Second Chance with Her Army Doc

by Dianne Drake

  “Make sure when you get on the bike your helmet is strapped properly, and your face shield is down.”

  “Like I didn’t always do that?”

  “Like you didn’t always do it properly.”

  He checked the way she’d put the helmet on, then ran his fingers between the chin strap and her quivering flash, causing her to suck in a deep breath.

  “Too tight?” he asked.

  Sloane shook her head, because right now she knew her words would come out shaking as hard as her hands were. It had been a long, long time since “the Carter effect,” as she’d once called it, had been so strong. Way back, during the early days, she’d always quivered when he touched her. But that had worn off after he’d returned home from Afghanistan, and so often his touch had seemed rough and impersonal. But now—this was the old Carter, and her responses where the same as she’d always had with him.

  “No, it’s good,” Sloane finally managed. “Just not sure I like having all this weight on my head.”

  It was a lie, of course. But he didn’t need to know what was really happening to her. Not when he was checking her helmet, not when he was helping her onto the back of his bike, and not when she was practically wrapping herself around him.

  All of it caused her to quiver, but that was her secret to keep. Time was, though, when she’d have told him what his touch did to her, when all their plans would be tossed aside and the remainder of the day or night would bring her more than simple quivers.

  “It’s OK if I lean into you?” Sloane asked him as he engaged the motor and started pushing them forward with his feet.

  “Lean, squeeze, grasp—whatever makes you feel safe.”

  All of it, she thought. It all made her feel not only safe, but incredibly aroused, and as he geared up his motorcycle for the fifteen-mile ride she only hoped it would be a fast fifteen miles. Because those old feelings were coming at her with a vengeance now, and she needed physical distance between them.

  Except nothing on the back of his bike gave her that distance, and as they roared off into the sunset she was mentally kicking herself. So far, being around Carter had been almost easy. Nothing about this even came close to easy. In fact, in so many ways, being this close to him was one of the toughest things she’d done in a long, long time.

  * * *

  The roadhouse was busy, and people were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in some areas. Mainly near the bar. Carter’s first inclination was to squeeze in with them and order a couple of beers, but he caught himself before he took that first step, surprised and yet glad he’d actually remembered he didn’t drink.

  Sometimes it eluded him, and he came so close. Tonight, though, maybe his self-induced prohibition was to prove himself to Sloane. He wanted to because there was still a wariness about her. It was like she wanted to trust him again, but couldn’t quite make it all the way there.

  “There’s a booth in the back,” he shouted over the noise of the crowd. “How about you go get it while I go order us—what? You don’t like pizza.”

  “Why don’t you order yourself a pizza and get me some kind of salad?”

  “Ranch dressing?” he asked.

  “Some things do change. I’m liking balsamic vinaigrette now. Or something similar.”

  He gave her an appreciative nod before he headed to the bar to place his order. Sure, he could have waited for a server to come to the booth, but the noise level in here was too much, and being with Sloane was almost as bad.

  But he could deal with it. At least, he hoped he could because he wanted Sloane to see how far he’d come. Noises could be a trigger, though, so he was keeping his fingers crossed. Very nervous fingers at the moment...

  “Iced tea always goes with a salad,” he said, setting the glass down in front of Sloane and deliberately climbing into the other side of the booth, as far away from her as he could get.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like sitting next to her, because he did. He loved it. But not right now, when the noise level was poking at him.

  “You remembered,” she said, smiling.

  “It’s what you always ordered,” Carter said, setting a plate of lemons in front of her, as well as several packets of sweeteners.

  “I remember all your habits,” he said, clenching his fists under the table as the noise seemed to keep getting louder and louder. “Left shoe first, then right. A brand new toothbrush every other week. Ice cream every Sunday—strawberry. Never covering your feet under the blankets when you came to bed. Parking in the spot farthest from the hospital and walking the rest of the way, even in the rain.”

  He relaxed as the fond memories started to take over.

  “You’re a creature of habit, Sloane. Iced tea goes with salads, beer with pizza, wine with pasta. Did you know you do that—specify your drink according to your food, and never, ever change what goes with what?”

  “No,” she admitted. “And I didn’t know you always watched me so closely. I mean, maybe I can understand why you liked watching me walk away, but my toothbrush habit?”

  “Same brand and color of toothbrush every time. And yes, I did watch you closely because it was fun getting to know all the aspects of you.”

  And she had been glorious to watch as well, especially in those intimate moments when they had come together to dance, or make love, or simply lie on a blanket and gaze at the stars.

  “Toothbrush and all my other habits aside, could we move to a quieter booth in the back room? I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  Was she really having trouble hearing? Or, was she noticing his building anxiety and trying to get him away from the cause of it without being too obvious? Because, if that was the case, it was a kind gesture, and it reminded him of all the times she’d tried to help him, but he’d taken it the wrong way. There were so many things he’d gotten wrong. Things that had caused him to lash out at her when she didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t seen it then, and he was only just beginning to see it now.

  “If we move, will you dance with me?” he asked, then held out a hand to help her out of the booth.

  “I’d love to,” she said, “as long as it’s a slow dance.”

  They walked hand in hand to the back room but instead of heading to the farthest booth, they fell naturally into the sway of the gentle saxophone playing a solo tune, from the dimly-lit stage, that was meant to seduce. It was a constraining sound, yet a lonely one that told him to hold her tight, to not let go. To dance like it was the last dance of his life. And maybe it was, because without Sloane in his arms, there was no reason to dance.

  “You OK?” Sloane whispered into his ear.

  “Trying to be,” he said, as his hands slid naturally to that familiar spot on her lower back, the place he’d always held her when she raised her arms to twine around his neck.

  But she wasn’t doing that tonight. Her arms were properly placed on his shoulders in a loose grip, and it made him sad that they’d lost this particular intimacy. And all he could think was that he simply didn’t want to be here. Not like this. Not when the memories were too strong, too painful. “Look, could we change our order to a takeaway and get out of here?”

  “You don’t want to dance?” she asked him. “Because we can sit it out, if that’s what you’d rather do.”

  “I um—I just need to leave.”

  And now, the anxiety was overtaking him again and he knew this time it wasn’t going away. Too many memories, too much noise...

  “Remember that night we went dancing in the sand?” she asked him.

  He stepped away from her. Broke the contact hoping to break the pattern of his attacks. But it wasn’t working. Everything was fighting him. Worst of all, he was fighting himself, and losing.

  “Sand fleas,” he said, attempting to lighten up the moment. But, even to his ears it came out sounding grumpy.

  “What?
”

  “I remember we got pretty chewed up by sand fleas. You were screaming for me to get them off you, when I was trying to get them off me.”

  He really just wanted to end this—the conversation, the night. Go back to his room, try to sleep and start again in the morning. But the perplexed look on Sloane’s face—he’d put that same expression there before, then walked away. This time he needed to stay and fix it.

  “I, um—I’m on the verge of an attack, Sloane,” he said.

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever told me it was coming on. So, you tell me. What do we do?”

  And that was the first time she’d ever asked him to tell her how to help. It was something he should probably discuss with his counselor, but to Carter it seemed like he and Sloane had just taken a big step—together.

  “Try to change my focus.”

  “From what to what?” she asked, taking a step closer to him, then starting to reach out to touch him, but stopping herself before she did.

  The soothing music of the saxophone stopped, and, in its place, a loud, piercing guitar took over, with offbeat drums thumping in the background. It was hideous to his ears. It sounded like gunfire—like hell had opened up and released a band of screaming banshees.

  “From this place too anyplace else.”

  He looked around for the green, neon exit sign as his breaths started coming faster. Tried remembering that time in Napa where they’d gone up in a hot air balloon and spent the afternoon floating over vineyards. Miles and miles of grapes. A beautiful sight. Carter closed his eyes to picture them, he and Sloane above the clouds and the vines so tiny below them. Floating...drifting...watching Sloane loving the ride. Refocus, Carter. He told himself. Other thoughts. Nicer thoughts.

  But the wail of the obnoxious guitar took all that away from him, and his hands started shaking.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, taking his hand.

  He heard her words, but they were distorting now. They were coming from Sloane, but they were so far away, and he couldn’t get to her.

  She gave his hand a squeeze and started pulling toward the door.

  “Let’s go outside, then try to sort this.”

  He looked at her, not sure whether to pull away and run in the opposite direction to spare her yet another one of his breakdowns or let her help him. He’d never allowed that before, but...

  Someone on the dance floor bumped him from behind and Carter drew in a sharp breath, then spun around to confront his attacker. But Sloane stopped him. Physically put herself between the oblivious man who was so wound up with his lady he probably didn’t even know there was another person in the room.

  “Carter,” Sloane said, gently placing both hands on his chest and pushing him back. “Let’s go sort this. Now. It’s your crisis. You have to guide me through it.”

  This was a different Sloane altogether. She’d never reacted to his attacks this way before. In the past, she’d always been too sympathetic, too bending. But not this time.

  “Sure,” he said, following her as they made their way off the crowded dance floor and headed straight for the rear exit.

  Once they were out, Carter fell to the ground, and simply lay there, looking up at the stars, still gasping, still struggling to fight his way through this. Then, when Sloane joined him there on the ground, she simply sat with him in the shadow of a smelly trash bin and held his hand. For now, that’s all he wanted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OPENING THE HOTEL room door, her mind still on Carter all these hours later, Sloane headed directly into the hall and nearly tripped over him. He was sitting on the floor outside her door, eyes closed but not asleep.

  “Since I dropped you off at your hotel, I assumed you’d still be there, sound asleep,” she said.

  Or pacing the floor for hours, which was something he’d used to do. Last night, however, when she’d suggested they call her hotel to send a car, and then subsequently dropped him off at his room, he’d been quiet. Subdued. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected him to acquiesce so easily. But he had. He’d simply kissed her on the cheek and walked away from the hotel as if he hadn’t just been on the verge of what had looked as if it might be a major meltdown.

  So...was this program Carter was on working for him? Getting counseling...training bears. Sloane hadn’t been sure about it when he’d told her, but she was seeing something different now. Something more like the man she’d used to know. And while it excited her, it also scared her. because she wondered how long this effect would last before he’d revert. Or would he revert?

  Maybe. Maybe not. For Carter’s sake, she hoped he wouldn’t.

  “Been there long?” she asked, and her heartbeat went a little crazy, the way it always did the first instant she saw him.

  “A couple of hours.”

  “Without knocking?”

  “Didn’t want to disturb you.” He picked up a bag from the floor and handed it to her. “Apple, banana, salad, cookies—”

  “I don’t eat cookies,” Sloane interrupted.

  “I do,” he said, finally standing. “I’m sorry about what happened tonight. Normally I can feel these things coming on, and I use the grounding techniques I’ve learned when I don’t feel like I can simply walk away. Or in some cases run away.”

  “What grounding techniques?” she asked, holding out her hand to him to help him off the floor.

  “Sound—turning on loud music, but not like what we were hearing last night. Classical works for me, especially a rousing Beethoven symphony. Normally his seventh does the trick. I know it by heart and I hum along, which gets me away from my anxiety.”

  He smiled.

  “Especially if I conduct it.”

  “You’ve learned to conduct?”

  Carter laughed.

  “Hell, no. But swinging my arms around pretending that’s what I’m doing takes me to a different place, which is where I need to be.”

  “If you want, I could teach you to conduct.”

  Sloane had an undergrad degree in music and for a while had thought about becoming a professional. But the lure of healing changed all that.

  “Or I could just do it my way,” he said, not intending to sound contentious. “Because I like the freedom of doing it my way. It’s cathartic and energizing, and it works.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  There she was, trying to take over when he clearly needed to guide his own journey. To help Carter, she was going to have to be more aware of her own actions.

  “That’s OK.”

  “You know this isn’t easy for me,” she said.

  Walking away from him in less than two weeks wasn’t going to be easy, either. But he wasn’t offering her any hope for a future together, and she was trying hard not to get her hopes up.

  “Me either,” he said. “Which is why if the music doesn’t work—and sometimes it doesn’t—there are various smells that will snap me back. A lot of people are triggered by smell, and for me peppermint oil works, so I always carry a vial of it.”

  From his pocket he produced a small silver vial, usually used for carrying nitroglycerin pills, and held it out to her.

  Sloane took it, uncapped it, and immediately smelled the scent. It was amazing watching him take charge of his PTSD episodes. She hadn’t seen this before and she was so—proud. Yes, proud of him.

  “I’m so glad it’s working for you.”

  “Most of the time it does. Sometimes, though...”

  Carter lowered his voice as a group of tourists walked by them. “Sometimes it doesn’t, and the problem is I don’t know when it will or won’t work. Sometimes the PTSD wins no matter what I do.”

  “And last night?”

  “A little bit of win, and a little bit of being defeated.”

  “Does that happen often?�
�� Sloane asked. Because from what she had seen, he’d been able to control his attack much more than he hadn’t been able to control.

  “More than I’d like it to. But overall my number of episodes has decreased. If I feel something coming on, half the time I can—I don’t call it control so much as divert or distract it. That was a huge emphasis in the first part of my program—taking charge of yourself when it’s trying to take over. It’s not easy, and sometimes it’s so damn difficult it drops you to your knees then causes you to curl up in a ball and cry. But when you succeed—it’s a feeling I can’t describe.”

  The thought of Carter curled into a ball broke her heart, and she was the one who wanted to cry. But the focus here was him, and she had to remember that. To turn this into anything about her could defeat him.

  “And when you don’t succeed?”

  It used to be he’d take it out on her. Screaming. Throwing things. She’d put away all her breakables months ago.

  “It’s a toss-up. Sometimes if I fight myself hard enough I can change the direction of my episode. Or lessen the blow of it. Sometimes, though, it’s easier to simply go someplace else. Get away from people. Even hide, if I have to. But my counselor will be helping me make some changes with all that when I get back to the program.”

  It sounded good, and Sloane felt encouraged for him. Especially as he was beginning to take responsibility for his actions whenever he could. The old Carter had been so full of blame. It had been directed at anyone who happened to be near him when he broke down.

  Yet last night—none of that had happened. The episode had occurred, but he’d beaten it.

  “So, why are you here, Carter?” she finally asked. “Sitting on the floor outside my hotel door?”

  “Not really sure why. I keep an empty booze bottle next to my bed as a reminder of where I’ve been, and something about that bottle scared me when I got to my room. If it had been full... Anyway, I called my counselor, as we’re supposed to do when we feel ourselves slipping and told her how I wanted to go to the bar and drink. One of the things she told me to do was go take a walk to clear my head. Which is why I ended up here.”