He moves then, sliding his palm over my cheek. I want so badly to lean against his touch. Instead, I close my eyes and remain absolutely still. Afraid that if I move, a predator will rise behind his touch and chase me if I so much as flinch.
And I'm not so sure I wouldn't welcome the chase.
Josh
I'm marginally calmer now. And by marginally calmer, I'm no longer fighting the urge to go find the guy who was giving Abby shit and tear his spine out. Abby sits across from me in the carrel. We're alone, which is probably not where we need to be right now. At least, not me. With her. Damn it, I can't even think straight around her.
I'm staring at my hands, unable to look up at her. There is a shame choking me, thick and squeezing my throat. Shame at the intensity of my reaction. Shame that no matter how long and far away from the war I get, my first reaction is always violence.
Violence is easy. Violence is simple.
"You're angry." Her words are not a question.
"You're perceptive."
"And now you're cranky."
Her expression is tight and tense, despite her attempt at sarcasm. I smile thinly. “I’m worried.”
She swallows and picks at her thumbnail. "That was Robert. He's my ex."
I figured as much. You don't get that fired up with someone who doesn't involve some broken emotional attachment.
But the thought of her with him does something to my insides. It hurts. Really hurts. And I can't explain why. I lock my fingers together, needing something to do with my hands. There is a need for violence in me right now. Not toward her. No, never that.
But there was something in her eyes when she'd been talking to him. Something that struck me forcibly as not Abby. Something that felt wrong.
“He knew how to hurt me. With words, not fists.”
She'd been fighting something, standing there. I don't know what to do with the emotions rioting inside me. I'm not used to this. This feeling…it's a helplessness. And I don't have the words to explain.
“We were at an event one evening. Black tie affair at the Carlton Burke Hotel.” She looks down at her hands and it takes everything that I am not to move. To let her talk. “One of the bankers’ wives asked me why I didn’t straighten my hair. To make it neater, she said.” Her voice trembles a little. “I could have said nothing. I could have smiled and been polite and not caused any offense.” I take a deep breath. “Robert politely told me to shut my mouth. That I was going to ruin everyone’s good time simply by pointing out that I liked my hair the way it was.” She swallows and finally looks up at me. “And that’s why we’re not together.”
I take her hand in mine. “He was just like your mom’s boyfriend then.” I hesitate. “He couldn’t take you the way you were.”
She frowns, surprised by my answer. “Yeah, I guess he was.”
Her fingers are soft and smooth as they slide over mine. They slip over my skin, and I am suddenly aware of my own roughness beneath her soft strength.
Her hands have been here, protected and safe in college. Turning the pages of books. Writing papers that were probably fucking brilliant. Mine have made war. Gripped the butt of a weapon. Wiped sweat and blood from my brothers' skin. They have made terrible decisions. Terrible, horrible decisions. Some that I regret. Others that I don't.
I can't tell her about that. I can't explain to her what walking in my nightmares feels like.
Or what it feels like to have killed and felt no remorse. Society tells us we're supposed to feel bad about killing. That it's something we're not supposed to do and if we do, we must regret it.
And therein lies the problem.
But seeing her with him—with Robert, because he has a name now—seeing what being around him did to the fierce, vibrant woman sitting across from me…it resurrects those instincts inside me. The need to protect. To shelter.
To be an unapologetic shield for her. “For the record, I like you just how you are.”
"Josh." Her voice is a whisper. The slide of a single word through the silence.
I bite my lips together and look up at her. There, looking back at me, is the Abby I know. I turn my hand beneath hers until they are palm to palm.
"He hurt you." There is no question in my words.
"Not today," she whispers. There is a note of fear beneath her words and the violence inside me surges again—a caged, wild beast. I feel the rage rising inside me again. "But yes. In the past. That's a big part of why he's my ex."
"What else did he do?"
Her smile is tight now. She looks down at our hands. Her skin is dark against mine but in the low light of the carrel, our hands might as well be twin shadows in the dim light. "That, my friend, is a long story." She slides her index finger against the vulnerable skin of my wrist and the thin scar that circles the space. "Thank you for being there today," she whispers.
My fingers spasm beneath hers. I'm tempted to curl them around hers, threading them together, knitting her to me where I can hold her. Keep her safe from the bad things I know are out in the world.
From the hurt I saw in her eyes. I want her to trust me with that. The want hits me hard. I need to be honest with her. At least, as honest as I can be.
“I wanted to hurt him.” I can't look at her. "I'm no stranger to violence," I say. She needs to know that. Right now, right up front.
Before I start to lay those feelings out before her and let her do with my heart what she will.
"I already figured that out," she whispers.
Silence stretches between us. Echoes of old memories.
"You're not going to ask about it?"
Her finger caresses the skin of my wrist, and in that gesture is a comfort that is an odd mix of erotic and comforting. I'm not sure how to react. Oh, I know how I want to react. But I won't do that. Not to her.
Her lips quirk into an odd smile. "I'm confident that you've been asked 'Is it like Call of Duty?' more than enough."
My smile matches hers now. "How'd you guess?"
"It's probably along the same amount of times I've been asked what it's like to live in the ghetto or what it’s like to be in a drive by." There is dry resignation in her voice. The voice of someone tired of dealing with the same questions over and over again.
"That sucks." There's really no good answer to a comment like that. I can't pretend to know what it's like for her. No matter how much I'm convinced she belongs here when I don't, I'm sure walking in her shoes is an experience filled with uncertainty, always questioning when the next painful reminder that no, this isn’t really our place will occur.
"You get used to it," she says. "But it doesn't mean I'm not conscious of doing the same thing to my friends." She shifts then and releases a quiet breath. "So I have to tell you something. And you might be upset with me." She slides her fingers from mine and opens her notebook. Instantly, I miss the contact.
She is still, avoiding my eyes. "I’m going with Graham tonight. To his ex’s.”
My first instinct is to say hell no. But it’s not my call. And I can’t take that away from her. “Am I allowed to not be happy about this?” I ask cautiously.
She smiles warmly. “Yes, you can be not happy.”
“Can I ask why you have to go?” My hands are useless again. Helpless to protect those I care about.
“Because he’s my best friend. And I don’t want him to face this alone.”
“Doesn’t he have any big, bodybuilder friends? Maybe friends with dogs with bad attitudes and a penchant for testicles?”
She laughs. “The bodybuilder friend is the problem.”
I drag my hand over my face. I want to beg her to let me go. Beg her to let me stand between her and her friend and the hurt they’re potentially facing tonight. But I can’t.
Because there is crushing impotence blocking my throat. “Shit.”
I want. For the first time since coming home from the war, I want something other than to escape into Friday night fights at the bar.
; And I have no idea what to do with the need rising inside me and drawing me slowly back toward the world of the living.
She slips from her chair into my lap, threading her arms around my neck. “Thank you,” she whispers against my mouth.
“For what?” I nudge her lips with my own. I am starving for her. Her taste. Her touch. The feel of her breath mingling with mine.
“Not stopping me from doing this.”
I lift both brows. “I didn’t realize I have veto power.” I tip my chin. “Do I?”
She smiles and it is warm and filled with a thousand unsaid things. “Not really. But it means a lot to me that you won’t try to stop me from being there for Graham tonight.”
I cup her cheek, craving the softness of her skin, drawing on the strength at the core of this beautiful woman. “I don’t like it. But there is one thing I understand and that’s the need to be there for the people that matter.”
Because I can do nothing more, I kiss her. Offering her all the things I lack the strength to say.
Hoping that I can keep a lid on my fear. That I can keep it contained and keep it from ruining everything good that has slowly started building between us.
Chapter 17
Abby
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
Graham is fidgeting. And Graham isn't really a fidgeter by nature. He's a little manic sometimes, but he's never nervous and unsure of himself.
And right now, I feel nothing but angry at the man who did this to him.
"This is stupid," he says quietly. "I can replace everything I left there."
"I hear a ‘but’ in there." I'm nervous, but I won't let him see it. I’m here for moral support and I can’t do that if I’m panicking. I won’t screw this up.
He's been there for me since I got here. I'm not going to let him down.
"The only thing that matters is my dad's watch," Graham says. He glances over at me. "When I came out to my parents, I was so fucking scared. My mom…she refused to believe she didn't have something to do with it." He made a rude noise. "Like she somehow failed as a parent and made me gay."
"That's pretty shitty." There's no good response. What can you say to someone when his parents have turned their backs on him?
"It would have been devastating if not for my dad. He just looked at me and said he didn't care so long as I was happy."
"Wow." I suddenly, bitterly, miss my own dad. I don't remember much of him, but part of me wants to believe he'd be the kind of man who would love me no matter who I brought home.
"I didn't have time to get it before I left after Todd hit me."
I squeeze his hand. "Then we're going to get it back."
He doesn't look so sure and honestly, neither am I. I don't have any idea how to do this.
I can't hear the sound of our feet on the floor over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I am eleven years old and all I can see are the dirty combat boots at the edge of my vision. I am hiding in the dark once more, cowering and afraid of the violence that tried so hard to end me. All because I couldn’t stop arguing with my mom about my hair.
Graham doesn't know. Otherwise, I'm certain he wouldn't have agreed to let me come with him.
But these are my issues, not his. And I am tired of letting my fear define me.
I thread my fingers with his as he knocks on the door. Muffled music ends abruptly.
I don't know what I was expecting, but Todd isn't really what I imagined. When Graham said vegan bodybuilding, somehow I had this image of an ugly, small man with too many food issues.
Instead, Todd is perfection. He's a beautiful man with perfectly toned arms and a jaw that could crack glass.
It's the beauty that hides violence.
Todd looks between Graham and me then focuses entirely on Graham. The bruise on Graham’s face is still there. Less swollen and angry but still a mark on my friend.
"Really, Graham? You've got to come here with a girl? What kind of a man are you?"
Graham’s shoulder brushes against mine. "I can tell you one thing I'm not," he says. "Yours."
I want to cheer. But I want to get away from the violence I see in Todd's eyes more.
Todd shifts tactics. It’s a technique I’ve seen before so many damn times. Really, abusers need a better playbook.
"Would it matter if I said I was sorry?" Todd’s voice is smooth silk, and I squeeze Graham's hand, letting him know I'm here for him.
"I can't have that conversation right now," Graham says.
It's so easy to say what you'd say if it were you. That you'd tell the man who hit you to burn in hell.
It's another thing entirely when you're standing next to your best friend and he has to confront his nightmare. He's not alone. For whatever it’s worth, I’m with him. He doesn’t have to face this alone.
And if that is the only thing I can do, then damn it, this is what I will do.
"Can I get my things?" Graham asks.
Todd says nothing. He steps aside and holds the door.
A gentleman. Too bad he didn't remember these values before he put his hands on my friend.
I bite my tongue. I'm not here to run my mouth, no matter how much I want to tell this guy off. I'm moral support, and damn it, I'm going to be fucking moral.
God bless him, Graham is fast. He's back in what feels like a heartbeat. Maybe two.
"Guess you were serious about just getting the watch, huh?"
His smile is tight. I'm calm and collected on the outside. Inside, I'm a shaking, terrified eleven-year-old, wishing someone loved me enough to stand up for me.
But that never happens.
It doesn't stop the want. The hope for the fairy tale prince who loves me enough to help me slay my own dragons instead of expecting me to let him do the slaying.
It's a stupid fantasy.
Outside, the darkness feels comforting. A warm, safe space, free of flagrant violence.
"Are you okay?" Graham asks after a long silence.
"Shouldn’t I be asking you that?" I look over at him.
He holds his hands up. They're shaking and his eyes are filled. His smile is tense. "I got the only thing I can’t replace." He swallows and waits until I finally look up at him. "Thank you. For going with me. Having you there tonight kept this from turning into a shit show.”
"It's part of the BFF handbook or something." I reach over and squeeze his shoulder. "I’m glad you got it back,” I whisper.
He smiles sadly. “Me too.”
A little piece of my world is okay. Graham is still hurting but he’s safe.
And I didn’t fall apart, didn’t shatter.
I very much want to see Josh. I need to feel his hands on my body, feel his fingers slide over my skin. To wipe the memories away and replace them with new ones.
I cannot change the past.
But I don’t have to live in it anymore.
Josh
I'm a little drunk. I didn’t mean to get drunk but it was that or stare at my phone, sick with worry.
She texts me and tells me she’s okay. I want to meet up with her. I want to see her. To confirm that yes, she is okay.
I don’t, because I know she needed to do this. And I’m not going to let my own psychosis ruin something she needs to do herself. And a tiny sliver of shame slides over my spine. Of doubt that what we'd shared the other night was just a fleeting thing, a passing hookup destined for the memory banks to be recalled when I was too drunk or too fucking sad to avoid taking that stone from my ruck sack.
But I’ve reached the point of not knowing what else to do with myself. I can’t sit at the bar any more.
I step out into the darkness.
And I am not so drunk that I miss Abby walking up, momentarily caught in the shadows cast between the overhead lights.
I see her.
She is beautiful. A soft mix of shadows and light. A beacon in the dark haze of alcohol and fatigue.
She doesn't turn away. Instead
, she walks toward me. There is a hesitation in her movements.
"Hey." My best pick-up line.
"Hey."
"How did things go with Graham?" I honestly want to know.
"He got his dad’s watch back."
There's something more, something she's not telling me. She's chewing on her inner lip, her hands stuffed in her pockets.
And just like that, the hypothetical violence we dissect in class is very real once more. "Is he okay?"
She tips her chin and looks at me, her golden eyes filled with sad questions. "You really are one of the good ones, aren't you?"
I pause, her question breaking through the haze in my brain, and I have to think hard on what I actually said, in case it was something deeply inappropriate. It takes me back a little, pushes behind a defense for a moment. To a place I'm not comfortable being pushed. "For asking if your friend is okay?"
She swallows and doesn’t look away. It's one of the things that draws me to her. She went into a shitty situation tonight. For a friend. As a soldier, that kind of loyalty speaks to me, calls to me. Draws me closer to her.
As someone lost, looking to find his way home again.
Or maybe for the first time.
But she doesn't answer for a long time. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. "It's just you keep surprising me." I suddenly badly want to feel her lips on me. Her fingers. Her body pressed to mine.
The allure of that siren call is fierce and compelling.
Then her gaze collides with mine and she steps into my space.
I'm drunk. But not so drunk that I can't slip my hands around her waist and draw her closer. I resent the clothing between us, separating her skin from mine. I resent the streetlamp overhead, the city street that is not a private space.
"I'm a little drunk," I whisper against her mouth.
"I can taste that." Her words brush across my lips, followed by a fleeting sensation of her lips against mine. She is soft and sweet and tastes like mint and a thousand bright lights.
Her words send a cascade of imagery through my brain, a starburst of her body spread beneath me, her dark skin cast in shadows and light. My mouth on her. Her taste on my tongue.
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