Return to Glory (Hqn)

by Sara Arden

  Her thighs clenched and her core contracted and she wondered if she was ever going to be able to look at donuts in the same light again.

  She ached for him, more than just in her panties. Betsy wanted to go spend the morning lounging in his arms. She wanted to drink coffee with him over the morning paper, go for another round in the shower and curl around him like a cat to be petted and indulged.

  Betsy stayed lost in her dream world until all the donuts were finished and the shop was ready to open. She wondered if her desire had transferred itself to the product. If she opened late and went upstairs to have Jack sate her every need instead, she might never know.

  She went to the tiny bathroom and changed her apron, freshened her makeup and snapped two clip-on earrings into her hair net. She made a food safety and fashion statement.

  Betsy opened the shop and she had a line out the door. She didn’t have time to see any of her customers’ reactions while she handled the rush. Around nine it started to slow down and India walked through the door, in uniform.

  “Something new?” she asked, looking at the counter.

  “Yeah. Vanilla-glazed and maple-glazed.” She motioned for India to come closer. “The vanilla-glazed ones? They’re experimental. Better Than Sex donuts.”

  India eyed her. “Oh you think so?”

  “I don’t know. I need another opinion.”

  “Hit me with two. And two maple, just in case.”

  “You know Caleb doesn’t like the maple.”

  “None of these are for him. If he stays in the car, he misses out. I’m not fetching his beer, his sandwiches and most definitely not his donuts.”

  “You know he just doesn’t like that whole cop/donut stereotype.”

  “That’s because he would eat ten if we’d let him. He’s going to get so fat when we’re old.”

  “And you’ll love him anyway,” Betsy teased.

  “Probably.” India snorted. “But I won’t have pity on him when his knees go.”

  “Should we start planning the wedding? Wasn’t it by thirty you two decided that if you hadn’t met anyone else, you’d marry each other?”

  “You can drop that like a hot potato.”

  Betsy laughed and handed her the vanilla-glazed Better Than Sex donut.

  India accepted the wax-paper-wrapped treat and sniffed it delicately before taking a small bite. Her eyes widened and she looked at Betsy as she chewed. She took another, bigger bite, and a small sound that was almost like a moan issued forth. “Sweet baby Jesus, Betsy.”

  “Good?” Betsy bit her lip.

  “Better than good. Better than sex.”

  The shop had gone quiet and the people eating stopped what they were doing to look at India and Betsy. “Yes, people. Better than sex. This donut.” She crammed the rest of it in her mouth, and her eyes rolled in the back of her head. “It’s like... I don’t know. I can’t even say.” She finished the donut and said, “I need a box. Give me six. I would order a dozen, but Caleb won’t have any pity on me or my knees, either.”

  Betsy boxed them up in her signature purple box. When India tried to pay, Betsy shook her head. “Nope. My payment will be you eating them in the car with my brother.”

  “I don’t even want to know. You may have the face of an angel, but you’re evil.”

  Once India left, Betsy quickly sold out of the sex donuts—and all of her other pastries. She even got a commission for a cake for a secret wedding.

  She was sure that today was the kind of day that dreams were made of—even if they weren’t in Paris.

  * * *

  JACK SPENT THE MORNING trying to do as Betsy requested with the story they’d talked about, but he couldn’t see the story without the people in front of him. When he tried, all he could see was death and blood.

  He hadn’t thought about Mosul since he’d wandered out of the encampment covered in the blood of his enemies. When he dreamed, the night terrors—they were always when he was burning—it was the IED.

  Only now that he’d spoken of it, remembered what he’d done, it seemed that wasn’t what he was remembering at all. It was the torture. The leg he’d lost—he’d been injured. Something—his memory wasn’t quite right. Instead of the place he tried to dig at in his mind, when he ripped back the curtain, there was only Betsy and the place where he’d hidden away from the pain until he could get free and make them pay.

  For a moment, he’d allowed himself to forget there was a price to be paid for surviving. He’d allowed Betsy to convince him that he could have a normal life. He could write his stories and she could bake her pies, and they’d buy a charming Victorian to restore that looked over the river.

  Stop it. If only he could get out of his own head. He could have those things. He’d started tasting again. He could smell things.

  Most important, he could feel them. He wasn’t going to let anything stop him. Least of all the tragic voices in his head.

  Jack wandered down the stairs and into the shop. Betsy was cleaning up the tables and Jack went back into the kitchen to get the broom and the mop.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said when he started sweeping.

  “Sure I do. You’ll be done faster.” It wasn’t only that he wanted her to be done faster; it was that he had to do something to feel useful.

  She laughed. “I saved you one of my donuts. Like the one we talked about.”

  He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Oh really?”

  Betsy nodded. “I sold out of them. I’ll definitely have to make them again, although next time, I think you should help.”

  “I’m more than happy to help.” He swept her against him and nipped at her neck. “Maybe a little of this while you’re working?”

  “When I was kneading the dough, I thought about you being there, maybe bending me over the table.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Here, eat your donut or we’ll never get done.”

  Jack was stuck with a sudden moment of clarity so bright it was like shining a searchlight in his eyes. This could be his life—this routine they’d fallen into. It wasn’t big, or important, but he was happy. As long as he blocked out the voices, the sounds...

  Until he took a bite of the now-famous donut.

  It was all vanilla sugar on his tongue, just like Betsy. The sweet tasted not only like what he associated with her, but like her desire. Like the taste of her skin, her heat, her slick—

  “You sold these?” he growled.

  “Yes, what’s wrong with them?”

  “They taste like you.”

  “You did say I taste like vanilla.”

  “No, Bets. Like you.” He savored the way it melted on his tongue. “They taste like your sweetness after I made you scream my name.”

  He was torn between wanting to lick his fingers, and finding every single one of the people who bought one and finding some way to erase it from their memory, from all of their senses. This was a flavor to be experienced, savored with sight, scent, touch and taste.

  Jack didn’t want to share.

  Betsy blushed. “It does not.”

  “Oh but it does. Remember when I kissed you after?”

  She blushed harder.

  “Kiss me now.”

  “Jack, you’re... Fine.” She leaned in for a chaste peck, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips and she opened for him.

  He willed her to taste the vanilla, the sugar, the sweet that was more than physical, but almost something on a metaphysical level.

  She moaned softly into his mouth.

  “Do you taste it?” His words were a ragged whisper.

  “All I taste is you.”

  “Never make those again for anyone b
ut me.”

  “But they were such a hit,” she teased.

  “I’ll make it worth your while.” He crashed his mouth into hers. “I’ll do everything you wanted on that table, under it, over it...”

  “You’d do it anyway.”

  “You’re right. I would.” Because touching her was the only thing that silenced the noise in his head. The whiskey had dulled it, but Betsy could make it go quiet and still.

  “Let me lock the door.” Betsy broke away from him, but only long enough to secure the door and draw the blinds before she was back in his arms. “I thought you wanted me to bake naked.”

  “It tastes like you already did.”

  “What are you favorite tastes now?” She ran her palms over his biceps.

  “You. And bacon.”

  She laughed, a musical sound. “Then I’ll make these tomorrow again, but with bacon. All your favorite things together.”

  “I don’t think your clientele will appreciate bacon donuts.”

  “Whoever doesn’t appreciate bacon donuts doesn’t belong in my shop anyway.” She tightened her arms around his neck.

  “I’ve noticed as tastes have started to come back to me that memories have a taste. Feelings have a taste. The group last night was cinnamon. It was sharp and spicy. It burned a little, but it was sweet, too.”

  “I can show you what today tastes like.” She took his hand and led him toward the kitchen.

  He wanted that. He wanted to know what today and all the tomorrows could taste like. He wanted to know what he was fighting so hard for.

  “Today tastes like pink,” she said as she worked the button on his jeans. “It tastes like cotton candy. It’s all spun sugar and beautiful things. Pink is the color of happiness.”

  She was right. Betsy’s dress was pink, with white hearts on it. Her lips were pink, and as he tugged down her panties, he knew pink was the color of all good things.

  She bent over the prep table. “Take me hard and fast. Then I’ll bake for you and you’ll know exactly what pink tastes like.”

  Jack tangled a fist in her hair and sank into her softness.

  He lost himself in her, but not in the pink. Not in the sugar. Not in the good things. He was just lost. Her body clenching around him and pulling him deeper caused him to bite down on his lip so hard his own blood was on his tongue.

  And he tasted it. The copper tang burned through cinnamon memory and knocked down the wall he’d built in his head with a wrecking ball.

  He continued to thrust inside her, and she cried out, arched against him, but he wasn’t present. He was in Mosul. He drilled into her, looking for that release, that pleasure—but there was no escape from the hell in his own head.

  * * *

  BETSY SENSED THE CHANGE in Jack, in the way his body moved against hers. There was an underlying ferocity and desperation in his actions, and it wasn’t because he was close to his pinnacle.

  His fingers dug into her hips and he drove forward almost mechanically. For as much as she wanted to offer him comfort, though, what he was doing felt too good. Her heart told her to stop, to turn and look into his eyes, but her body wanted just one more moment of bliss. Then another, and still another.

  She was so full of him, consumed by him, and if she was honest, she’d been using her body as well as the baked goods to save him. If he couldn’t find solace in pleasure with her, Betsy didn’t know what else to do.

  And she wasn’t ready to fail, wasn’t ready for this to be over, and more important, she wasn’t ready to let go and allow the darkness to have him.

  So instead she met his intensity and the power of his thrusts. She closed her fingers over the edge of the table and anchored herself to accept whatever he wanted to give her. No matter how hard, how deep, how fast. She wanted more of him, needed it more than her next breath.

  “More,” she demanded.

  And he obliged her.

  This was exactly what she wanted from him. He was unrestrained—wild. He wasn’t treating her like some holy, breakable thing. He took her as if she belonged to him, and as if he belonged to her.

  She loved the weight of him against her, the contrast of his brute strength against her softness, the absolute and utter bliss he brought her with every stroke. He hit the core of her again and again, sensation radiating out all the way to her fingertips and the soles of her feet.

  His culmination took him quickly, but he didn’t stop. His hips kept moving and grinding against her like some kind of automaton. His grip slackened and she turned, to face him.

  Jack’s eyes were glazed over and it was obvious to Betsy that he wasn’t there.

  But rather than being afraid, she felt her heart splintering, thinking of the pain he must be in.

  “Jack?” They sank to the floor and she wrappened her legs around his hips to lock him against her.

  A tormented sound was ripped from him and she watched as the shadows receded and Jack came back to himself.

  Horror followed awareness and he tore himself away from her.

  “Jack?” she asked again.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I could’ve... I have to go.” He got up and started to right his clothing.

  “Hey, it’s fine. It’s more than fine, actually.” Betsy offered him a shy smile.

  “You don’t understand, Betsy. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t with you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But you came back to me.”

  “I could hurt you.”

  “The only thing that hurts right now is that you’re trying to leave again.” She vaulted to her feet and put her hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

  He tightened his hands into fists, then splayed them, only to curl his fingers against his palms again.

  Betsy could see the evidence of his frustration. “Look, you say I don’t understand, so help me. Explain it to me, because I want to understand.”

  “Do you?” he snarled suddenly, and she found herself pressed up against the wall, his face only inches from hers. “Do you want to know that even while I’m looking at your face I know the exact placement of at least ten different items, not including your knives, that I could use to kill? That even with as strong as you are, as tough, I could snap your bones like twigs.”

  “But you wouldn’t.” She knew Jack would never hurt her. Betsy freed her hand and cupped his cheek.

  His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “Yes, I would.” He nodded emphatically and exhaled heavily. “If I thought you were someone else. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s worse because it’s you. Do you know what I would do to someone I thought was trying to hurt you?”

  Betsy supposed that was meant to frighten her, but it didn’t. She felt safer, dangerously cherished. Maybe even loved. “Jack.” She stroked her thumb over his cheek.

  “I’m broken, Bets, and I’m trying like hell to put myself back together, but there are still pieces missing.”

  “Maybe you can’t see it, but you’re still the same hero you were when you left. Even more now because you know what it means to sacrifice. There is nothing wrong with you.”

  “I can’t—we can’t do this. Whatever this was, it was good. But it’s over. It has to be. You’re going to get hurt and I just couldn’t live with that.”

  He slammed out the door and Betsy was sure he’d ripped her heart out of her chest as he went.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JACK KNEW WALKING away from her now was the right thing. It was the only thing.

  He kept thinking about O’Neil’s story, how he’d held his weapon on his wife and baby girl. He’d thought he was protecting them, but he could’ve hurt them. Maybe even killed them.

  It was a fucked-up thing to take a man and make him a predator, to paint
him in honor and glory for his horrible deeds and then expect him to slip back into his place with the expectation that he’d forget what he’d been taught.

  Jack knew Betsy still didn’t understand, that she thought maybe he just didn’t want to get better. He did. Betsy had done exactly what she set out to do. She wanted him to remember who he was, wanted him to choose to live his life. He wanted that more than anything, except keeping her safe.

  Jack walked the few blocks to his house and all he could think about was her. The way she felt beneath him, the way she wanted him and the way she looked into his eyes with absolute trust.

  That’s what had done it.

  If she’d shown some fear, or any other reaction besides her unwavering faith, he might have convinced himself everything would be fine. But because she trusted him implicitly, he was determined not to fail her.

  He had to keep her safe from all threats. Even herself.

  With every step he took away from her, the chasm in his chest split further apart, the wound torn wider until finally, when he stepped onto his porch, it was as if a black hole spawned inside him.

  But he wouldn’t let himself drown in it. Not like before.

  As he trudged up the steps, he noticed three more covered dishes sitting by his door. Rather than finding them irritating, he was able to see the meaning behind the gesture. These people weren’t just trying to get their look at him. They were trying to show their support in the only way they knew how.

  Betsy had taught him that. When other aspects of the needs pyramid weren’t being met, nourishment was the easiest to provide and it was the one most commonly used to fill the gaps.

  Jack didn’t want to learn a lesson; he didn’t want this clarity. It was like deconstructing himself and he wasn’t ready for that, because he didn’t know how to reconstruct himself.

  He needed to get out of his own head for a while.

  “Jack,” a voice called from behind him.

  He turned to see Connie. She was holding yet another covered dish.

  “Are you here to kill me for blowing your cover?”

  She smiled softly. “I brought you homemade mac ’n’ cheese. With bacon. I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation with Betsy about the bacon. Oddly enough, it’s what seemed to help Scott after the fire at the Fifth Street Warehouse. It was one of his first real calls and a beam fell on him. We thought we were going to lose him. For the longest time, he couldn’t smell or taste anything but smoke.”