by Lara Lacombe
She remembered then, the memories buffeting her like ocean tides, relentless and overwhelming. Standing in the sun. The roar of the car. The disturbing weightlessness followed by a sudden, jarring stop. And the pain, hot and searing along her body.
“Where is Owen?” He’d been with her in the ambulance and later, in the emergency room. The nurses had tried to get him to leave but he’d refused. “I’m staying with her,” he’d said, showing them his badge and effectively ending the conversation. He’d stayed close right up until they’d wheeled her through the doors to the operating room.
“I’ll be here when you’re done, Hannah,” he’d said, his voice carrying over the squeaky wheel of the gurney and the mechanical whir of the automatic-door hinges.
“Don’t know any Owen,” the nurse said. “Is he in the waiting room?”
“I think so.” Please, let him still be there. She didn’t want to be in the hospital alone. Not again.
“I’ll check for you.”
Hannah took a deep breath as the nurse walked away, trying to grab hold of her emotions before they got out of control. Her body reacted instinctively to the sickeningly familiar smells of hospital antiseptic, making her heart pound and her chest heavy. She wanted desperately to leave, to climb out of bed and crawl away if she had to, anything to escape this place where the walls were starting to close in.
Don’t look, she told herself. Maybe if she didn’t see the room, didn’t have to look at the equipment and beige blanket and white sheets, she could control the panic starting to rise inside, moving from her stomach to the back of her throat with gravity-defying speed.
She squinched her eyes shut, but the lack of visual stimuli left her mind free to wander down memory lane. The hushed rustle of fabric, the pained groans of someone nearby, the smell—God, the smell!—it all combined to take her back to those first hours after her accident. The pain had been overwhelming, but she knew now, with the horrible benefit of hindsight, that the initial pain had been nothing compared to what she’d experienced during her burn treatment.
Her muscles tensed in memory and anticipation, the past and present swirling together and impossible to separate. She shifted on the bed, sending a fresh spike of agony down her arm. That was new...
She focused on the pain, examining it with almost clinical detachment. It was a bright, white-hot thing, like molten metal grafted to her upper arm. When did that happen?
Thick, choking smoke...
Burned rubber...
Shattered glass...
Squealing tires...
Owen...
Owen!
Owen?
A hand touched hers, and Hannah snapped out of her memories with a gasp, her heart pounding in a fierce rhythm against her breastbone. The woman was back. “I found your friend,” she said, regarding her with a frown. “Are you all right?”
Her tongue was heavy, making speech difficult. Still, Hannah realized on a subconscious level that if she didn’t speak now the nurse would take Owen away. Just the thought made her want to cry, so she nodded and managed to get out a soft “Yes.”
The nurse raised a brow, looking as if she didn’t believe her. Hannah offered her a smile, hoping to appear normal. Apparently it worked. There was a soft rustling as the nurse stepped back, and then Owen’s face filled her vision.
“Owen!” She reached up with her unbandaged arm and he caught her hand, folding it in his large, warm grasp. His touch was like a balm, soothing her and calming her riotous emotions. Now that he was here, shielding her from the assault of her memories, she could start to think again.
Don’t let go, she thought. Don’t ever let me go.
“Are you okay?”
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re the one who just got out of surgery, and you’re worried about me?”
“You look tired.” It was true. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the anesthesia, but Owen’s face seemed haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and his brows drawn together in a seemingly permanent frown.
“I’m fine.” He traced the back of her hand with a fingertip, sending a shiver up her arm. Then he squeezed gently. “I am so sorry I wasn’t there.” When he looked up and met her gaze, his eyes were shiny. “If I had arrived just a few minutes sooner, none of this would have happened.”
“You can’t know that,” she said, her heart aching for him. “Whoever hit me meant to do it—this wasn’t an accident.”
“But if I had come faster, you wouldn’t have been standing there by yourself!”
Hannah gave him a small smile. “So he would have come back another time, when I was alone.” She tried to inject a teasing note into her voice. “After all, it’s not like you’re with me every minute of the day.”
“Maybe I should be,” he muttered.
Hannah’s heartbeat picked up, causing the steady, quiet beep of the monitor to accelerate as well. Owen glanced at it, his mouth turning down at the corners. “What’s this really about?” she asked, trying to distract him.
That dark blue gaze settled on her again. “What do you mean?” There was a wariness in his tone she hadn’t heard before, confirming her suspicion that something else was bothering him.
Hannah closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. She was feeling more awake by the minute, but she wanted to make sure she chose the right words to say to Owen. His uncharacteristic evasiveness told her she had to tread carefully or he would withdraw even further.
“You’re feeling awfully guilty over something that isn’t your fault. It makes me think there’s a deeper issue here.” He looked away, focusing on her hand again. She gave him a minute then tugged, drawing his attention back to her. “Talk to me,” she said softly.
He glanced around, as if checking to make sure no one was nearby to hear him. Another puzzle piece clicked into place as Hannah watched him. Either he had secret information about the case, or he was about to tell her something deeply personal. And though his reluctance to talk was obvious, the fierce hope in his eyes made it just as clear that he needed to share.
Hannah could relate. Telling Owen about her accident, letting him feel her scars, was one of the hardest things she’d done in recent memory. But somehow, it had felt right. Now that he knew, she felt so much lighter, as if she’d been relieved of a burden she wasn’t aware of carrying. She couldn’t explain it, but in the short time she’d known him, Owen had quickly scaled her defensive walls and made it into her inner circle.
Had it been the same for him? From everything she knew of Owen, he was a very private person. When she had shared her story, he had listened without jumping in to take over or redirect the conversation, the way so many people did. At the time, she had appreciated his attention, but looking back on it now, she realized that he hadn’t volunteered any information about himself. Was it because he wasn’t interested in sharing with her? Or because he didn’t know how?
As she watched, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickered across his face. Anger, fear, pain, grief, yearning—each expression took over his features for a split second before morphing into the next, the emotions vying for dominance but none appearing to gain control. She’d never seen him so vulnerable before, and in a sudden, chilling instant, Hannah realized that if she didn’t get him to talk to her now, he never would. He’d find a way to recapture the demons plaguing him, to bottle them back up and reinforce the mental chains holding them in place. But at what cost? Hannah knew from experience that every time the fear took hold, every time the pain gained the upper hand, it was harder and harder to beat back into submission. And as she watched the struggle play out across Owen’s face, she knew that this time the price he would pay for one more victory would be steep.
“Did you know,” she began, striving for a conversational tone, “you’re the first person to touch my scars?”
He tilted his head, listening.
“Well, that isn’t quite true,” she amended. “I should say that you’re the first nonmedical person to touch my scars. The first in my private life.”
When he didn’t respond, she squeezed his hand. “Whatever you have to say, it can’t be worse than my scars. You can talk to me. I won’t judge.”
“You say that now...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I know what it’s like to have people look at you and recoil in horror. If that’s what you think I’m going to do, you’re wrong. You’ve already helped me so much. Let me do this for you.”
After a long moment that seemed to go on forever, he let out a deep sigh and nodded. “All right.” He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand in his lap. Hannah felt a surge of warmth at the realization that he hadn’t let go of it the entire time he’d been by her side.
“Six months ago, my partner was killed in the line of duty.”
Hannah sucked in a breath, taken aback by his matter-of-fact statement. His voice was calm, but she could see the storm of emotions raging behind his eyes. “It was my fault,” he went on.
“Did you shoot him?” She probably should have stayed quiet, but she’d bet almost anything that Owen was blaming himself for something that was not his fault. The sooner she forced him to see that, the better.
He gave her an odd look. “Of course not.”
“Then how could you think it was your fault?”
“We were working a case—a teenager had been shot, and we thought he might have some drug ties. John and I had a list of suspects to talk to, but we had taken a break. I was having dinner with my girlfriend when he called, said he wanted me to meet him at an apartment complex in Sunnyside. I told him to wait for me, but after I hung up, I didn’t leave right away.”
He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Jessica and I had been fighting a lot at the time. She felt I put the job first, that I loved my job more than I loved her. So I stayed to finish dinner, trying to show her that she was a priority to me. I left about fifteen minutes after John’s call.”
A shudder shook his broad shoulders. “By the time I got there, it was all over. I found John lying in a pool of blood on the sidewalk outside the building. The suspect had seen him through a second-story window and panicked. He fired what he thought was a warning shot, but it struck John in the shoulder and nicked his heart on the way out.”
Hannah gave his hand a squeeze, unable to come up with the words to comfort him.
“The worst part was, he was still awake when I found him. It took him several minutes to bleed out, and he was aware of it the whole time.”
His eyes lost focus, and Hannah knew he was reliving the memory. Her heart clenched as his hand drifted up to rest over his heart, an echo of the gesture he must have made when he found his partner dying on the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
After a moment he blinked, coming back to the present. “If I had left right after he called, if I had gotten there a few minutes earlier, John would still be alive.”
“You can’t know that.” When he didn’t respond, Hannah gripped his hand tightly. “That man may still have shot John, even if you were with him.”
“But I could have called an ambulance faster, stopped the bleeding somehow.”
She shook her head. “You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“I would have seen the gun! I could have warned him.”
It was a good thing Hannah’s right arm was bandaged and immobile, because she had the urge to grab his shoulders and shake him. “Listen to me. It was evening. You’re telling me you would have seen a gun aimed from a second-story window in the twilight? No one’s that good, Owen. Not even you.”
“You don’t understand.” He sounded almost sullen, and she could sense his withdrawal.
Not wanting to lose him, she softened her voice. “What happened after?”
He paused, and for a long moment, she feared he wasn’t going to talk anymore. Then the breath gusted out of him as resignation took over his features. “I took a leave of absence from the job. I couldn’t handle it.”
There was a twinge of embarrassment in his voice, as if he thought this was the part of the story she’d find most repellent. “There’s no shame in taking the time to grieve,” she said gently.
His mouth twisted in a grimace. “Jessica didn’t think so.”
“Your girlfriend didn’t support you?” What kind of woman let the man she loved go through hell alone?
“No. At first, she was sympathetic. But after a week, she thought I needed to go back to work. ‘Get back on the horse’ she said over and over again. Like I was some kind of damn jockey. When that didn’t work, she decided that my grief over John was proof that I loved him more than I did her.” He shook his head. “What was I supposed to say to that?”
“There’s nothing to say. She had already made up her mind. That was just her excuse to leave.”
A strangled sound that might have been a laugh escaped his throat. “I realized that. Eventually.”
Hannah threaded her fingers through Owen’s. “Sounds like we both got dumped in our time of need.” She struggled to keep her voice light, angry on his behalf. She knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned by the person who claimed to love you, and she hated that he’d had to experience it.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he asked. She could tell he was trying to be casual about it, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Try to see the silver lining,” Hannah replied, only half joking. “At least we’re not stuck with the wrong people. Now we each have a chance to find that special someone.”
Owen looked down at their joined hands. His thumb traced abstract patterns across her skin, and she focused on the sensation, enjoying the tingling awareness spreading up her arm. “We do,” he murmured.
His gaze shifted, becoming warm and sensuous in the space between heartbeats. It was the same expression he’d worn last night as he’d touched her, kissed her. Caressed her. Hannah fought the urge to shiver as the memory triggered a wave of sensation, and she couldn’t stop looking at his mouth, wanting—needing—to feel it against her skin again. She began to reach for him, only to catch herself just before her hand made contact with his neck. She blinked, trying to shake off the sudden arousal. Did she really want to pick up where they had left off in the middle of the hospital recovery room?
She glanced up at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed her inner struggle for control. No such luck. His mouth quirked up in a sexy, satisfied grin that told her he knew exactly what was going on.
“Uh, sorry,” she stammered, feeling her face heat. “I guess the drugs are affecting me more than I thought.”
“No apology needed. Feel free to reach for me anytime.”
Hannah nodded, at a loss for words. At least her embarrassment had brought a smile back to his face and lightened the shadows in his eyes.
“Okay, time to get you out of here,” the nurse announced as she walked up. She was accompanied by a man in light green scrubs. “This is Austin, and he’s going to take you to your room.”
“When can I go home?” Why were they keeping her overnight? Were her injuries more extensive than a broken arm?
Owen noticed the expression on her face and placed his hand on her blanket-covered foot. His touch muted her anxiety, but it was still there, simmering under the surface.
The nurse shrugged and helped arrange the bed for transport. “That’s a question for your doctor. You should see him tonight.”
Hannah frowned, but it was clear the nurse didn’t know any more than that. “Thanks.”
The woman gave her a sympathetic smile. “Get well soon.”
Austin gave a steady push to get t
he bed rolling. Owen walked beside her, his presence a comfort she no longer questioned. She closed her eyes, letting the gentle motion lull her into relaxation. When she got to the room, there would be time to talk, to ask Owen if he’d made any progress on the case and to tell him what she and Gabby had found. Until then, though, she was going to rest her eyes...
* * *
Owen had a hard time keeping his eyes off Hannah as the orderly wheeled her through the halls of the hospital. She looked so fragile lying there, her skin pale against the white sheets. But he knew that appearances were deceiving. Hannah had taken every hit life had thrown at her and had come back for more. He admired the strength and determination it took to get up off the mat and keep going. After John’s death, he’d wanted to stay down, to give up and surrender to the pain. It was easier that way. But something had made him get back up and get back in the game. Stubbornness? Force of will? Survival instinct? Maybe all three. But although he couldn’t identify what drove him, he knew Hannah had the same hunger inside her, as well.
She didn’t realize it though, he mused, smiling to himself as her eyes drifted shut. She carried herself so carefully, her every move deliberate. He knew now it was because of her scars. The accident had damaged more than just her body, and she was still paying the psychological toll. He wanted so badly to help heal her, but was it possible?
And was he even capable of helping her? After all, he wasn’t exactly in great shape himself. Telling her about John’s death had been the right thing to do, but even now, his stomach quivered with the aftereffects of nerves. She didn’t seem to think it was his fault, but maybe the drugs had affected her comprehension. She might change her mind after she had some time to think about what he’d told her.
A small, weak part of him hoped she would forget all about their conversation, that the drugs in her system would dull her memory. It was a long shot, he knew, and he recognized it was the coward’s way out. But now that he’d told her, a nagging voice in the back of his mind kept wondering how long it would take for her to push him away. After all, it hadn’t taken Jessica very long to issue her ultimatum, forcing him to choose between the memory of his best friend and a future with her.