by Jen Talty
“Do you have a best friend?” she asked.
“A what?”
“Someone you confide in. Tell your inner secrets. Share things that no one else knows.”
“That would be my brothers.”
She shook her head. “Outside of family.”
He glanced to the sky, as if it had all the answers. “I don’t really have time for casual or even really close relationships, so I keep my circle tight.”
“As human beings, we’re built to share our existence with others. You isolate yourself, which is why expressing your emotions has become nearly impossible. I’m not surprised that all your deep emotions are coming out in a dream state.”
“All of this jibber-jabber is giving me a headache.”
“Why don’t we call it a night. We can talk again tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
She reached out and placed her hand over his, rubbing her thumb over his callused skin. In the few short days she’d known him, she felt a closeness that didn’t make sense. They barely knew each other, yet she could see how hard he tried to push through the barriers he’d built around himself to protect his heart from whatever it was that broke it in the first place. “Trust me, you’re not difficult at all, and I enjoyed tonight.”
His lips curled upward in a genuine smile. “You’re something special, Kinsley.”
“No need to flatter me.”
“Talk again when you get home from work?”
“Sure.” He stood, bending over the table, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. You’re a very kind woman.”
She let out a long breath as she watched him waltz from her patio to his mother’s. He stood by his front door and waved.
Well shit, she was falling for Dylan.
Hard.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Kinsley made her way back from her morning walk on the beach. She’d slept with her window closed, and she hadn’t heard Dylan scream out in the middle of the night, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t had a bad dream.
She’d been surprised by how much he so easily shared with her, and more shocked by her own confessions. But it was the closeness she felt for him that made her stomach flutter like a million butterflies.
“Good morning,” Dylan’s voice startled her when she rounded the corner.
He sat on the steps on his front porch with a mug of coffee, in nothing but a pair of jeans tucked into his boot.
She sucked in a breath, trying not to stare.
“Want some coffee?” He nodded to a second mug on the stoop, filled with a steaming hot brew.
“I’m not one to pass on a good cup of Joe.” Sitting down next to him, she blew into the mug and stared out at the Intracoastal. A slight breeze rippled the water. She avoided relationships because she found herself becoming bored easily.
Like her mother.
Last person on earth she aspired to be like, but perhaps some things were just in one’s genetic make-up, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.
“Where’s your mom?” she asked.
“She’s already left for work.”
“I’ve never met anyone quite like Catherine,” she said, sipping the dark, almond-flavored liquid. “I have to honestly say, I have a pang of jealousy.”
“About what?” He turned his head, stretching out his long legs, wincing as he twisted his upper body.
“I know my mom loves me, in her weird way, but she’s a selfish woman.”
“My mother’s not selfish enough,” he said.
“But she’s got to be the most genuine, happiest person I’ve ever met.”
“I can’t argue that point.” He cast a wicked smile and winked. “Thank you for listening last night.”
“My pleasure,” she said.
“You’ve helped me a lot.” He shifted closer, resting his finger on her knee, drawing a small circle over her skin. “I like being around you. I feel safe.”
She glanced at his hand, and then caught his gaze.
“Sorry, that was very forward of me,” he said, cupping his mug with both hands. “I find myself liking you more than I want to.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” She lusted after him more than she’d ever admit, even to herself. Sleep hadn’t come easy the last few nights, and when she did manage to fade off into oblivion, he joined her I her subconscious.
“I don’t know how long I’m staying,” he said.
“Your mom said two months.” Why did it matter how long he was going to stay? They would never be any more than friends.
He let out a slight laugh. “I have two months of medical leave if I need it. I don’t plan on needing it. And I love my mom, more than anything, but I can’t stay here that long. I get too restless.”
Now he sounded like her mother. Every time she left a husband, it was because she’d grown restless and bored.
Every time Kinsley had the makings of a serious relationship, she got cold feet and made like her mother, without the craziness of being married.
That’s how she was different.
Right.
“But I still want to go out with you again, which makes me a selfish prick.” He ran his thumb over her cheekbone before tucking her hair behind her ear. “Because I also want you to continue to help me.”
She swallowed her breath, biting down on her lower lip.
“I don’t do relationships.” His voice boomed out firm, and a tad harsh, though she relished in his honesty.
“I’m not looking for one,” she said, curling her fingers around his wrist. “I enjoy your company, so let’s just roll with it.” Her heart floated in her chest like she was standing at the opening of an airplane, waiting to jump, so she could plummet to her death.
He leaned in, pressing his mouth against hers in a soft kiss that lasted only a few seconds. “Dinner tonight?”
“What about your mother?”
“She won’t be back until at least eight, so I’m on my own.” His hot breath tickled her skin.
“An early dinner, I have a patient at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect,” he whispered, his warm lips brushing over hers as she ran her hand up his back, stopping on one of his scars.
He jerked his head back. “I was wondering if you’d comment on them or not.”
“I didn’t say anything, and why would I?”
“Because they are hideous.”
“I wouldn’t say that, and they are still healing,” she said, running her fingers across his flesh. Every scar and burn told a story.
One she found herself wanting and needing to know.
“Do you want to talk about them?” she asked, staring into his eyes, wishing she could somehow detach herself from emotion other than empathy.
“When you’re tortured, you’ll say anything to have the pain stop.”
“Tortured? Does your mother know that?”
“I’m sure she suspects, but I can’t really discuss the mission or what happened.”
“Did you tell your captors things you shouldn’t have?” She squeezed his shoulder before taking her mug and sipping carefully. His dreams could be dealing with so many different layers, it might take more than a few weeks to peel them back, giving him the peace of mind he searched for.
“I told them what they wanted to hear, whether it was true or not.”
“Were you and your men in the same room, or separated?” She asked the kinds of questions as if he were any other patient. Only, he wasn’t a patient.
And he’d just kissed her.
“They separated us, beating us at different times, telling us that one of us gave them information, and they then were given food and water.”
“When you gave them information, did they give you those things?”
“No, and I knew they wouldn’t.” He ran a hand over his freshly shaven face. “I did what I thought was right to save my men and stop the pain, but I failed.�
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She reached out, resting her hand on his knee. His muscle twitched.
“You didn’t fail,” she said.
“But I did.”
“Maybe the mission, but you didn’t fail your men.”
He shook his head. “I’ve had other failed missions and lost other good men, just not nine at once.”
“You feel responsible for them?” She probed further into his mind.
“Wouldn’t you?” He stared at her with darkness swirling in his blue eyes.
“I would,” she admitted. She had one patient commit suicide and one die of an accidental overdose. Both times, she had to see a therapist, trying to reconcile if she could have done anything different.
Probably not, but that doesn’t change the outcome.
“Did you dream last night?” she asked.
He nodded. “I wrote it all down and tried to express my feelings about it, but this one was just so weird.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
Pushing himself to a standing position, he held out his hand.
She stared at it for a long moment before resting her palm against his callused one and followed him into the family room.
Dylan handed her a picture frame that held an image of him as a boy, with his brothers and an older man, who she assumed to be his father, and Catherine.
“You look the most like your mom,” she said.
“I know.” He handed her another photograph. “This was taken the day before my dad died.”
She held the image of a young Dylan with all of his brothers, standing on the very dock where they had drinks last night, holding a large Mahi Mahi fish in his hand. His father had his arm proudly draped over his shoulders, smiling.
“That night Logan went back to college and Nick drove off to the Police Academy. The next day, Ramey found out he’d been accepted into West Point. He’d gone off with some chick after school to celebrate, and I came home because back then, I didn’t have swagger like Ramey.”
She held her breath. Knowing the rest of the story didn’t make it any easier.
“Last night, instead of stabbing my father, I tortured him…” he ran his hand over his chest, his fingers circling the scars… “I’m electrocuting and waterboarding my dad. What the fuck does that mean? I loved my dad, and we had a great relationship.” The tightness in his voice tugged at her heart. “I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I’m losing control, and I’m always in control.”
“What’s going on in that nightmare isn’t a reflection of your relationship with your father or how much you loved him.”
“That’s not even the worst of it.” He turned his back, resting his hands on his hips.
“What do you mean?” She inched up behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “What else happened in the dream?”
“My brothers were there and waiting for me to torture them next, and my father was begging me not to hurt them, yelling ‘one for all and all for one.’” He shifted his stance, glancing down at her. “This shit has to stop before I lose my fucking mind.”
“How do you feel when you wake up?” The woman in her wanted to hold him and tell him everything was all right, but the therapist, and the friend, knew that’s not what he needed.
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” he asked, glaring.
“Physically, or emotionally?” She knew this was a dangerous game she was playing, but he had to bring his emotions to the surface and anger was always the first to roar.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” He shrugged her hand away, crossing his arms over his chest.
“An important one, so please answer.” Not only was the answer important, but how he lashed out at her could help begin the healing process.
“Both,” he said with a tight jaw.
“But what do you focus on the second you wake up? Is it your racing heart? Perspiration? Jittery hands? Or is it some gut-wrenching emotion you can’t even label?”
He slammed his hand down on the back of the sofa. “Jesus Christ. Will you just fucking stop the psycho-babble bullshit.”
“Dylan,” she said in a firm, but soft voice. “Tell me how you felt this morning after the nightmare.”
“I felt angry,” he whispered. “Rage. Out of control rage. I want to hurt someone, only in my dreams I was hurting the people I love the most, and that is totally fucked up.”
“No, actually, it’s not,” she said, giving his biceps a reassuring squeeze. “Sit down.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Too bad,” she said, pointing to the sofa.
Instead of sitting across from him, she eased herself on the sofa, only about twelve inches away.
Mistake. She knew it, but she no longer cared. This man was torturing himself, and his dream would never go away until he stopped beating himself up emotionally.
“One of the reasons I wanted you to keep a journal is so we… I mean you, can rifle through your subconscious until you uncover the heart of the problems.”
“Why do you think I keep having these dreams? Please tell me, because I really want to know.” The creases in his forehead deepened.
“I think you love your family very much. I think you’d do anything to help keep them safe.”
“So, why I am doing those horrible things to my dad?”
“Listen,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand in hers in a bold gesture. “There could be a million reasons why, subconsciously, like being angry at your father for dying, or feeling responsible for his death, or letting him down somehow, and that’s why he’s being pulled into the horror of the mission.”
“And my brothers? Why are they there, but not my mom?” He closed his eyes for a long moment before blinking them open. “I’d really lose my shit if she showed up.”
“It could be that you equate your men dying as part of your family and feeling responsible. It could be you’re afraid you will let your brothers down.”
“I’m more afraid of disappointing my mother than my brothers.”
“If you continue to write down the dreams, and your emotions, something will reveal itself to you.” She tried to tug her hand away, but he held it tighter.
“You really believe that?”
“I do,” she said. “When I was little, I kept having this dream over and over again about drowning. I’d be at the beach, which is my happy place, and all of a sudden, a wave would come out of nowhere and take me out to sea. In the dream, I couldn’t swim to the surface and I’d feel myself stop breathing, and then the ocean would go calm. That’s when I’d wake up.”
“And what does that dream mean?” he asked with a slight curl of his lips as if he were amused.
He was pushing his emotions down again, but they had made progress, so she’d let him sink his feelings into the abyss.
“I didn’t understand until I realized that it happened every time my mother left a husband. I’d start to actually like them, and they’d leave. The dream had to do with the feeling of helplessness and loss of making connections. Bonds.”
“Do you analyze all your dreams?”
She shook her head. “I do keep a journal of them, though. Dreams can reveal a lot about our emotions. How we see ourselves and the people around us, but you can overthink all this shit, so it’s important to understand that dreams are just our thoughts and often they are meshed together into things that will never make sense. I mean, we dream all night, and they can get confused as they blend into one not-so-succinct memory.”
“You know, I had more than one dream last night.” He leaned closer, licking his lips. “I dozed off on the sofa thinking about you.”
“Really? And what were you thinking?” Totally an inapposite question, since she knew exactly where he was headed.
“This.” He pulled her close, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He tasted like coffee and cream. He felt like warm honey melting over a piece of sourdough bread s
till hot from the oven.
“You’re changing the subject,” she whispered.
“You don’t seem to mind.” He deepened the kiss as he leaned back on the sofa, her chest pressed against his.
He groaned, clutching his side.
She jumped off the sofa. “Yeah, not only is your body not ready for me to be laying on top of it, I’m not ready to be making out on your mother’s sofa.”
“We both just need a couple of days.”
“I’m not sure any amount of time will make me feel comfortable with the latter.”
“I’m going to make it my personal mission to make sure more necking happens right here.” He patted the sofa.
She let out a short laugh. “I’ve got to get to work and then run some errands. Do you need anything?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got physical therapy and then I’m going to binge-watch some weird shit on Netflix while I wait for you to return for our next date.”
“I’ve lost my mind,” she said.
“Be careful, because you might make me lose my heart.”
Chapter 7
Dylan had never been so grateful to have a date cancel on him, a couple of times. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Kinsley, but after making the stupid comment about having feelings for her, he needed a few days to recover from his diarrhea of the mouth.
And bleeding heart.
But only because his insides were all twisted, and he was letting her pretty face and sweet demeanor distract him from facing his demons head on.
He’d seen Kinsley a few times in passing when she’d come home from work, and he’d honestly done the best he could to avoid her over the last few days, but his dreams had gotten worse and worse.
And now his mother was in there, and he couldn’t close his eyes for fear of watching himself hurt her.
He lay on the dock, staring at the night sky speckled with a million stars. He replayed every bad dream he could remember from childhood into his early years in the Army. When his father died, he used to dream that Logan had died too. He chalked that up to Logan being the oldest and the one who did what he could to kick Dylan in the ass when it came to school or not giving their mom a hard time during those turbulent adolescent years.