Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

  Moose huffs out a breath and runs both hands through his longish hair like a shaggy dog. “God, I hate to say this, but are you sure? There’s still time, man. If you haven’t taken it to that level, there’s still time to go back to her.” Megan. Like I assumed.

  I nip his train of thought in the bud. “I’m in love with Carina. I love her. I want to be with her forever. We’ve done everything but, Moose. My alliance will always be with her,” I say, using my hands as I speak. Moose understands words like love and alliance. “Megan made her choice, and I’ve made mine. Carina is meeting her for lunch tomorrow. It’s working out. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life, bro.” I think about how she makes me feel—how important she is to my mental and physical health. “I’d give up my career if I thought the relationship was in jeopardy. Bow out. Get an office job and a closet full of suits if that’s what made her happy.” It’s a strange, foreign thought. It’s true, though. My happiness is her happiness. Never in my wildest dreams or nightmares would I conjure up leaving the Teams. It’s my identity. Finally…finally, my true identity has been exposed.

  Moose is staring at me, eyes wide and mouth ajar. “Now you’re talking like a crazy asshole and I am going to butt in with my opinion and tell you that you need to get laid as soon as humanly possible.” He claps both hands down on his sizable hamstrings. “You’re changing, man. I can’t say I like it, either.”

  “Or actualizing who I really am,” I return. Taking the glass out of his hand, I return the two to the sink by the bar and wash them out without looking. I’m lost in thought, translation, and in truth.

  He stands, shaking his head with a stymied look on his face. He puts his hands on his hips as he surveys me. “Back to what I said before. Fuck this bullshit out of your system. We have a job to do and you need to realize what’s important. We need you. Look around, Smith. The world is going to shit. If there’s any time we need some of that superhero shit you spout, it’s now. Don’t have a mid-mid life crisis, please. You are a fucking SEAL. The best one I’ve ever known. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Henry.” Once spoken, Henry’s name and a million memories troll through my mind.

  “I’m working on remedying the issue today, actually. If you ever let me leave,” I reply, ignoring the emotions that threaten my good mood. “No mid-mid life crisis. Okay?”

  Hesitantly, Moose nods.

  We talk for a few more minutes about work stuff and head to our lockers to pack a few more gear bags. He thinks I’m crazy. That I’m not thinking with the right head. I tell him I know what’s important and for once, since my accident, I know exactly who I am.

  It brings him up short. He passes me several zip ties. When I take them he says, “I hope you know what you’re doing, man.”

  So do I.

  ****

  It took a lot of convincing to get her to visit. My own internal struggle was pretty rough, too. It could change her mood and turn her off so completely that we may never have sex. I need to have sex with her and a lot of it. It’s important to be here, though. To both of us. Carina’s hand shakes as we turn the corner onto a dead end street lined with trees and shady sidewalks. She stares out of the passenger window in a trance.

  “It’s right there. On the right. The white one,” Carina whispers.

  It’s a plain, non-descript house. The grass is longer than the neighbors’ and the shutters look like they could use a coat of fresh paint. If I didn’t have firsthand knowledge of the atrocities that occurred here, I would think it a fine middle class home in a nice neighborhood. Carina is shockingly silent when I pull into the driveway.

  “It’s been so long. It doesn’t look the way I remember it,” she says. One hand on the door handle, she pauses, looks over at me, and blinks once slowly. A tear trickles down her face. “I need to close this chapter once and for all. Thank you for understanding.”

  Scooting over, I drape my arm around her shoulders. “Hey, I wanted to come here with you. You’re brave, Carina. It shows your strength,” I say.

  Turning her head to the side, she seeks out my lips. I kiss her because it’s the least I can do. I kiss her because I can taste the salt from her tears, and I kiss her because I love her and you embrace the good and the bad.

  This structure standing tall in front of us is her bad. All of it. It’s what set the course for her life and the string of abusive relationships. You see, it wasn’t just Roarke. First, it was Jake, a boy in high school who thought it was fun to fight and fuck, and then it was Eddie who liked drugs and alcohol. By the time Roarke came along he appeared as Prince fucking Charming. Sure, he was nice when he wasn’t drinking and for all outwardly intents and purposes he was the perfect fiancé, but beneath the surface he was the worst of all of Carina’s past relationships: he was responsible for verbal abuse so strong that his words set fire to the core of her personality. A beating was something she was familiar with—could withstand within reason. His words, that fucker’s words, tore her to shreds. Her confidence slowly returning, I see what she used to be—what he stole and it’s infuriating.

  Carina exits the car slowly, her gaze turned to the front door and her hands fisting the sides of her skirt. It has bold colors weaved into the pattern and she told me it’s her favorite because it has flounce. Bunching in her hands, it looks like an overused dishrag. She removes the key from the lockbox, inserts it into the bolt lock, jiggles the handle a few times, and pushes the heavy door open. It creaks. Her heels echo as she takes the first step inside. I give her space. I let her walk in without disturbing her thoughts.

  “I need to sell it. Before it rots from the inside out,” she says. Carina doesn’t turn around. Instead, she heads to the kitchen, her head held high. I follow her in, closing the door behind us. It smells musty and unused. Not that it bothers me. The places I’ve slept and lived in overseas are more disturbing than an empty house in America will ever be. I once slept on sand, without a pillow, for two weeks straight. I used leaves to wipe my ass and ate meals out of pouches for more days than I can count.

  Sighing out a deep breath, I take in my surroundings. “I don’t know. I bet if you had someone come in more frequently you could sit on it for as long as you wanted.” Anything to stave off her having to deal with more hassle and pain. “I can handle the sale if you want.”

  She turns around, both hands on the kitchen counter behind her. “You don’t have to do that. I can handle this, Smith. You don’t have to worry about me, okay?” Walking toward her, I realize she’s right. There are no tears or any sign of an internal struggle. “I mean it,” Carina says. “Having you has changed everything for me.”

  I shake my head and take her face in my hands. Her skin feels like velvet against the palm of my hand. “I can’t fix you, Care. I can’t. I’m flattered you think I can, but I know for a fact that only you can fix you.” I sound like I’m quoting the text written by my own psychologist.

  She leans up and kisses me and wraps her hands around my neck. “Maybe I fixed me. Because of you,” she says.

  My heart pounds against my chest and Moose’s words come to mind. What is important?

  I take another small step to press her back into the counter. Mounting her in this kitchen won’t solve anything. “I want you. You’re so important to me,” I growl, taking her bottom lip in between my teeth. “Just you.”

  I can taste her lip gloss and smell her skin—that scent that no one else has. It’s like makeup and her natural scent combined into one intoxicating flavor made just for me. I inhale greedily as she tilts her head and leans into the kiss. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” she says on a breath. “Erase the memories that inhabit this place.”

  It takes a great deal of willpower, but I push away from the kiss, keeping her in my arms. “That’s what this is then?” I ask.

  She lets me keep her at a distance and then leads me out of the back sliding glass door into the yard. “No. It’s not, but if I can kill two birds with one stone I can’t see h
ow that’s a problem. You’re a practical man. What do you think?” After she asks the question the shed in the far corner comes into view.

  Bile rises up my stomach and my feet are leaden as she guides me to it. There’s no pause as she walks, but I do feel her tighten her grip on my arm as we near it. The padlock dangles to the side, unfastened. “I think that this is a horrible idea,” I say, honestly. I feel my pulse in my neck as the stories she told me about what took place in this shed surface. What must she feel like in this moment? “I’m here for you. I’m here,” I say. Support. That’s what she needs. Not my opinion on the matter.

  Carina lets go of me to toss off the lock and throw the door open. A shiver, completely visible rolls up her entire body. She throws a hand over her mouth, the first sign of distress she’s shown since we arrived. “My God,” she says.

  Dust wafts as the empty shed sees light for the first time in who knows how long. It smells like old, mildewed wood and the earthy scent of dirt. Somewhere behind us a bird chirps out a melodic song and a car horn honks. I hold her upright. Even if she doesn’t want my support, I need to give it.

  “It’s so much smaller than I remember it,” Carina whispers, leaning her head back into my chest. “It doesn’t smell the same either, but it kind of does.”

  I nod, knowing she can feel my response. My arms drop by my sides as she takes a step toward the small, painted over window and stoops down to jiggle one of the floor boards. Carina is actively crying now and it takes all my power not to pull her out of this shack and torch the motherfucker to the ground. Hell, maybe I’ll set the whole house ablaze while I’m at it. I know what she’s looking for, so when she stands with an almost black children’s book clutched to her chest it takes a second for me to catch my breath.

  “Got what you came for then?” I ask. My tone is low, gruff. It’s angry. I exit because I can’t take one more second of the putrid air. The air that stole her oxygen. The air that stole her life. The air she breathed on days on end when Greg was abusing her in every single way. Somehow it feels like breathing this air makes me closer to him. Closer to the devil incarnate. Farther away from Carina. I don’t like it.

  She nods, walks backward, and jumps when her shoes hit the step outside of the door. I steady her with one hand and close the creaky door with the other. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Or did you want to see my childhood room?” she asks. Her face is tear-streaked, but there is a sense of relief washing over her features. “I did it.”

  “You did,” I reply. “I wanted to see it, Carina. I did. But now that I know. Now that it’s real, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get over this. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing else to say to her. She looks like a ten-year-old girl clutching her favorite book, broken. Her skirt floats in the slight breeze as we make our way across the lawn, back into the house and to my truck.

  Once we’re seated she tells me another story. A happy one about her grandma visiting and teaching her how to crochet. I tell her I want her to crochet me something. She laughs, a painful sound through her sobs, but I see her face contemplating the request. Finally, she agrees and leans her head onto my shoulder as I make our way back home. “Thank you for showing me,” I say. “I feel selfish now.”

  “No. No. I needed that, Smith. It’s different now with you. You didn’t change me, but I think you’ve fixed me. The awful memories are still there, lurking in every corner, but loving you and having you with me dulled the pain,” she says.

  I turn quickly to look at her in the eyes. I force my lips into a smile.

  “Sometimes, regardless of what you think, knowing someone gives a new clarity—a true sense of what matters.”

  “And what matters?” I ask. Gripping the steering wheel, my heart lodges in my throat.

  “Letting go of the past completely and admitting that I’m worthy of a future. Our future. I’m worthy of you and your love. Despite what I’ve been through I know I can be good for you. What matters is that I can trust myself and my love for you. I love you.” I can’t take my gaze from the road, but from my peripheral I see her clutching that weather torn copy of the book she loves and hates in equal measure.

  I resolve to trust my gut. Carina is what’s most important to me. “I love you, Care,” I say, squeezing her leg. “You’re all that matters to me.”

  She sniffles. “Doesn’t seem very honorable and moral to say that,” she says. Her tone is light and joking.

  But her words hit me directly in the chest.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carina

  THE PIT IN MY stomach melted away the second we pulled into our quaint little driveway and entered our home. “I’m going to take a shower. Wash my face,” I say, waving the book in the air like an explanation.

  Smith smiles. It’s almost the smile from a man who feels sympathy, but it’s not. He teeters on that line very gracefully. I give him mad credit for that. I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. Especially from the man I love. With a nod Smith says he’s going to his room to return a few phone calls and asks that I come get him as soon as I’m finished.

  Nerves hit me in spades. I shower slowly and shave every square inch of my body. I wash my hair twice and let my face mask soak in longer than I usually do. It’s not because I’m nervous, it’s because I’m trying to forget what this afternoon made me feel. I don’t want to confuse emotions. I want to compartmentalize my time spent in the house of horrors. The shed. The pit in my stomach rears as do images of Greg on top of me grunting, his alcohol laced breath wafting in my face as he drilled me into the wooden floor, his eyes screwed shut and his shirt rubbing against my cheek. He never took his shirt off. Not even once.

  I lean over and vomit into the drain. My stomach is empty, so it’s just bile and bad memories. I wash my face one more time and exit the warm shower. There are two sinks, so I make my way to mine and take my time brushing my teeth and blow-drying my hair while I go through Smith’s products. He keeps them in his Dopp kit on the counter because he’s always leaving. I smell his cologne and open the top of his shaving cream and smell that, too. It makes my mouth water. Yes. Smith. That’s what I need to focus on now. The rest of today is gone…buried with Greg.

  “Pull your shit together,” I say. Smith makes me feel good about myself. He makes me strive to leave the weak, hurt girl in the past. It’s not one particular thing he does, it’s merely what happens when he’s himself. I know what’s going to happen when I leave this room and find him. I want it to happen. I need to be in the right frame of mind. I want this to be something to be remembered. Something more fantastic than fiction. It can be that just by the fact that it’s us. Smith and Carina. A fact that is frightening as much as it is amazing.

  Dabbing my finger on my lips, I gloss on some clear balm. I hear the low, manly timbre of Smith’s voice, so I know he’s still on a phone call. Hanging up my towel behind the door, I cross the hallway naked into my room. “Time to get dressed,” I whisper. My closet is a rainbow explosion of colors. Most of the time I wear black, but recently I’ve been taken with brighter, more daring colors. Folded in the back on a shelf, I find what I’ve been saving for just the right time. “This is it, guys,” I say to the lace bra and panty set. I purchased it at the high-end boutique one day while Jasmine was next door at the market. It’s teal and more risqué than anything I’ve ever worn.

  A man like Smith is accustomed to sexy pieces like this, I’m sure. Blue is his favorite color and I know he likes lingerie. He didn’t come out and say those exact words, but through a story in the beginning of the interview process he mentioned it. It had to do with a video chat session and his ex-fiancée while he was deployed.

  Delaying our intimacy has been a challenge, and since we moved in together it’s always at the forefront of my mind. At first, I thought something was wrong with me. What type of man delays sexual gratification? From a woman practically throwing herself at him? The answer was a resounding no man I’ve had previous experience
with. And that’s a good thing.

  I slip the delicate lace into place, put on my silk robe, and then sneak past the office door and into the living room. I have several candles hidden in drawers and cabinets I’ve been planning to light when the moment was right. If this isn’t the moment, then I’m not sure about anything else. Our time together is dwindling. He’s leaving. Also, I can’t face Megan tomorrow being the woman Smith refuses to have sex with. I’m standing my ground. This is happening. We live together.

  We’re in crazy love.

  I’m lighting the last small candle and sliding it into place on the ledge in front of the bay window when Smith finds me. “You were supposed to come and get me,” he says. I watch his neck work to swallow as his eyes take in my appearance.

  I smile. “I was busy. I wasn’t ready to come and get you,” I say.

  Smith leans against the open doorframe, crossing one bare foot over the other. “Well, I wanted to be the one to introduce the romance. I’m a little offended you didn’t let me help.” He bites his bottom lip in a smile. Butterflies invade my insides. It’s the opposite reaction of what happened in the shower. It heals the raw, jagged place where I keep bad memories.

  “Perhaps you can introduce something else?” I edge.

  He taps his chin. “Would it be a true introduction if you’ve already met him?” he says. His joke makes me smile. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I send my gaze to the side wall for a couple seconds. When I look back at him, I nod. Smith laughs, the low tone more erotic than any other laugh I’ve ever heard in my life.

  The coffee table is in the center of the room. I bend my leg and push it backward and out of our way. It makes a scratching noise as it goes.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, standing straight. Through the dim glow of the candlelight I see the contrast of every rippling muscle on his stomach. Absentmindedly I lick my lips. “After today,” he continues when I don’t speak. My eyes find his face and his amused smile morphs into concern. “It has to be perfect.” He crosses to me in a few large strides.