by L. A. Witt
I opened my eyes.
Heart pounding, breath coming in too fast, way too shallow gasps, I kicked off the sweaty sheets and sat up in my bed.
My bed. In my apartment. In Anchor Point.
That office back at Nellis was a distant memory. The meeting with the major. The fallout. The cancerous secret I’d had to carry, that I couldn’t even tell my wife or the chaplain or a goddamned therapist, even as my entire life crumbled at my feet.
It was all behind me. Three years and hundreds of miles behind me.
I was okay. As okay as I’d ever be, but that moment in the major’s office . . . it was behind me.
Shivering, I grabbed the bottle of water beside my bed and took a swig to wet my parched mouth. I could have some variation of that nightmare every night for the rest of my life—in fact, I probably would—and I’d still wake up sweaty and shaking like it was the first time. Like it was the real thing. I wondered if the nausea would get better over time, or if I’d be seventy and still have to get up and hurl my guts out once or twice a week. Better than every single night, so that was promising.
And I wasn’t out of the woods yet tonight. Still queasy, I got out of bed and stretched my arms as I walked back and forth across the floor. My body was still too jittery with too much nervous energy to even think about going back to sleep—walking it off helped sometimes. If I could walk off the jitteriness, that usually took care of the nausea too.
As I paced, I glanced at the other side of the bed, which was empty. Travis had left shortly before midnight, and though I’d hated to see him go, I hadn’t tried to make him stay. It didn’t matter how much I missed sleeping beside someone. He didn’t need to be there when my past showed up.
Sooner or later, the subject was going to come up. It always did. Eventually, it would be really late, and we’d both be exhausted from getting each other off a few times. After all, neither of us was twenty anymore—a couple of fortysomething guys were bound to fall asleep after sex. What happened if we drifted off, and Travis woke up to this?
Logan had usually been passed-out drunk beside me, so if I’d woken up freaking out, he’d slept right through it. If he’d been sober, he’d firmly believed he knew exactly what would put me back to sleep. It should’ve been a clue about our relationship that in this case, I’d preferred the nights when he’d been drinking.
I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. I would have sold my soul for something that would at least help with all this bullshit, but so far, nothing had worked. I was forbidden from talking about what had happened, so therapy was out of the question. Even the most basic details of the incident were strictly need-to-know, and the reams of nondisclosure agreements I’d signed before and after had warned me that it wasn’t my decision who needed to know. I could get help with the PTSD, but my pursuit of help ended where the need for national security began. Not even a therapist or a chaplain with my clearance or higher qualified.
I sighed. And people wondered why RAPs drank.
One doctor had recommended a sleep aid, but that had turned out to be a disaster. The only thing worse than having a nightmare-flashback was having one when I was sleeping too deeply to wake up.
The only thing that had ever “helped” was alcohol. I usually woke up hungover and terrified, but couldn’t remember the dreams, so it was . . . better. Sort of. And alcohol wasn’t an option anymore anyway, so it didn’t matter.
I went into the bathroom and ran a towel over my face and neck to dry off some of the sweat. Though the nightmare’s claws were slowly releasing their grip, I was worried now about Travis. If things continued with him, we’d have to cross this bridge sooner or later.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I told myself over and over that Travis was a good guy, and he was familiar with PTSD. He’d squashed the situation of showing combat videos in the office without making a big deal out of it. If there was a man in this town I could sleep beside without being scared it would end in disaster, that man was Travis.
And that was exactly why I was terrified to spend a night beside him.
Because what if I was wrong?
Though sleeping with someone in the office made the days crawl by, it did add some excitement to the nine-to-five monotony. Clint quickly became a normal part of my life. It was hard to believe it had taken only a couple of weeks to fall into such an effortless routine.
Morning hellos at the office. Subtle flirting and less subtle texting throughout the day. And, when we were absolutely certain we could get away with it, a breathless quickie in his office or mine.
Of course, there were also the evenings, which gave me something to look forward to most days. Hot sex followed by long kisses good-bye. Neither of us had spent a full night at the other’s place. I kept wondering when he’d suggest it, but he hadn’t so far, and I sure as hell wasn’t volunteering. He’d already been subjected to more of my chronic pain than I would have liked. I wasn’t ready to show my PTSD card quite yet. Before I knew it, October was nearly over. Our coworkers were plastering the office with jack-o’-lanterns and black cats, not to mention a zombie that looked suspiciously like the XO.
Unfortunately, with an inspection coming up the first week of November, our easy, comfortable schedules were suddenly crammed full of bullshit meetings and pre-inspection inspections. Office quickies ceased altogether. We exchanged grins when we passed in the halls, and exchanged texts whenever we had the chance, but time and privacy? Not exactly in great supply. If we hadn’t worked together, we probably wouldn’t have seen each other outside of the one or two nights a week we could muster up the energy to spend some time between the sheets.
It would be over soon, though, and I kept myself sane by counting down the minutes until Friday night. We’d made plans to watch a movie on his couch, and I couldn’t wait to fail miserably and wind up making out again. All I had to do was get through the rest of the week and the inspection.
Finally, on Thursday, the inspection was over. The whole office could breathe again. Clint and I didn’t hook up that night because we both needed some sleep, but tomorrow . . . tomorrow, he was all mine.
And surprise, surprise—I woke up on Friday morning feeling like someone had used my spine as a landing strip.
Go figure. We’d had damn good luck so far, so my body was bound to act up at some point and torpedo our plans.
There was still time, though. From the moment I gingerly rolled out of bed, I did everything I could to lessen the pain. I tried a hot shower. An ice pack. The TENS. The TENS along with an ice pack. Before I headed out the door, I took as much Motrin as I could handle without getting sick.
They each took the edge off in their own way, but it was like taking the very sharpest edge off an ax-head buried in my back. That little bit of relief was not enough.
Hope springs eternal, though, and on my way to work, I crossed my fingers that this would be a rough morning followed by a more comfortable afternoon. I might’ve slept weird, and the knots would gradually work themselves out as I moved around. Yeah. I’d be all right. Just needed to knuckle through it until the worst was over, and I’d be fine by the time Clint and I were in bed again.
Come on, body. Get it together.
Like we usually did, Clint and I arrived in the office parking lot at the same time. As we got out of our cars, he took one look at me, and I knew he knew. The pinch of his brow gave it away almost immediately.
Embarrassment gnawed at me. As always, the tightness in my back was worse on one side. It pulled at my hip, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t not favor my left leg. Anyone who saw me take more than two or three steps could see clear as day that I was hurting, and I fucking hated that.
As we walked inside, he said, “Not moving very fast today?”
“Not if I can help it, no.” I sighed. “Tonight’s probably going to be a bust.” I should’ve known by now he wouldn’t huff and bitch, not even when it was clear this would throw a monkey wrenc
h into our plans for the night.
He had to be disappointed to some extent, but he just shrugged. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still meet up.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Because I won’t be able to move, so I won’t be a lot of fun?”
Clint smiled. “Nights like that are why the good lord gave us movies and Motrin.”
I laughed humorlessly. Oh, if Motrin could even touch the kind of pain I was in . . . “Sorry about tonight.”
“Don’t be.” He glanced at me. “Are you going to be okay today, though?”
“Don’t really have much choice.”
At the base of the stairs, I paused. Oh fuck my life. I hated these goddamned stairs. There was an elevator at the other end of the building, but it was too close to the office that handled our physical readiness scores. Rational or not, I didn’t want them noticing me limping into the elevator. I continued using the stairs for the same reason I would continue to properly run the Physical Readiness Test until I absolutely had to resort to an elliptical—because I didn’t want to raise questions. Questions that had a funny way of—officially or unofficially, right or wrong—influencing whether or not I got promoted.
So . . . stairs.
Clint had stopped beside me, and I could hear the question before he even said it.
“I’m good,” I said through my teeth, and started up. Funny how most of my pain was in my middle and upper back, but even the simple task of climbing the stairs was enough to aggravate it. Anatomy and physiology could seriously eat a dick.
At the top of the stairs, a cold drop of perspiration rolled down the back of my neck. I couldn’t ignore Clint’s worried expression. He wasn’t stupid. He knew I wasn’t good.
I swallowed my pride as I rolled my shoulders. “Okay, I’m sore now. But I’ll be good by tonight.”
His eyebrows climbed his creased forehead. “You sure? We can always take it easy. If you’re—”
“No. No. Give me a few hours to move around and stretch a bit, and I’ll be fine.”
He studied me for a second, then shrugged. “It’s your call. Either way, I’m all yours tonight.”
I smiled despite the nerves and embarrassment. “I will definitely take you up on that.”
“Good.” He grinned, but it faded quickly. “Just take it easy today, okay?”
I bit my tongue before snapping back that no shit, I was going to take it easy. The fact that people had been telling me that for years didn’t change the fact that he meant well.
So I nodded. “I will. See you at lunch?”
“Definitely. See you then.”
He headed toward his office, and I hobbled toward mine.
And before I’d even reached my door, I turned the TENS up to max.
This was going to be a long day.
By noon, it was clear that “a few hours to move around and stretch a bit” was not going to cut it. The simple act of getting in and out of my desk chair made my eyes water.
With every hour, my enthusiasm about tonight waned even more. So far, I hadn’t been in too much pain to function in the bedroom, but I’d known all along that trend wouldn’t last forever. After a solid week of extra stress and no sleep, which had aggravated all my muscles as well as my brain—and waking up shaking from nightmares never helped with the pain—I was lucky to be walking. Who was I kidding if I thought I was having sex tonight?
There was no point in fighting it. I could knuckle through a lot of things. I could even run the damn PRT because my career—and who was I kidding, my ego—depended on it, but I definitely didn’t enjoy it. Something that was meant to be enjoyed but caused too much pain? Not really an option when I felt like this.
No two ways about it—it was time for Clint to experience one of those nights that my last few partners had grown tired of really quickly.
Well, better now than after I’d had a chance to get attached to him.
More attached to him.
You’re an idiot. This is going to be a disaster. You know that, right?
Of course it was, and I was one hundred percent convinced we were a time bomb that was down to T-minus the rest of the day . . .
Until Clint walked into my office.
One look at him, and despite the ax in my back and the knot in my stomach, my heart fluttered.
Oh God. Does this disaster have to crash and burn today?
Probably.
“Hey.” He smiled uncertainly. “How are you feeling?”
Like I don’t want you to leave but I also don’t want you to see me like this.
“Eh.” I shrugged as much as my cable-tight muscles allowed. “Like forty-five is the new eighty-five?”
“Ouch. Any better since this morning? Worse?”
He couldn’t possibly imagine how much I wanted to fake it and tell him I was well on my way to normal, and that tonight, it was so on. I wasn’t that good of an actor, though.
I exhaled. “Not great. Tonight’s definitely still going to be . . .”
“I’m fine with that. Your place or mine?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. As much as I hated giving up on our hotter plans for the night, there were worse ways to spend an evening than just hanging out with someone. “Your choice.”
He quirked his lips. “You know, if it’s not too weird for you and Kimber, your place might be better. That way you don’t have to drive home at the end of the night.”
It was all I could do not to sigh with relief. He got it. He . . . he fucking got it?
I nodded. “That would work, yeah. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” He ran his thumb back and forth along my arm. “I know PRT is coming up, and we should both probably be watching what we eat, but I could go for something unhealthy tonight.”
“Hmm. Unhealthy sounds good.”
“You like chicken?”
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” I laughed, though my voice hitched slightly when a spasm reminded me that laughing was not permitted. I muffled a cough—which also hurt, damn it—and grinned through the pain. “Of course I like chicken.”
He laughed with enough enthusiasm for both of us. “All right. I’ll pick something up. See you around six?”
“Six works. I’m looking forward to it.”
The instant Clint walked into my house, the whole place smelled like the most deliciously fragrant fried chicken.
“Oh my God.” I took in a deep breath of it. “That smells amazing.”
“I know, right?” He held up a paper bag with a few grease spots on the bottom half. “This place is unhealthy as hell, but I’ve been hooked on it since the first week I lived here.”
“Well, I’ll probably be hooked on it after tonight. Open that shit up.”
As we pulled cartons and cups out of the bags, Kimber walked into the kitchen in her work clothes and sniffed a few times. “Someone went to Larry’s.”
Clint made a mock toast with a box of boneless wings. “Guilty.”
“Oh, you bastards.” She groaned. “Now I want some.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Hey, isn’t PRT coming up for you guys?”
I glared back at her. “Isn’t there a time clock you need to be punching into?”
She huffed. “All right, fine. I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you guys later.” With a wistful sigh, she added, “Enjoy the chicken.”
“Oh, we will. Get to work.”
Rolling her eyes, Kimber turned to collect her wallet and keys. A moment later, she headed out.
“I guess I should’ve asked if she’d be here,” Clint said after she’d gone. “I didn’t even think about it, but I could’ve picked up some for her.”
“That wouldn’t be weird? Having her join us?”
“For junk food and movies?” He shook his head. “Of course it wouldn’t be weird. I mean, not for me.”
“Not for me either.” I pulled a couple of plates down from the cabinet, ignoring the fresh spasm below my
shoulder. “Maybe the next time we do this.”
He smiled. “Perfect. She works nights, though, doesn’t she?”
“Sometimes. Her department has been short-staffed lately, so she’s been taking extra shifts.” I put the plates and a stack of napkins on the table. “I’m worried she’s working herself into the ground, but she’s happy. Especially since she’s doing over-the-phone tech support now, which is much more her speed than retail. And the overtime is putting a huge dent in her car loan.”
“Can’t complain about that, right?”
“Nope.” I set a box of wings beside the plates. “She was miserable working in retail. Forty hours of that shit took more out of her than seventy hours of tech support. Long as it makes her happy . . .”
“Good for her.” He smiled as we took our seats. “Glad she’s found a solid job. And tech support—she must be making pretty good money even without the overtime.”
“More than I made at her age,” I muttered. “I mean, granted that was right after I’d graduated from the Academy, but still.”
He laughed as he put a couple of wings on his plate. “Is that adjusted for inflation? I mean, I’m pretty sure you graduated from the Academy a few years ago.”
“Just a few.” I chuckled and tore open a packet of Buffalo sauce.
“Like, when Jesus was a cadet, right?”
“Hey! Come on. I’m not that old.” I shot him a sidelong glance. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not that far behind me.”
“Not really, no.” He shifted a little. “I turned forty right before I transferred here, and God, some days I feel every minute of it.”
“I know the feeling.”
He grimaced. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be bitching about . . . I mean . . .”
“Relax.” I waved a hand, then reached for the Styrofoam bowl of mashed potatoes. “Believe me, there are days when it’s not old injuries coming back to haunt me. Sometimes it’s just being forty-fucking-five.”
“Aging is a bitch, isn’t it?”
“The worst.”
We ate in silence for a minute or so. Then Clint turned to me. “I’m curious about something.”