put me in a good mood. I’m not currently in a good mood,” she snapped. Her face dropped. “Why do you think that I’m getting tacos with Polly?”

  He stood. “Because she fucking told me you picked her up from her meeting three hours ago.”

  “Meeting?” Rosie parroted.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, stabbing at his phone.

  He got voicemail.

  Of course he did.

  “Keltan!” he all but roared into the intercom.

  “Oh fuck, what now,” Keltan sighed.

  “Polly’s missing.”

  There was a pause. “Fuck,” he hissed. Heath heard that goddamn tapping of keys again. “On it.”

  His mind went to that night in the desert.

  Every inch of his skin went cold.

  He couldn’t handle that shit again.

  He fucking couldn’t.

  No matter what shit he’d handled in a desert world’s away, on a fucking battlefield, it had nothing on opening the door of that truck and seeing her. Holding her and having her feeling so light, like someone had just scooped everything out of her. After they’d beat her bloody, that was.

  “If Fernandez has her, I’ll kill him, fuck the plan you idiots have and fuck the fucking pregnancy,” Rosie hissed.

  She was pacing.

  It made him nervous.

  She was fucking pregnant as fuck, she shouldn’t be pacing like that. The baby could just fall right out or something. Both her and Lucy were close to delivery. And that scared him more than he cared to admit. Not just because he might be the fucker who had to deliver the baby like Cade had with his wife in the Sons of Templar clubhouse.

  No, because he knew what it was doing to Polly. He saw it, every time she looked at them. The joy in her face for her sister. The love. He sa
w it because she wore that love like she wore those fuckin’ dresses that drove him wild.

  It fit her.

  But sometimes it moved. Just a little so no one but him could see it. The sorrow. The pain so deep it speared through his bone.

  She wouldn’t get that. She wouldn’t grow big with his baby, feel it inside her.

  And it fucking killed him. Not because he felt like he was losing out on something. No, with her he had everything. But because of what the world was taking from her. The girl that radiated sunshine and love, who gave everything. The woman who would be the best mother on the face of the planet. And she didn’t get that.

  It was too fucking cruel to bear.

  She’d get that, though. He’d make sure of it.

  He’d already been looking into adoption agencies. Sure, it might be too soon, but he wanted to be prepared, ready. Because Polly was getting back to Polly.

  Slowly.

  But she was getting there.

  And he knew when she got there—and she’d fucking get there—she’d be ready to jump into things. When that day came, he wanted to be able to be ready for whatever she wanted. Which was why he’d been carrying a ring around for a month. One that he’d gotten from some obscure, vintage jewelry store, that only sold antique shit. And the ring was Polly. Simple. Understated. And mind-blowingly beautiful.

  He knew she’d want a ring with history. With a story. Because she lived for stories.

  And he was going to give her one.

  Give her everything.

  Hence him researching adoption agencies. Pulling every string he had to make sure that they could get on the list as soon as she decided. If that’s what she decided. It would’ve been easier if they were married.

  And they would be married.

  Heath was gonna make sure of that.

  But no way would he rush her.

  They had forever. And as long as she kept falling asleep in his arms, he could handle her not having his ring on her finger.

  What he couldn’t handle, was Rosie pacing. No, what he couldn’t fucking bear was the fact they were back in that room, in that horrific fucking room and Polly was missing again.

  “Rosie, Jesus Christ,” Luke seethed as he entered, face tight. “I told you to stay off your feet, and what? Now you think it’s a good idea to pace holes in the carpet?” He placed his hands atop her belly and looked down. “In fucking heels? I thought we talked about that.”

  Rosie narrowed her eyes. “You talked. I did not listen since it was utter madness, and not the good kind. You get me out of heels, you get me out of this marriage.”

  “I’m gonna interrupt here because this because my fucking woman is missing,” Heath hissed.

  Luke’s gaze snapped to him. “We got her,” he said.

  Heath almost fucking throttled him for the fact that was not what he led with. Yes, concern about his pregnant wife was pressing. But she was right in fucking front of him. Heath had no idea where Polly was.

  And the last time he had no idea where she was, he’d found her broken, battered and half fucking dead in the back of a truck.

  “We’ve got a tracker on her phone,” Luke continued. “Lance was closest. He’s got eyes on her.” He paused. “She’s okay. Physically.”

  Rosie stopped pacing. “It’s happened?” she whispered. “It’s finally hit her.”

  Luke nodded once, face tight, bracing for his woman’s pain.

  “It’s hit her,” he agreed.

  Heath was halfway out the door.

  Because shit wasn’t hitting Polly. Not without hitting him too.

  Polly

  I wasn’t one hundred percent sure how I got here.

  I had left the meeting, feeling empty and full at the same time. Like I’d released something but also like I was stretched so tight I was going to snap.

  I must’ve left early, because Heath wasn’t waiting.

  And Heath was always right on time.

  I also must’ve texted him, because I didn’t want him to worry. That was the last thing I needed. On autopilot, I’d told him Rosie had picked me up for an impromptu taco run.

  He’d responded immediately.

  And he hadn’t been surprised.

  Because Rosie was kind of wildly obsessed with tacos at this stage in her pregnancy.

  I was impressed my fractured mind was able to conjure such a watertight excuse. I must’ve spent all my excess brain power since I couldn’t think of anything else to do. So I started walking.

  I was only wearing sandals so it wasn’t exactly comfortable after the first two miles. But that was good. I liked the discomfort. After another two miles, some of the skin was opening up on my feet and blisters were forming. That was better than good. Tearing on the outside was great, so I didn’t feel like I was going insane just tearing on the inside.

  I wasn’t counting the miles, or the hours, or even the pain.

  I was just walking.

  The only reason I knew that I’d walked almost nine miles was because I got to the park. I’d mapped the distance from Atwater to Wildwood Canyon when one of my friends was training for a marathon. So I knew how far it was. I’d unwittingly followed the trail I used to run with her. Not because I was training for the marathon, or because I particularly liked running. She needed the company. The motivation.

  And I’d always liked the destination.

  This park.

  It was pretty late by now, the sun kissing the horizon, bathing the city in a warm glow that made it look like it was magical. That down there, it wasn’t full of pain and lost dreams.

  I liked that.

  “Ma’am, you okay?” a kind and scratchy voice asked from above me.

  I realized I’d sat down at some point, on the slightly damp grass.

  The man who’d spoken had tangled hair and an unkempt beard. His clothes were dirty, and his shoes had holes. He was holding a paper bag with a bottle top peeking out.

  He had kind eyes.

  I smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  He frowned. “You don’t look it.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  He paused for a beat longer. “You shouldn’t be out here too late, pretty and troubled lady like you,” he said. Then he pointed to a copse of trees. “I’ll be over there, watching out, make sure no more trouble comes to you.”

  And then he wandered off.

  It was nice to think someone was watching out for me.

  Even if all the trouble had already come and gone.

  * * *

  “Sunshine?” an urgent voice called into the ever-creeping darkness.

  “Heath?” I replied immediately.

  “Fuck,” he hissed as he emerged from a curve in the hill. He was on me in two strides. I was in his arms, the warmth surrounding me, showing me just how cold I’d gotten.

  Not from the ever-retreating sunlight.

  No, from the memories I’d finally let in.

  Heath’s arms squeezed me tight enough to make my bones protest. I didn’t say anything, because the pain in my feet had retreated, so I needed the pain of his embrace to make myself feel real. He kissed my head, rocking me slowly in his arms before he released me enough to look at me, to take stock.

  I knew he was looking for injuries.

  I hated myself a little bit for making him have to do that. For putting the worry and fear on his face.

  “I’m not hurt,” I said.

  He paused for a moment, then he pressed his lips to mine. “Yeah, baby, you are. And it’s okay to hurt. To show you’re hurt. I can handle it,” he promised.

  “I just felt like walking,” I whispered against his mouth. “And then, maybe I thought why don’t I just keep walking for a little while. Maybe get a little lost. Because maybe I might find myself again.”

  He stood, and gathered me into his arms. “Let’s get you home,” he said.

  I glimpsed up at him through my tears. “I am home. I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to realize
that. That I’ve been fighting it because I loved you so much I didn’t want you to have the pain of loving me. I’m sorry I disappeared again because I couldn’t realize it without doing something so utterly Polly-like like walking ten miles in Birkenstocks.”

  Heath smiled. “The only thing I care about is my wild, beautiful, strong woman is back. That she’s mine,” he said as he began to walk back to the parking lot.

  “Wait!” I cried out.

  Heath stopped immediately.

  “Put me down,” I ordered.

  “No way in hell.”

  “Okay, well take me over there,” I gestured to the copse in the trees.

  To his credit, Heath didn’t even ask questions, because he knew me.

  The man was still there, sitting slightly straighter when Heath pushed through the small shelter to reveal his home. There was a littering of candy wrappers, empty bottles, tattered blankets. A pillow. Newspapers.

  Heath stiffened at the man.

  The man stiffened back, then his eyes went kind as he focused on me.

  “See someone found you that’s gonna help you with your trouble,” he said, voice throaty.

  Heath relaxed slightly. Even he could hear the kindness in the man’s slightly slurred words.

  I moved so I could retrieve my phone which was now dead. “Heath, give me your charger,” I demanded.

  I knew he carried a portable one everywhere. Not for him, because his phone was always fully charged, but for me.

  He sighed and jostled me effortlessly to retrieve it.

  I kissed his bearded cheek and then stretched my arms out, with both the phone and the charger in it.

  The man in front of me just stared at them.

  Another thing that showed me his heart. He didn’t snatch. He just looked at what I was extending with confusion, as if no one had offered him something before.

  “Take it,” I said softly.

  He bent down to put down his bottle, then straightened, taking the items gently from my hands.

  I smiled. “Now, it’s not charged, because it’s my phone and I keep forgetting to do that. But my man always has a charger.” I nodded to the second item in his hands. “So you can charge it with that. And then you can call a man called Heath.” I nodded my head. “That’s Heath.”