Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  “Good girl,” Leo says.

  I remember the last time Michael said those words. His hands had been all over me, rough and firm just the way I like, as he whispered them into my ear. A shudder races through me.

  Leo smiles, and straightens. “I’ll take you to the hospital now.”

  When I speak, my voice is filled with worry. “What if I can’t?”

  “You can.” Leo points down my hallway. “Now get dressed.”

  I stare at him for a full twenty seconds before I rise from the couch and do what I’m told.

  Nerves riot in my stomach as Leo hand delivers me to Michael’s hospital room. Holding me by the elbow as though I’ll try and escape if he lets go. My throat goes dry as I walk into the room.

  Michael is sleeping, and the room is silent except for the whine and beeps of the machines monitoring his vitals. Everything goes still at the sight of him lying there, skin pale, his beautiful eyes closed. I fight the urge to run, to turn around and leave this place and all it’s bad memories.

  John never made it to a hospital bed. He went straight to the morgue. I’d been the one lying in that bed, my loved ones hovering over me. I remembered how I had stirred to consciousness only to remember what happened and pray to be swept back under.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Leo asks.

  I don’t know. But I’m here. I don’t have the strength of will to walk away again. I nod.

  Leo releases his grip on my arm. “I’ll leave you alone with him.”

  I offer a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turns to leave but at the last second spins back around. “Your wrong, you know.”

  My gaze is on Michael. My fingers twitch with the need to trace his jaw. To place my palm over his heart and feel it beat under my touch. To assure myself he’s alive. I shift my attention to Leo. “About what?”

  “You’re deserving of Michael. If I didn’t think so, I’d have let him suffer.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “I do. Not that he wouldn’t have come for you himself the second he got out of here.” His lips lift in a small smile. “But you already know that.”

  I nod, and he’s gone, leaving me alone with Michael.

  I take a deep breath and turn back to find Michael awake and watching me. He might be in a hospital bed, but his gaze is intense and as mesmerizing as ever. When he speaks, his voice is still the same strong voice I remember. “He’s right. I would have come for you the second I was released.”

  My heart beats double time and I resist the urge to fling myself into his arms and beg for forgiveness. Instead, I offer a trembling, “I’m sorry.”

  He shifts, and then angles the bed upright with a remote. The harshness of the motor an irritant to my ears. When he’s positioned to stare directly at me, he says, “The second I went down I knew you’d leave.”

  I swallow hard, clenching my hands into fists. “I wish I could have proved you wrong.”

  “I understand you.”

  I lower my gaze to the cold smooth hospital floor. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  He points to the chair next to the bed. “Come sit down.”

  My feet feel like concrete blocks are attached to them. Unable, or unwilling to move in my paralyzing fear of what my future holds.

  I think of that last night I saw him, how it was between us. How I felt, that fun, sexy dress that made me feel reborn, and the way Michael looked at me. Maybe I can’t escape the girl I’ve become. Maybe I was wrong to even try, to risk it.

  Maybe I’m not meant to be happy.

  “Come sit.”

  I nod, take a deep breath, and walk over to him, sitting down in the chair.

  “It’s going to be okay, Layla.”

  I lick my lips. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Look at me.”

  Throat tight, I blink, raising my gaze to meet his.

  “We’re going to get through this.”

  I clutch my jacket tight around me, pressing back into the chair. “I…don’t…”

  He holds up his hand, his left one, the arm not attached to his injured shoulder. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

  I nod. “It’s not what I want, but I’m afraid.”

  He reaches out. “I love you so much.”

  I take his hand. “I love you too.”

  He squeezes my fingers. “We’ll work it out.”

  I want to believe.

  “I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice is hoarse and broken sounding.

  “It’s not your fault.” Tears well in my eyes and I can’t stop them from spilling down my cheeks. “Concentrate on getting better.”

  “It was a fluke.”

  “That’s what Leo said.” I believe them. Michael’s been a detective for a long time without incident, but that’s the thing about flukes, they don’t happen often but when they do they lead to tragedy. He might go another ten plus years without another one, but when it happened again, I could lose him forever.

  He shifts restlessly, and I can see the strain of the exertion at his mouth. The fatigue in the lines at his eyes and shadows under his skin. He hasn’t been sleeping or getting the rest he needs, because of me. He’s not recovering as quickly as he could because he’s too worried about me. I make a silent vow that I will stay until he’s recovered. I squeeze his hand. “Please, you need your rest. We can talk when you’ve slept.”

  He searches my expression. “Promise you won’t leave.”

  “I won’t.” I pluck the remote from his fingers and start to lower the bed. “You need to sleep.”

  “But…”

  I shake my head, standing and hovering over him. I trace the line of his jaw. “We’ll talk later. Sleep.”

  His lids start to flutter. “I’d fight you, but the drugs are kicking in.”

  I don’t want him focusing on when, or if, I’ll desert him. I want him at ease, so I smile and say, “Leo’s…you know…one of us.”

  He laughs and winces. “I know.”

  I stroke over his forearm, tracing the veins in his skin with my fingertip. “That must have gone over well.”

  He takes a deep breath. “It did indeed.”

  “He ordered me back here.”

  He looks at me and a shadow of a grin ghosts over his lips. “Then I will forgive him for violating my sister.”

  I want to see it again—the glimpse of the man I know—so I tease. “I guess we won’t be going to the club with them.”

  His brow furrows. “God no, woman, are you insane?”

  I laugh, and watch as he drifts into sleep.

  I’m unsure of where our future will lead, unsure if I have the strength to stay, but leaving him while he needs me is unthinkable.

  For now, it’s enough.

  Michael has been home from the hospital for one week, and I watch him carefully, warily. My gaze scans over him, searching for signs of discomfort, as he lies asleep on the couch.

  Real shoulder gunshot wounds aren’t like you see in the movies where the hero springs up from the ground, and shakes off the pain to run after the villain. From what I understand, with all those muscles, bones and tendons in that region, Michael is lucky he’ll regain full use of his arm.

  He stirs in his sleep before settling again. He had his first round of physical therapy today. It had been a frustrating, exhausting experience for him. When we’d come home his face had been drawn with strain, the corners of his mouth etched in pain. I forced him to take a painkiller he didn’t want.

  He’d been too tired and in too much pain to put up much of a fight.

  I sit on a chair across from him, the room silent except for his breathing. Belle’s gone, staying at Jillian and Leo’s while Michael is recovering, and I miss her terribly.

  I try and focus on the book in my hand, a light chick lit type read that’s supposed to be “laugh out loud funny”, but I can’t concentrate on the words.

  No
, instead, I study Michael and contemplate my future.

  Every day I think about leaving. Every day I stay.

  I can’t quite explain the war inside me. How I’ve worked myself into a corner. I feel selfish for staying, and selfish for thinking I should leave. With Michael not strong enough to do anything but recover, I’ve had nothing to do but take care of him and think.

  And the more I think, the more twisted my thoughts become.

  I’m convinced I’m cursed somehow. That if I stay with Michael, I will be his demise. As crazy and irrational as it sounds, I can’t help the thought from battering away, filling my head.

  I’m once again afraid. Because it must be me. Something about me must attract violence. After all, I do love danger. And damaging the men I love must be the consequence.

  I wish, more than anything, Michael could take me in hand and calm all these volatile emotions. I’m a horrible person for even wanting it, for being frustrated that he can’t do that for me. Maybe, if things weren’t so rocky, it wouldn’t eat away at me.

  But things are not good. There’s a strain between us that never existed before, not even at the beginning of our tenuous relationship when I fought so hard to stay away. We know why, but it remains unspoken.

  For the first time, I’m not the only one that’s afraid. Michael is too.

  I can feel it in the way he looks at me. The way he holds his tongue when I say something he doesn’t agree with. He’s scared one wrong move will send me running, and he doesn’t have the strength to chase me.

  In other words, the power dynamic between us has shifted.

  And neither one of us knows how to shift it back.

  Our conversations focus on the mundane. I take care of him, making sure he follows all the doctor’s instructions. I scour the Internet looking for books and movies he’ll enjoy to keep him busy while I’m at work. I cajole him into taking his pain meds, get him blankets and make him chicken noodle soup. Sometimes he tries to argue, but he doesn’t have enough stamina to win.

  Shamefully, I can feel my cravings creeping in on me, threatening to spin out of control. When I find myself bursting with the desire to push him so that he’ll take control, I leave the room and do my breathing exercises and journal the way Dr. Sorenson taught me. Writing endless pages that I rip free from the notebook and burn after I’m done. I hate myself for wanting things to go back to the way they were so voraciously. Ironic, considering how hard I fought to stay away from him.

  I’ve been very careful to hide my dark, selfish desire. But he knows.

  And the more it remains unspoken between us, the more I have the urge to unleash the brattiness building inside me. It’s a pattern I’d long established with John to get what I wanted. Habit. One I never instilled with Michael because, truthfully, I never had to.

  Before, he exerted his control and it was unwavering, leaving little room for resistance. I’ve grown to love it, to need it. The more he controlled me the more peaceful I became. I don’t know how to explain, or even why, but it soothed the damaged part of me and set me free.

  I miss it.

  And he’s not strong enough to give it to me.

  On the couch, he stirs, shifting to turn his face toward me. The sun from the window falls across his hard face, highlighting his strong jaw. Dark lashes closed, his face is relaxed, although his pallor is not quite right. My eyes skim over his body, every delicious inch of him, and rest on his bandaged shoulder. It’s hidden away under his T-shirt, but I know it’s there, taunting me. It brushes against my skin at night, reminding me, of what has happened, and what might happen in the future.

  It’s like fate has played a cruel trick. He’s right across from me, so close I can touch him, but the essence of him has been taken away from me.

  He stirs again and his lids flutter. He’ll wake soon.

  I can’t help the thought that floods my mind. That maybe I should stand up, and leave. Walk out of that door forever. That it’s the only way to protect him.

  He opens his hazel eyes, disoriented at first, but then fixing on me.

  I stand up, but instead of walking to the door, I walk to the couch, sitting on the edge. His hand covers my knee and I smooth over his brow. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired, but better.”

  “Are you sore?”

  A muscle works in his jaw. “Yes.”

  That simple word tells me what I need to know. Michael downplays his pain. Hiding it from me, the way I hide from him. He’s hurting badly. I glance at the clock. “You can’t take another pill for at least an hour.”

  He shakes his head. “No more pills.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, a slight smile on my lips.

  “I’m serious, Layla, they make me so damn numb.”

  I nod. I will not rise to the bait. “Just rest.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. His fingers squeeze my knee, and my belly jumps with traitorous desire. I ignore the heat, and ask, “What do you want for dinner?”

  His gaze drops to my lips and tension fills the space between us. “I’ll get my strength back soon.”

  I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me, or himself. Probably both. “Of course you will.” His eyes narrow and I stroke over his flat, hard belly. “It will be faster if you get your rest.”

  He gestures in a motion that I can only describe as helpless. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Michael, I’m fine,” I say in a hard, stern voice. Adopting his persona, shoving my own as far down as I can muster.

  He goes to say something, but the words die as his lids close. “Can we talk later?”

  The pain meds working their magic, stealing his consciousness. I tuck the blanket he’s kicked to the floor around him. “How about pasta for dinner?”

  “Sure,” he mumbles.

  Five minutes later he’s breathing deeply and I’m once again on the chair, pretending to read words I don’t comprehend.

  I peer at Michael before glancing at the door.

  How am I helping him? His worry and anxiousness about me distracts him away from his recovery. He needs to focus on what’s important and he can’t do that with me.

  As much as I try and talk myself out of them, the dark thoughts persist. They whisper in my ear, playing into all my deepest fears in the most compelling and convincing way.

  Go. Leave. It’s for the best. If you don’t, you’ll be his demise.

  I look back at Michael. I promised him I’d stay.

  I remember how it was between us the night he was shot. The way he ground the heel of his hand between my legs and said in his harsh, demanding voice, “Consider yourself marked.” Then he kissed me, told me to have fun, and pushed me out the door.

  Into life.

  I glance one last time at the door, and then back at him.

  I stay.

  I’m in Dr. Sorenson’s office, sitting on her bland, nondescript couch, while she sits across from me in her bland, nondescript therapist’s outfit.

  I find myself wondering what she’s like outside the office.

  Does she like her life? Is she afraid? Does she believe in her work?

  Since I haven’t spoken, she prompts me, probably conscious of our fifty minutes drifting away. “How is Michael’s recovery going?”

  I glance away, focusing on the calm seascape painting on the wall. “He’s getting better every day.” I pause, sucking in a breath. “He wants me to move in with him, officially that is.”

  A small smile curves her lips. “And how do you feel about that?”

  I bite my lower lip. I’ve been so busy putting on a happy face for everyone, and it’s exhausting me. With her, I don’t have to hide. “I don’t want to live without him, and I don’t know how to live with him walking out that door every day.”

  She nods, and writes something in her note pad. “That’s to be expected. Did you give him an answer?”

  I shake my head, unsure how to explain how it’s been between us. It�
�s like by some unspoken rule, we’ve decided not to talk about anything significant.

  She nods, as though contemplating her next words. “Forget everything else. Do you want to live with Michael?”

  “More than anything.” I’m scared though. I don’t know how to keep him safe.

  “But?”

  I exhale. “His job, it’s dangerous. I’ll have to learn to live with it every day for the rest of my life.”

  She doesn’t speak for a minute, but then she puts down her pen and paper and pins me with a direct stare. “Life is full of peril and risk. Safety is an illusion.”

  For the first time I feel I’m talking to the real Dr. Sorenson, and not the therapist. Somehow, it eases me. “But you can’t deny his job is more dangerous than the average person’s.”

  She clasps her hands in her lap. “True. But even the safest of lives—if you truly want to live—suffer loss. Parents take their children to the doctor because they have a headache and leave with a child diagnosed with cancer. Someone looks down to read a text message while they’re driving and dies in a car accident. Life is risk. Unless you want to go off by yourself and live in the woods, disassociated from all your loved ones, you will experience loss and sorrow again. Grief is inescapable.”

  I bite my lower lip. “This is an interesting therapy technique.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “After a year of seeing you, I understand sometimes you need things laid out before you in black-and-white. I’m not going to insult your intelligence and tell you that your life will always be full of sunshine and rainbows. Because, after what you’ve experienced, you know that’s bullshit.”

  My eyes widen at her language, and I blink.

  She smiles, not her normal professional one, but a real one that lights up her whole face. “As sure as we are sitting here, our lives will change. Sometimes for the good. Sometimes for the bad. That’s life. But, I’ve been a therapist for a long time, and the human spirit never ceases to amaze me. I’ve seen people go on to do some pretty awe-inspiring things in the face of tragedy.”