“Compound fractures of my tibia and fibula. The bones broke through the skin. Muscle loss, vascular damage.” His tone is solemn, his voice even, and when he squeezes my fingers, it’s not hard and angry; it’s warm and shaky.
My heart is beating so hard, not from the tragic details of his story, or his disfigured leg, but because I’m remembering what he said about carrying the injured man despite his injuries, and I realize just how brave this incredible man is.
“Half my calf was blown off. I was lucky. The other bullets hit soft tissue, perforated my colon. I had several rib fractures…”
He goes on, describing his hospital stay, weeks of IV antibiotics, rehabilitation, the guilt of missing his grandmother’s funeral. He’s pouring it all out, sharing every detail. I hear relief rather than anger, and touch my lips to his, but he continues spilling it all out between us.
“Alex.” I have to say his name three times before he realizes I’m talking, and I press my lips to his again. He’s shaking, and I gather him against me.
“I saved a bunch of guys. They want to give me the Silver Star for valor, but I don’t want it, T,” he says adamantly.
I draw back and search his eyes. I don’t know much about military awards, but I don’t have to. I know awards for valor are impressive, and I also know the way being in the military fucked with his head. I don’t want to pressure him, but I’m curious about how he can just push it aside like that.
“I don’t want it,” he repeats.
I soap up my hands and begin washing him, trying to distract us both. “That’s huge, isn’t it? Why don’t you want it?”
“It’s a high honor from an institution that doesn’t respect who I am as a person. Beyond being a soldier.” His voice turns serious. “Can you do me a favor? Let it go for now, and please don’t tell your friends about it. It’s the last thing I want to talk about—my injuries, that day, or the award.”
He must see my dismay at his asking me to keep this a secret, because he adds, “I’m sorry, T. Bad memories. I’m trying to move forward.”
His shoulders drop, his eyes fall from mine, and I realize that the admission about the award is just as devastating to him as his injuries. I don’t know what to do with this information, and since he’s asked me not to mention it to anyone else, I tuck it away in a secret, troubled compartment to deal with another time.
We’re silent as I lather up his chest and neck, the sounds of the water breaking up my thoughts. I wonder what he’s thinking as he watches my hand move over his skin, and when I move to his back, his head tips forward. In relief? In surrender? I sense it’s a little of both and something bigger as he lets me take care of him in a way I’m certain he’s never been cared for before. I wash every scar, every rounded muscle and curve of his arms, neck, and back. I wash the swell of his ass, but I don’t try to touch his legs, not yet. I want him to feel safe. With every touch of my hands, I feel tension leave his body, and I spend extra time around his shoulders and arms, the places tension seems to linger.
When I finally move away, allowing the warm water to wash the bubbles down his beautiful body, he exhales. He lifts his eyes, and the fine lines around them have smoothed. His jaw is no longer clenched.
“I’m going to wash your legs. Please don’t get upset,” I tell him, and kiss him firmly enough that he knows not to give me shit. We’ve come this far, and I know it’s difficult, but he needs to know I’ve got him. I’m on his side.
He nods and closes his eyes as I lower mine. I run my hands down his thighs, trailing over a multitude of scars, and my chest constricts. His fingers ball into fists.
I wish I could have been in the helicopter when he was being taken out of the field, in the hospital when he woke up. I can’t fathom the idea of him having gone through this without someone who loved him by his side. As my hands move over his knees, I wish I could have been with him when he learned he’d lost his grandmother. Alex is all brawn, fierce and virile. He emits strength in everything he does, but even the strongest of men have a weakness, and I know Arty was his.
I move slowly, lovingly running one hand over each calf, feeling the difference in the two: One is whole and solid, the other a gap of reminders of all he’s been through. A reminder, I realize as my hand travels over the puckers and scars lining the indentation where there should be a bulbous, muscular calf, of his grandmother telling him it was time to come home.
I take extra time loving this part of him, letting him know I’m not turned off by his injury. Letting him know I can touch all of him and it will only make us stronger. I press a kiss to his other calf, and I feel his muscles tense. When I do the same to his injured side, he lets out a ragged breath. My hands move gently over his feet. His left foot is riddled with scars.
“Shrapnel,” he says gruffly.
We have different ways of showing affection, different reasons for craving it, but in the end, the emotions are the same. Deeply needed, desperately wanted, and scary as hell to accept.
I don’t know how long we share this moment, how long he’s held his breath, or how long it took to unfurl his fists. As I rise to my feet, his hands run softly down my arms, and I know we’ve begun bridging the gap between his past and his present and future. But as I take in his handsome face and his eyes come open, the fear of rejection still pools in them, and my heart aches for him.
This bridge is a long one, full of rocks and craters, but I know we can get over it. I want to help him heal, and I want to be the man waiting for him on the other side. This will take time.
Maybe even a lifetime.
“You’re gorgeous, Alex,” I say honestly. “I want you. All of you.”
His mouth comes tenderly down over mine, and I know we’ve moved past the worst part of it. It’s a kiss of gratitude and a kiss of desire. It’s a kiss that holds the promise of something more.
He washes me with the same care I’ve washed him, and as we towel off, tension returns to his gaze, and he says, “T?”
He says it so sharply I wonder if he’s having regrets for allowing me into this private part of his world. The part I know he sees as hell and I see as him.
“Yeah?”
“At the risk of sounding like a possessive dick…” His lips curve in a crooked smile, and it’s like a gift after such a difficult time. “If any other man tries to fuck you, I might have to kill them.”
There’s strength in being wanted, strength in swearing off assholes and not allowing myself to be used or treated badly. Being with Alex has made me realize that shutting myself off wasn’t the answer. I just needed to find my balls.
“If another man tries to touch me,” I say, drawing my shoulders back and straightening my spine, “you won’t have to.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alex
“WHAT WORRIED YOU the most about me seeing your leg?” Tristan asks as we step out of the shower the next morning. He dries off and pulls on a pair of cargo shorts. The man has more clothes than anyone I’ve ever known.
He offered me a pair of his shorts earlier, but I’m nowhere near ready for that. It’s hard enough getting used to the sight of my injured leg and the changes to my lifestyle. I can no longer run for miles or ride my motorcycle all day without experiencing a dull ache. I don’t whine over it, but it’s an adjustment. When I was in the hospital everyone told me I was lucky not to have lost the limb. They’re right, and I fully appreciate that aspect, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t an adjustment period just the same.
“If you laugh I will kill you,” I warn, reaching for my jeans.
He arches a brow. “A little confident, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” I step closer, unable to keep my hands off the man, and tug him against me. I never had a best friend when I was growing up, and I never went to slumber parties or had a sibling to bat shit around with. I’ve never known love that stems from friendship in the same depths that Tristan has with his friends. But waking up with Tristan in my arms, I feel
like I’m blessed with the best of those things all rolled up into one incredible man. I cup his junk and give it a squeeze. He goes hard in my hand.
“You won’t kill me,” he says with a playful grin. “You love my cock too much.”
I feign thinking about that and lift my eyes to the ceiling.
“Fair enough.” I give him a chaste kiss and pull on my jeans. We made love again last night and this morning.
“So?” Undeterred by the deadpan stare I give him in response, he arches a brow.
His hair is still wet from the shower, and he runs his hand through it, pushing it away from his hard-on-inducing handsome face. I’ve spent years locked away in a fortress, and in no time at all he’s scaled the gates, crept inside, and begun opening my blackout curtains.
“I don’t feel whole,” I say sharply. “And I hate you seeing me as less of a man.”
He buttons my jeans for me, cups my balls, and says, “The way you fucked me last night? You are no longer allowed to use those words when speaking about yourself.”
He tosses me one of his clean T-shirts and I shrug it on. It’s tight across my chest and biceps. I lift my arm and flex, and the material strains. Tristan laughs.
“About that less of a man shit…” He grabs my hand, and we follow the aroma of coffee to the kitchen. Tristan grabs two mugs, fills them, and slides one to me. “Cream? Sugar?”
“You’re the only cream I take, sugar.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
I follow him out to the deck, where Wyatt and Cassidy are standing at the railing looking out at the water. Wyatt’s shirtless, and I can’t help but notice he’s built like he hits the gym a little too often. He’s big and hard, bulbous in ways women go for. My eyes drift to Tristan and my cock twitches. Oh yeah. Perfect.
“Hey, boys,” Cassidy greets us. She’s wearing a short skirt and forest-green sweater that makes her eyes pop. “Sleep okay last night?”
“Sleep? I could hear them upst—”
Cassidy slaps Wyatt’s arm, and he laughs.
Tristan and I exchange a slightly embarrassed, slightly proud look.
“Sorry about that,” I say, lowering myself into a chair.
“No worries.” Wyatt sits at the end of the table and pulls Cassidy down on his lap. “Paybacks are hell, though.”
“Okay, can we stop the sex talk?” Tristan suggests.
I’ve noticed that while he dirty talks with me, he’s not the kind of guy to flaunt it.
“Not a chance.” Brandon’s voice precedes his hand landing on my shoulder. “Man, when you get tired of pencil dick over there, stop into my room.”
I push to my feet and grab Brandon by the collar. Wyatt and Tristan shoot to their feet.
“Dude? What the fuck? It was a joke,” Brandon snaps.
I slide Tristan a questioning look.
“He’s got no filter,” he says, and nods, letting me know he’s cool with this.
Well, I’m fucking not. I tighten my grip on Brandon’s shirt. “Better watch that filter when it comes to my man, T. For a minute I mistook you for Ian.” Ian’s name comes out sounding foul. I release Brandon and smooth a hand down his shirt.
Cassidy laughs.
Brandon skulks to his chair. “Well played, asshole.”
I walk over, put one hand on Tristan’s shoulder and ruffle Brandon’s hair. “Thanks, bi-boy, I try.”
Wyatt and Tristan mouth, Bi-boy, and try to hide their chuckles. Brandon glowers at me, and I don’t give a shit. I know he’s Tristan’s friend, and I’m sure they call each other names all the time, but he needs to know there’s someone looking out for Tristan now.
Respect. Loyalty. Family. They go hand in hand in my book.
We drink our coffee, listening to Cassidy talk about the wedding arrangements she plans to make. Wyatt nods and gives us looks like he’s going along with whatever she wants. After a while she looks at her phone and jumps off his lap.
“I have to go. I’m meeting Brooke and Delilah for breakfast.” She kisses Wyatt, then leans down and gets in Brandon’s face. “See you around, bi-boy.”
Brandon sucks down the last of his coffee and leans forward, kissing her smack on the lips, which makes her laugh.
“What the hell?” Wyatt asks.
Brandon licks his lips, clearly enjoying poking the bear.
“Where’s mine?” Wyatt teases, and dodges Brandon’s lunge when he tries to kiss him. “Later, dudes,” he says, laughing as he follows Cassidy inside.
“I need more caffeine for a morning like this.” Brandon saunters casually into the kitchen.
“I’d say I’m sorry,” I say to Tristan when we’re alone, “but I’m not.”
Tristan shrugs. “I thought it was hot. But he’s really harmless.”
“Got it.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Tristan takes my hand, and I’ve already learned what that solemn look in his eyes means. He’s going to push me about something. I bristle, but I know we need to talk.
“Alex, I am not minimizing what you’ve gone through, but I can’t help wondering about a few things. You just spent years fighting for your country. You had a bigger purpose than half the population.” He pauses, and I know he’s letting that sink in.
And it does, like lead.
“And then you spent weeks in a hospital, you lost your grandmother, who somehow managed to pull you back to earth. Your body is different, and I completely understand how that can change a person. All of that. But, Alex, it doesn’t make you less of a man.”
“T—”
“Give me a second,” he interrupts, and the sounds of the sea fill the brief silence. “I’ve only known you a short while, and already it’s clear that you’re a guy who needs a purpose. You protect. You take action. It’s who you are. Maybe you’re confusing what’s making you feel less whole. You’re looking for retail space, moving forward with your business, so I’m not sure what I mean by this, but maybe something else is holding you back from feeling like you are the same person you were before you got injured.”
“Years of bartending made you into an armchair therapist?”
“Am I off base?”
I squeeze his hand, pulling him closer, and I have to smile, because he sees what I haven’t wanted to face.
“I’ve never met anyone like you. You don’t take what anyone says at face value. Not your friends and not me. So, no, Dr. T, you are not off base. There’s validity in your observation, but getting through it is another story altogether.”
“What’s standing in your way?”
Push, push.
“A ghost.” I swallow the urge to leave it at that. “I haven’t been to the cemetery yet.”
“You’ll know when you’re ready.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. I still feel responsible.” I lower my eyes, and he lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“I know you do, and that feeling may never go away. But maybe it doesn’t have to. It’s more important that you don’t let that guilt keep you from saying goodbye to the woman who meant so much to you. You need closure, Alex. No matter how much it hurts.”
LATER THAT AFTERNOON I hear from Dave that my offer was accepted on the property in town. I can’t wait to tell Tristan, but there are a few hoops to jump through first. It’s a lease-to-buy agreement, and there’s paperwork to be signed and details to be worked out, so I decide to keep it to myself until everything’s in order and surprise him when it’s finalized.
I work on the chandelier, but my mind keeps returning to my conversation with Tristan. Regardless of how far I’ve come with the studio and moving forward with the business, the guilt surrounding my grandmother’s death is mind-numbing. On one level I know it’s ridiculous to blame myself, or even to feel guilty for not being at her funeral, but that does little to assuage my anxiety when I think about those things. I set down my tools and stalk through the house. My grandmother liked things op
en, as I do, which is why most of the furniture I build doesn’t have doors and drawers. I like transparency, which I’m sure is one reason I’m falling so hard for Tristan. He lives his life the way I’ve always wanted to live mine.
The fucking military stole that from me.
It’s time to move on.
Time to slay the enemy, only this one lives in my head.
I grab my keys from the counter and head out the door, knowing exactly what I need to do—and wondering how Tristan knew it before I did.
When I arrive at the cemetery, my determination wavers. Beyond the sea of headstones, a graveside service is taking place. Mourners stand in black attire, their eyes downcast. I turn away, fighting the guilt of not being there for my grandmother’s service.
Like raindrops in my mind, the location of my grandfather’s gravesite trickles in. I cross the grass in the opposite direction of the service, remembering the feel of my grandmother’s hand in mine when we attended the service for my grandfather. She believed life on earth was a rehearsal for bigger and better things. As I approach her grave for the first time, I see her stone set beside my grandfather’s, and I catch the scent of lilacs. A wave of comfort moves through me.
I drop to my knees and my throat thickens.
“I’m here, Gram, and I’m sorry it took me so long.”
As I shed my first tears over her passing, I tell her about the fateful day that landed me in the hospital and about the days after I woke up and the weeks of recuperation and, finally, of the vision of her that brought me back. Words spill from my lungs unbidden, and when a thank you falls from my lips, I press my finger and thumb to my eyes, trying to ward off the flow of tears it brings.
I sit back on my heels, and when I regain control of my emotions, I tell her about the first time I saw Tristan and how it feels to be with him. I tell her about my plans for the store. As I pour out my heart to the ghost of the one person who was always there for me, stood up for me, and accepted me for who I was, goose bumps rise on my arms.
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