Shane (Damage Control #4)

by Jo Raven

  “I’m sorry,” Shane murmurs, and before I know what’s happening, he’s right there, in front of me, wrapping his arms around me and hauling me against his chest. “So sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” But it’s not, and tears burn my eyes. “It was many years ago. He wouldn’t try. He wouldn’t listen to the therapist. He didn’t—” I choke on a sob. “He didn’t want to live anymore. But you do.” I press myself to him until I can feel every sharp bone and hard muscle of his body, until I can feel his heart beat through me. “You do.”

  “I don’t wanna die,” he whispers against my hair. “But back then, sometimes, it seemed like the only way out of the dark. My own mind scared me.”

  I clutch at him. “And now?”

  “You make me want things,” he whispers. “Good things. I like it when you’re here. I…” He buries his face against my neck. “I want you to help me.”

  I’m wrapped so tightly around him I don’t know how I can be pried off again. “Shane…” God, I love him. I’m so maddeningly in love with him.

  I want to share his bed every night, sleep in his arms, have breakfast together in the mornings… Go to the movies, spend quiet evenings on the sofa watching TV, shower with him, have a family… Make him laugh in the mornings and be there to hear the happy sound.

  Dear God, Cass.

  Mom would have a fit if she knew I let a boy catch me—because the one who caught her, long ago, my dad, left and broke her heart.

  ***

  We’re curled on the sofa, me on his lap, his hand on my hair, and I know he said he has to get ready for work, but either he’s forgotten about it, or he thinks this is more important.

  I hope it’s the latter.

  Besides, I really don’t want him going back to that construction site where he fell off a scaffold and barely avoided breaking his neck. Jesus. I have a bad feeling about that place.

  Which is stupid, and it’s not like I have a solution, like another job ready and waiting for him. If he wanted to take it.

  Okay, focus, Cass. He’s talking. You worked hard to get him talking, even bared your soul, told him about Angel. Now listen.

  “…told me I was making it up, and anyway men just suck it up and move on.” His voice is quiet, and frighteningly empty.

  “Seth said that?”

  He glances down at me and that scary emptiness fades a little. “Seth? No, the prison therapist.”

  “Oh.” Dammit, Cass, pull yourself together. “Fuck her.”

  “It was a man.”

  “Then fuck him, too.”

  His lips quirk, a smile barely there and gone. “Yeah.”

  Okay, poor choice of words. What’s wrong with me today? Oh… caffeine. Lack thereof. How am I supposed to think without coffee running through my veins?

  “Fact is,” I prop my jaw on my hand, and my elbow on his solid thigh to look up at him better, “this is bullshit. That was a shit therapist who told you those things. Men,” I poke a finger into his stomach, swoon a little at how hard his abs are, then realize I don’t know if it’s a trigger and pull my hand back. “Men are human, too. You are human, and can be hurt. As for making anything up…” I clench my hand into a fist. “Fu— I mean, to hell with the asshole therapist. He obviously has no frigging clue.”

  I’m afraid to look at Shane’s face after my rant, but a quick glance shows that the faint smile is back—a little amused, a little pensive.

  “So I’m human?” He asks this seriously, as if a lot depends on the answer.

  “Definitely. And what do you know...” I lift a brow at him and trail my hand over his stomach, down to the bulge between his legs. “Definitely a man, too.”

  The smile deepens, becomes less of a ghost and more of a real shape. Plus, he’s hardening under my palm.

  Win. Because pleasurable distraction never hurts when about to plunge into the fires of hell, right?

  I lick my lips and lower my head back on his legs, hiding a little behind my hair. “So… you slept with me last night. That didn’t trigger any nightmares or flashbacks?”

  “No flashbacks,” he confirms, although he says nothing of nightmares.

  Another question answered through silence.

  “You always draw after a flashback or nightmare?”

  A shrug. “Most of the time.”

  “Does it help?”

  A nod.

  “Kissing alone doesn’t cause flashbacks?”

  A shake of the head.

  Okay, then. He’s withdrawing into himself, bracing for my questions. Let’s rip this Band-Aid off then and be done with it.

  “What are the triggers?”

  He reaches up in a now familiar gesture to tuck his long hair behind one ear. His hand shakes, a tiny tremor.

  God, he’s brave. Playing pool with him and drinking beer all this time I never knew I was standing next to a fighter. A warrior, battling monsters every day and every night.

  “Lying on my back,” he finally says, not looking at me, his gaze turned to the wall. “Lying on the floor. Something snagging in my hair, pulling. Someone pressing me to the wall.” He hesitates between each sentence, each word. He clenches his hand, his fingers digging into his palm—into the self-inflicted wound there. “The smell… the smell of old sweat, and bleach, and fucking cinnamon.”

  His eyes dart to the corners of the room, and his breath stutters. When I lift my hand to his chest, he recoils.

  “Dammit,” he hisses, his breathing harsh. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” He looks torn between walking off to smash something, and curling up in a dark corner, so I wrap my arms around him and keep him down.

  Keep him together.

  “You know some people get pets to help them when they have a hard time,” I whisper. “Like, emotional support animals. Dogs, mostly.”

  “You want me to get a dog?” He sounds out of breath, and his hold on me is shaky.

  “No, silly. Me.” I sigh. “I want you to keep me.”

  This time the silence is light and fluffy like a cloud.

  “You’re big for a pet,” he says, sounding more normal.

  “So are Dobermans.”

  “You’re bigger than that.”

  “And better. I mean, I can make coffee. And pancakes.”

  A snort.

  I settle more comfortably in his lap.

  “Thank you for telling me all this,” I say quietly. “There are ways to center yourself, ground yourself. I’ll show you. It may take time, but they work. I’ve read a lot about it.”

  His hand pets my hair. “You’d do all this for me. Because you like me.”

  Not really a question, and I smile. “Yes.”

  A long breath goes out of him, and he sags over me. He drops a kiss on top of my head. “I’ll try. I trust you, Cass.”

  God, I love you, I think, but say nothing, doing my best to guard my heart even though I know it’s too late.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shane

  Tomorrow is Zane and Dakota’s wedding. I think about this as I haul pipes and cement bags, carrying them to the waiting truck, my work boots thudding on top of the frozen mud. Fine snowflakes whirl on the air, sticking to my lashes and mouth and hair.

  I hand the bags to Hanson who’s loading the truck, and he dumps them inside as I turn around and go back for more.

  Fuck, it’s cold. Cold and gray and a bad feeling has been hounding me ever since I arrived this morning.

  Am I still going with Cassie tomorrow? She hasn’t mentioned it again since she asked me to be her date.

  Not sure I’m looking forward to another wedding. The last one I attended—Asher and Audrey’s—ended up with me drinking myself into a fucking coma, to forget the fact that Cassie had just kissed Jesse.

  I wince. She’d always flirted openly, even kissed more guys as I looked on, and I always told myself it was okay. She didn’t want me. I didn’t know those guys.

  But that moment in Asher’s wedd
ing changed things. Because Jesse is one of my buddies. And because I couldn’t pretend any longer that I didn’t fucking care. I wanted her for myself.

  And now… After fooling around—kissing, jacking off while she fucked herself on her hand, then the blowjob that blew my mind and me going down on her, licking her sweet cream, after holding her as she cried and told me about her dead brother, and I spilled my guts to her, telling her about my triggers, now what?

  What are we now?

  She likes me, she says. She’s never done this with anyone, she says—masturbating on my bed, waking me up from nightmares and telling me she can help me—but I love her.

  She likes me, and I believe her. She doesn’t want to hurt me. But when she moves on to the next guy, I’ll fucking lose it. It was better before, when we knew nothing about each other, when we were orbiting each other and never touching.

  I’ve touched her, she’s touched me, and I can’t fucking go back. And I’m not talking about the jerking off and blowjob, or going down on her. Not just that. Having her lie with her head on my lap, her arms around me, probing into my memories and promising hope…

  Can’t go back after that. I’ve let her in, closer than I’ve ever let anyone, even Seth who’s my brother, who’s the reason I’m still alive. I opened up, gave myself over to her.

  And she doesn’t even know.

  ***

  Rubbing my right shoulder, I make my way to the office. I think I wrenched a muscle. Need to be more careful when I lift those goddamn pipes. Ollie keeps telling me that, and I keep doing it wrong. What I need is a good, long session at the gym, to keep those muscles from cramping more.

  I knock on the metal door, my mind elsewhere. I’m a sack of nerves. Feels like I’m fourteen again, trying to figure out where I stand with chicks, how they think, what they expect.

  Should I call Cassie about tomorrow? Does her not saying anything mean we’re not going together? Should I ask Seth for a ride?

  Should I go over to her place? I’ve never been. But maybe Manon could tell me where she lives. Would Cassie want that?

  Fuck.

  “Come in,” Peter says, and I step inside the container. He has a small heater going, and it’s toasty warm compared to the icy, rising wind outside. “Ah, Tucker. That back not giving you any trouble?”

  Confused, I blink at him, my lashes frosted and stuck together—then realize he’s talking about last week when I fell. “I’m fine.”

  Pushed, a tiny voice whispers in my head. You were pushed, you didn’t fall.

  Dammit, Shane. I pull off my glove and rub my tired eyes. Keep the past and present apart, will you?

  “I called you in because someone complained about you,” Peter says and leans back in his creaky chair to give me a once-over.

  “Complained.” I cock my head to the side. Maybe I didn’t hear him well. “What the hell about?”

  “That you pushed a worker and weren’t careful and dropped a heavy bag on another waiting below the truck the other day. I have been sitting on this, trying to decide what to do.”

  “That’s bullshit.” I rub my eyes again. “The complaint is bullshit.”

  Who complained? What’s this about? My skin prickles. My stomach ties itself into a knot. I glance behind me, itching to lock the door.

  “You’re saying they lied.” At my jerky nod, he sighs. “I’ve been watching you. Tucker. For months. You’re a quiet guy. You don’t like touching or talking much. You don’t mingle. And you also don’t seem like the type to push people and hurt them on purpose. Unless it wasn’t on purpose.”

  I blink. What is he saying?

  He leans forward, resting his hands on the desk. “These past weeks you’ve been distracted. You don’t look so hot, Tucker. Sometimes I wonder if you’d better go home and find a lower-risk job. Work at a burger joint or coffee shop, or whatever.”

  Heat trickles from my chest up to my face. “I didn’t push nobody, and didn’t drop any bags.”

  I didn’t. Did I?

  Fuck…

  “All I’m saying, kiddo, is this.” Peter nods to himself. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. I really hope it’s not fucking drugs or booze. Is it?”

  “No, it fucking ain’t.”

  “Good. But something’s wrong, and I can’t fix it for ya.” He grabs his cell phone, glares it, and puts it back down. “So you need to fix it yourself. Know what I’m saying?”

  Yeah, I hear it loud and clear. It makes sense, too. If I’m putting others at risk, then I can kiss this job goodbye.

  Did I hurt anyone? Why can’t I remember?

  Am I going out of my fucking mind?

  “You seem like a solid guy,” Peter is saying, “just get your shit together and keep at it. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

  But I’ve tuned him out already, and I turn to leave the office/container and the doubts it’s planting into my brain.

  Doubts about myself.

  Was I pushed, or did I fall? Did I drop a bag of cement on someone, or is it a lie? Is my mind playing dirty tricks on me again, or did it never stop?

  My shift is almost over, and thank fuck for that. If I’ve been distracted before, I’m useless now, the same questions rolling around my head.

  Also thank fuck Damage Control is closed today. That’s probably due to Zane’s wedding tomorrow, but possibly about something more ordinary, like repairs. I think the bathroom of the shop has a leak.

  I wouldn’t know. I didn’t ask why, and nobody volunteered the information. It doesn’t matter.

  What the fuck do I do?

  Can Seth help me? Or Cassie? Christ, I need someone to tell me I’m not bound for the loony bin just yet.

  I stomp through the site, tugging off my helmet, letting a gust of icy wind lash my hair over my face, let the driving snow blind me.

  I’m blind anyway, caught in a nightmare, as I trudge past other workers, heading out. Something hits my back and drops to the ground. I stop, bend and pick it up.

  It’s a box of matches.

  Whatever. Crushing the damn matchbox in my fist, I take a deep breath and start moving again. This day is officially over. Better get outta here before I smash someone’s head against my fists.

  But as I walk through the snow, darkness is seeping into my vision, the monsters edging closer.

  Three steps later I have to stop. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong, and I can’t—

  Cinnamon. I smell fucking cinnamon and sweat, and I whirl around, my heart tripping. What the hell?

  Three men are having a smoke under a scaffold, huddled in their bright yellow jackets. A fourth guy is talking on his cell phone. Two more are turned away from me, talking.

  The smell has already faded, carried away by another gust of wind.

  Or never fucking was in the first place.

  Going crazy.

  Or already am.

  As I turn back around and try hard not to run, outrun the oncoming flashback, I fish my cell out of my back pocket and dial.

  But the person who answers isn’t Seth. It’s Cassie.

  I want to howl. Everything is twisting around me, inside me.

  “Please,” I whisper as the frozen-over plot of land turns into tiles and bars and caged shadows, and someone grabs my arm. “Please take me home.”

  ***

  Miss me bitch? Miss me? Miss me?

  I’m on the ground. The prison closes in around me. Pain lances up my back. My scalp hurts where my hair is pulled. I taste sourness in my mouth.

  Smell of cinnamon.

  God.

  Something’s tethering me, pulling as I fight to get free. Time jumps, loops, as I find myself on my back again, trying to sit up.

  Then again.

  And again.

  “Let me go!”

  This ain’t right. Ain’t happening now. Happened years ago. I was… I was at work.

  Fumbling around me, I find icy water.

  Not good. The bathroom tiles ret
urn, grimy white and splattered with blood and other fluids. The hands in my hair clench, and I grit my teeth. Pain is eating me up from the inside, burning like fire.

  Cassie said… she said I’ll be okay. Need an anchor. She’ll give me one. She’ll help me. I picture her wide eyes, her soft lips pressed to mine, and the prison wavers around me. I put my hands on myself and encounter clothes, a thick jacket.

  Not naked. Not in the prison.

  Get up. Get up, Shane.

  With a groan, I stagger to my feet, arms windmilling. My vision swims. The prison still surrounds me, but a corridor opens in front of me, and shadows flit around the corners. Seth is yelling my name, yelling for the guard, and I know I should hide. Hide before Christoph and Marco return for me.

  Move.

  I start walking, stumbling down the corridor. The tiled floor is rippling, the walls pulsing. I squint, trying to see ahead, then spin around when a crash sounds behind me.

  Hell. More shadows, more men.

  I’m losing grasp. This… this isn’t over, it’s happening right fucking now, and I can’t escape. A scarred face, the snick of a match lighting a cigarette, and more pain. More fucking pain, and I can’t take anymore.

  Not when they come for me again. I fight them, push them off.

  “No.” I’m gasping for breath, my heart a sledgehammer to my ribs. “Please.”

  “Shane,” she says, then louder, “no, let him go. He won’t hurt me.”

  Released, I stumble backward, slip and catch my balance in the last second. My hair hangs in my face, wet and heavy. I ache all over. The prison is there, and isn’t. Through the familiar walls, I see a group of men. I see snow on the ground and on the piles of bricks and machinery, painted yellow by the strong spotlights.

  I take a step back.

  I stop.

  “You’re safe,” she says. “Shane. You’ll be okay. You called me, remember? To come pick you up. Take you home.”

  Fear is a vise around my chest—but I know her. She doesn’t belong in any nightmare. “Cass?”

  “Yes! Yes, it’s me.” She breaks off the small group of men, her hair spilling gold on the shoulders of her dark coat. “I’ve come to take you home.”