by Dianne Drake
“How often are you tempted to drink?” she asked him.
“Every time I have a meltdown. Which is why we’re required to call one of our counselors. It becomes a major step in the prevention of something we’re not supposed to do. In my case, drink. If we don’t, and we do give in, then we start back at the beginning of the program, if they even allow us back in.”
“Isn’t that kind of harsh?”
“PTSD is harsh. You couldn’t expect the treatment to be any less harsh. So, I keep the bottle nearby as a remind of what I’ve lost and what I stand to gain.”
“Good for you, Carter,” she said, stepping back and motioning him into her room. “So, it’s four miles, Carter. You walked four miles to get here? Because you thought I would do—what?”
“I’m not expecting anything from you, Sloane. I just wanted you to see that I can control myself sometimes. That I don’t always get pulled under.”
“I did see that in the roadhouse, how you went from just on the verge to well, something almost calm. Or, accepting.”
“Not accepting. That’s giving in. Too many people do that because it’s easy. I did that when I left you because fighting the demon is so hard and sometimes it’s less painful to simply let it take you over.”
“And all those months when I kept telling you to fight...”
“I was fighting you. Because you, in a lot of ways, were the demon—the one who was always there, being my conscience when I didn’t have one. The one who was always reminding me that once upon a time I had been a good enough person to win someone like you, but all that had changed. I wasn’t good anymore. Didn’t deserve anything or anyone.”
“You should have told me,” Sloane said as the door closed behind her and she realized just how small her room was with both of them in there.
While she, herself, wasn’t given to panic attacks, she could sympathize with Carter with one aspect of his—claustrophobia. She was certainly feeling it right now. Cramped space. Not enough air. His scent was the same—the aftershave she’d given him years ago, that he’d never quit using. And so much of the man she’d used to love was showing through right now.
“There was nothing to tell, because I didn’t know. A lot of the time, I’m figuring it out as I go.”
“And all this new self-awareness—do you trust it?”
Sloane wanted to. But she wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet. It wasn’t as if she wanted to make him prove himself. It was just that she’d tried so hard and been so hurt. Now she was just plain afraid to hope, to trust, to give herself over to something that might or might not happen. It was too much to deal with—especially since she’d thought she was at a place in her life where she could take a step or two forward. That was until she saw Carter again. Now, she was confused. And, conflicted. There were too many emotions, too many memories running through her to deal with. Especially not here, alone in a hotel room with Carter.
“Sometimes I almost do.” He sighed heavily. “But I don’t let myself get too heavily invested in it because what if I fail again? I’ve already hit the bottom once, and if I do it again I won’t bounce back. Not that I’m bouncing now. But at least I can see the changes I need to make, and I understand what I’ve got to cope with for the rest of my life better than I used to.”
He walked up to Sloane and stopped just short of pulling her into his arms. But he did reach out and brush his fingers over her cheek.
“I’m sorry for what I did to us, Sloane. I could see it happening—see what I was doing to you—but I couldn’t stop it. You were the only one who was really there, and even though I knew that I couldn’t control myself. You were an easy target because you loved me.”
Sloane reached up to Carter’s face and took hold of his hand. The feel of him was so good. She’d missed it—missed the simple things. The touching, the looks they’d exchange that said so much, the smiles. But she couldn’t let herself fall into the trap of believing in him again. He’d hurt her so badly, so often. And believing in him—that was her demon to fight. Because every ounce of her wanted to. But every ounce of her knew that loving Carter made her too vulnerable.
“I did love you. Maybe I even still do, in some ways. But you hurt me so badly, and while I know it wasn’t your fault I can’t do that again. Can’t go back to that place or to who we were. That doesn’t exist anymore.”
“It wasn’t my intention to hurt you,” Carter said, stepping away from her. “And it was never my intention to see that look of confusion, or maybe even apprehension, that was on your face a couple minutes ago, when you found yourself alone in the same hotel room as me.”
He crossed over to the far wall and sat down on the arm of an easy chair.
“Remember that first time we went away together for a weekend? Palm Beach?”
Sloane did, but she didn’t want to.
“The room was so tiny we had to crawl over the bed to get from one side to the other.”
But it hadn’t mattered, because even though they’d practically been on the beach, they hadn’t left the room except to eat. It had been a horrible place to stay, but her memories were nothing but good.
“That was back when we were young and naïve.”
It seemed like so long ago, and so much had happened since then.
“Whatever happened to those two people?” he asked, twisting on the chair, trying to favor his lower back, obviously looking for a more comfortable position. “They were a pretty good couple, weren’t they?”
“The best,” she whispered, promising herself she wouldn’t cry. “Young love like that is always the best.”
So many hopes, so many dreams. Now look at them. Barely able to look at each other, let alone speak. This wasn’t the way her dream was supposed to have turned out. She’d had it since she was a little girl—to find her one true love, settle down together, live happily-ever-after.
There was nothing happy in the way she lived now. There was no one true love.
“Well, we were good at it.”
She nodded.
“Very good at it.”
Sloane leaned back against the window and stared at him for a moment and her breath caught. This was Carter she was talking to now—not some difficult manifestation of him. If only she could hold on to that—to him—and not let him get away.
“Carter, when you left me...did you hate me? I never knew. You said I was one of your demons, and I actually do understand that. But did you—or maybe do you—hate me? You were so distant for so long, and everything I tried to do—it always just made you angry. I did try,” Sloane said as the tears finally came. “It wasn’t easy standing back, watching you self-destruct, but it got to the point where there wasn’t anything else I could do. I’d tried everything, and the harder I tried the more you resisted me—I’m beginning to realize why, which makes me wonder if you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” he said, taking several steps in her direction, then stopping. “Not then—not now. But I couldn’t live with you. Not anymore.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Maybe because I couldn’t live with myself. There were always too many reminders of someone I was never going to be again. Everywhere I looked.”
Sloane swiped away a tear as he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. It felt good being there. But it didn’t feel like she belonged. There was nothing natural here. Nothing from before.
Still, Carter’s arms were strong, and right now she needed strong arms. Needed someone to lean on—someone who understood why, in this moment, she wasn’t the same person she’d been either.
Resting her head against his chest, she listened to the steady, strong beat of his heart and recalled when that heart had been weakened by his injuries, and his chart had listed him as “critical.” He’d always reached for her when he was awake, and she had always been there for him to hold, be
lieving he’d needed her strength for recovery.
That was what she’d wanted to do, anyway. To lend her strength, her support, everything she was, to help make him whole. But that had never happened, because Carter had never healed.
“What else could I have done, Carter?” Sloane asked, her head still on his chest.
They stood in silence for a moment, she still in his embrace, he still holding her tightly against him. No kisses, no caresses. Simply memories of this same embrace, so many times over the years. She’d come to count on it, to love it, to respond to it in a way she knew she would never respond to the embrace of another man. It was still a proper embrace, one meant for support, but the line was hers to draw. Or step across.
“It was never you,” he whispered, tilting her face up to his. “I tried, Sloane. God knows, I tried. But I couldn’t make it work. Every time I looked at you—every time we were together...”
Sloane reached up, put her fingers over his lips to silence him. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d thought of closure, but maybe she’d been wrong about that all along. Maybe she’d been too analytical about him, too much his nurse and not his lover.
She reached for him, placing her shaking hand on the back of his neck, lifting her lips to his. “This is what’s left,” she whispered. “Only this.”
It was a bittersweet reminder of why she was there. But she wanted this. Wanted a different memory of their parting. And there was no shame in her for what she wanted, as she’d expected there might be. This man had been a large part of her life for so long—she deserved to have what she wanted.
They kissed—first lightly, but then their desperation grew quickly. His tongue was in her mouth, searching places it had searched a thousand times before, and her hips were tilting so naturally to his, her back arching to the touch of his hand as it always had done.
Her body was sending a message, and she could feel his answer, even though words were not spoken. They didn’t have to be. His eyes said yes. But there was some doubt in them. In his, probably in hers, too.
His tongue sought hers again, and this time he ran his hands through her wild red hair, separating the strands with his fingers. She loved the way he did that—so delicately, yet so provocatively. It always caused her flesh to quiver, always caused her breath to shorten. He pulled her even closer to him, until nothing separated them but fabric. It was as if he wanted to fold her inside him, keep her safe the way he’d always kept her safe.
Pushing away from him just slightly, Sloane pressed the palm of her hand against his chest and pushed him backwards onto the bed. Then she tumbled down on top of him, interlocking their hands above his head. At first she nibbled his chin, then moved lower, to his throat, where she pressed light kisses.
Removing one of her hands from his, she raised herself up just slightly and ran her fingertips over his face. He’d used to be clean-shaven. His face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, she’d always teased him. But she liked the feel of his stubble. It was a new look for him—slightly rough, definitely sexier than anything she’d ever seen on him.
“You feel so good,” she finally whispered.
“Is this what you want, Sloane?” he asked. “Because we either stop right here, or...”
It was what he wanted—what he’d always wanted. Only with Sloane.
There’d been other women these past few months—women he’d met along the way. They’d wanted him—he’d wanted them. But somehow something had always stopped him, made the moment go bad or go away.
It was Sloane, he realized, now that he had her back in his arms again, and her lush curves and her soft skin were everything he remembered. No one was Sloane. No one could be Sloane. Not ever.
Which was why this between them now was not a good idea. One time, maybe two times, and then she’d be out of his life—but this time forever. That was the only way it could end. He’d walk away again, only this time he’d set her free before he did.
His last memories of them together like this were so bad. He’d been selfish, his words hateful. Which was what he needed to remember. The look on her face then—there’d been so much pain, so much confusion. The way she was looking at him now was a different look—more knowing, more mature. But it was still Sloane. And he had no right to her.
Still, when he felt her slide over in bed he didn’t stop her. Nor did he stop her when she unfastened his jeans, then eased them along with his briefs down over his hips.
Carter sighed again when she raised up slightly and removed his pants all the way. Her exploration took her places only Sloane knew.
He shut his eyes, thinking about how unbelievably good this felt, physically and emotionally, and when Sloane gave a throaty moan then slid her mouth from his chest, then on down.
“Look at me,” she said finally, disengaging from him for a moment and urging him into bed.
He did, and he saw that her eyes were fully open, locked on his eyes. Searching for something? he thought. Probably something he didn’t have.
“What?” he asked.
“Just look,” she said, positioning herself face to face with him again. They were so close they were breathing the same air. “So I can look at you.”
That was when Carter knew what this was about. It was about taking all the ugliness he’d brought down on them and turning it into something good and beautiful, so she could walk away from him for the last time. It was what Sloane needed.
“You’ve always been so beautiful,” he said as he reached across and began to ease her shirt up over her head. She helped with her bra, and they both worked together to remove all the clothes that stood between them.
But they didn’t hurry. They lingered over caresses and kisses, each remembering what the other liked, each trying to give pleasure. It was a fragile experience, slow and familiar, yet eventually developing into something with a new, different urgency—like the one they’d known at the beginning, which had eventually slipped away into a more intimate proficiency over time.
He took his time, nuzzling against her, knowing he would not be here again. He was nibbling and kissing his way up to her earlobe, where she’d always been ticklish, and understanding he would never again hear her whispered laugh again his cheek. He could feel her thigh muscles harden as he slid his hand down her belly, occasionally stopping to kiss the trace he was making. She quivered when he did that—when he kissed her belly, her hip, moved around to her bottom. He was taking much the same trail she had when she’d kissed him, only without the scars.
“Ooh...” Sloane whispered as he rolled her onto her back and slipped inside her.
This was the way it had been—the way it should have always been. And as he began to find his rhythm he heard a strangled sob. Not from pain, but from heartbreak. He was willing to stop, to pull himself away, but Sloane was not, and she took up his rhythm—a slow snapshot. A memory yet to be made.
After several hard thrusts against him, urging him on with her, there was nothing he could do but give himself over to the exquisite tightness, the heat, the increasing intensity. But first, before he let the rise and fall of impending climax sweep him under, he reached down and stroked her cheek, then her hair.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
“I know.”
Maybe she did. He hoped so, because Sloane was the only woman he’d ever loved. And that was the closure he wanted her to have—that knowledge.
“Please, Carter,” she whispered.
And that was all it took. He could no longer hold back, even though the idea of not continuing was tinged with regret. But as she forced her hips into him, and he pounded harder and harder to meet her urgency, all thoughts of anything but this moment disappeared.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice coming in gasps between thrusts. Then came that maddening clutch on him she always took and held, the heat, th
e voices in his head urging him on...
Suddenly there was only now. And he wanted it all. Hard, fast. No thoughts about anything before and after.
“Sloane!” he cried out as the moment came to its brink.
But she said nothing in return. Nor did she shout out, pant or moan.
Sloane responded to her need with his own until she was exhausted, curling herself against his chest the way she always did afterwards. But this time he felt the moisture of her tears on his arms. So, he held on to her tighter, like it was the last night of the world.
In many ways, it was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DAY STARTED off like any other. Or at least like any other day Sloane had had in the past six or seven months. She woke up alone, with no idea where Carter was, and really no expectation of finding him.
He’d showered, she discovered, and taken his medical bag, so maybe that meant he’d gone off to work. She hoped so because, despite her big mistake last night—and it truly was a huge one—all she wanted this morning was to know that what they’d done hadn’t shaken Carter to the very core and set him off in some new direction with his PTSD.
After a quick shower, Sloane pulled on her clothes and walked over to the window, parted the curtains and looked out. What she expected to find she wasn’t sure. Certainly not Carter, lounging poolside the way some of the early birds were already doing. despite a little November chill in the air. In fact, unless someone here at the Red Rock was ill, she didn’t expect to find him at all.
But that was her habit—always scanning a crowd, looking for him. She’d been doing that since he’d left her, never quite sure what she’d do if she did happen to see him.
A knock on her hotel room door startled her, and she spun around to stare at it for a moment before she crossed the room to open it. She didn’t really expect to find Carter standing in the hall either, wanting to come back in, although a tiny part of her did want that. Which meant that tiny part of her was disappointed when the person in the hall turned out to be one of the hotel staff, carrying a tray with food.