Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  “We do. For ourselves.” Travis handed me a tissue as my tears fell in rhythm with the water skimming down the face of the fountain.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. Reincarnation.” I exclaimed. The force of my convictions rose up and spilled over. “You probably believe in reincarnation. This time Logan is a killer. Next time he'll just be a child molester because he'll have evolved to a higher life form.” I drew back, feeling a need to keep my distance.

  “You know Travis, for a man who dedicates his life to the pursuit of justice, your faith has none. Unless you are telling me I deserve what Logan did to me.”

  Silence.

  Exasperated, huffing again, I reached for my shoulder bag and rose from the sofa. Travis rose with me.

  “If I am not a child of God—then I am a bastard of the universe,” I declared. “I have no past, no future, and no inheritance. Only death! Or worse; evolution. I don't think so! I was created for more than that.”

  I knew he didn't have an answer, or else he was doing the Kung-Fu- Master silence-implies-wisdom thing.

  “I don’t want to argue. Please, come back and sit with me. We’re talking, right? Isn’t that what you wanted?” Travis’s soft voice was at odds with the tension in his movements. I didn't want to leave on a negative note. Not after all we had been through and the kindness Travis had shown. This was his home and he was entitled to his beliefs.

  Time to change the subject. Easing back onto the sofa, I sat. “You don’t have any family pictures on your walls.”

  “No. I don’t.” He said bluntly.

  Okay. I asked the obvious. “I take it that means you're not married?”

  Travis leaned forward, taking me captive with his gaze in a way that shockingly reminded me of Ramiro, who had held a gun to my head just hours ago. We locked eyes.

  “No. I am technically married,” Travis said in a steely voice. “She had several affairs when I was deployed.” His face darkened. Apparently, I had found his trigger. “Second tour in Iraq... and 'No'... our divorce is not final. Did I miss anything? 'Is that the dirt you were looking for? Need more graphic details'?” Travis iterated, emphasizing and repeating the same hurtful words I had hurled at him in the restaurant. My words had returned, bringing tears to my eyes and stinging like a slap to the heart.

  “That was wrong,” Travis hastened to apologize. “That was a cheap shot.” His eyes flickered as the last trace of resentment drained from his face.

  The truth set aside the insult, illuminated by simplicity: We were both married—but not to each other. It was time to go. I got up and looked around, careful not to leave anything behind.

  “Wait. Don’t go. Don’t walk out.” Travis pleaded as he reached out. “I want you to stay with me tonight.”

  Just tonight?

  “Sex won’t fix your fractured marriage or my broken heart.” I turned away, picked up the keys to the county SUV from the end table and hobbled across the room.

  “That's not my intention.” Travis quickly intercepted me, the look on his face was real, honest and raw.

  “Then what is your intention?”

  The strain between us was taut, stretched to the breaking point. I sympathized with the pain that cut across his handsome face, a pain I knew all too well. The result of betrayal by someone you love and trusted.

  “Do you and your wife still talk?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.” He sounded defensive.

  “Do you still see her?”

  “Sometimes.” His gaze dropped.

  “Do you still love her?”

  His voice and his face softened. “Sometimes.”

  Travis reached out and took hold of me, drawing me close enough to feel his breath on my cheek. His warm scent made me dizzy and feeling intoxicated. He cupped my face. “You are the most amazing woman I have ever known.”

  “What about...?”

  Travis touched a single finger to my trembling lips as our bodies and minds pressed in, closer... deeper.

  “Umm...”

  “Shh. I love you, Sunny McLane.” His lips grazed my ear, sending a shiver of want racing down my spine.

  I pulled back, breathing hard. “Oh, Travis... that's the second time you've said that. What does that mean? for you? for us? What do you want from me? I need to know.”

  I’ve been used... so many times before.

  Strong hands drew me back into a consuming embrace. “I want you.”

  I repeated “What does that mean?” in words so faint they seemed to evaporate in the heat of the moment.

  His mouth enveloped mine, kissing with conviction, kindling an unexpected surge of need that coursed through every cell in my body. He worked his way down—hungry lips that ravished my mouth, explored my throat, and lingered as he sampled the sweetness of breasts...

  “Travis!” I moaned, and he seemed to drink in the sound.

  Talk is cheap. Men will say anything to get me into bed.

  “What do you want from me?” I breathed a question that begged for details: get laid, get married, one night or a lifetime? All fizzled, sputtered, and died in the ensuing flood of desire.

  Buttons flew open, liberating pent up inhibitions. Zippers swung back the doors to passion.

  “You know what I want.” Travis's voice was husky as his mouth pressed into my tortured flesh; kissing-kissing-nuzzling-nipping-tasting.

  There comes a time when men won’t talk. Cold reason turns to ashes in the flame of desire. And there comes the point when you can't say No. Can't turn back and risk their anger, violence, or humiliation.

  Or perhaps, I was using my past to justify recklessness. Real or imagined, I crossed the line and fully surrendered to soft skin over hard muscle as it found its hungry way into the deepest part of me.

  Like the incense in the hall, the essence of testosterone and estrogen mingled in the air, fueling the force that drove each of us to scorching heights of passion. From the thick white carpet where we burned in front of the flameless heater, to the California king-sized bed, sleek with black satin sheets, to the floor in a tangle of soft fleece blankets and the erotic warmth of the six water jets that renewed us in the shower—the night wore away as we set fire to every room in his house.

  Had there ever been such a night? Collapsing at last on his bed with my last ounce of strength, I sighed, “I think I love you too, Travis.”

  Morning came and went. We woke intertwined—arms, legs, bedding—still dizzy with exhilaration and exhaustion when reality dawned. Travis was holding me close to his heart when I sat up and looked back to find him smiling serenely into my face.

  Oh, my God! What have I done?

  CHAPTER 29

  Travis was deliciously sweet—at first. He tried to understand as he stood before me, but the gap in our beliefs became a chasm in the days following our affair. A difference was so vast that I wondered if it could be bridged over the course of a lifetime. And I didn't know if I—if we—were ready to risk the investment of time and sacrifice necessary to find out.

  “What is your problem?” A frustrated Travis closed my office door and stood close enough for me to take in his frustratingly sensual essence. “Didn't you have a good time?” It was an honest question, and his eyes probed as he asked it. He had joked and flirted over the past couple of days, like an actor before an empty house. I could not engage. It had been a lot easier to play the game before we had sex.

  I blushed in spite of the fact that I had nothing left to hide. “You don't understand, Travis. Of course, it was good,” I admitted. It was amazing. “But I feel guilty.”

  He sniffed. “Christianity will do that to you,” he said. “Now you know why I'm a Buddhist.” He was in no mood to deal with Christian fanaticism. “You take life too seriously.” He looked hurt.

  When I told him I needed to talk with my pastor, he shrugged, shook his head, and stared hard at the tips of his polished shoes. Then he agreed that talking with my pastor was a “good idea” and abruptly left on business with
a still-unhappy Paige.

  “Are you and Travis having problems you'd like to talk about?” I asked Paige.

  It was late in the day and Paige, back from her field work with Travis, had brought me her briefs for review. She froze for a moment, blinking rapidly.

  She looked almost decent today and I couldn't help but realize again what a beautiful woman she was. Some people are just born lucky, I thought with a twist of jealousy.

  “No. We're good,” she frowned. “Nothing that will affect my job. Is that all?” she added with finality.

  “No.” She paused, poised for flight. “I'd like to thank you for all the extra help you've given me lately. I appreciate it.”

  Paige looked as if I had spoken to her in a foreign language. Then her eyes narrowed and flickered with the familiar suspicion and repressed anger that had come to define our relationship. But I noticed something more. Something different. More than anger, she seemed to harbor an underlying hurt.

  “Sure. Whatever,” Paige snapped before hurrying away, closing the door behind her.

  Not my problem, I told myself. Who knows how I slighted Her Majesty this time. She probably missed a nail appointment. Heaving a sigh, I returned to my stack of briefs. I had done my good deed for the day and I still didn't like her. Anyhow, I lacked both the time and interest to deal with Paige’s mysterious problems. I had enough of my own.

  This was one week I didn't want to avoid Mac. No amount of Travis, ice cream, or otherworldly distractions would keep me away from my counseling session. To his amusement, I called ahead and we agreed to meet at the church at 6:00 p.m. I had just enough time for a quick shower.

  A war was raging from within; I was too Christian to be happy in Travis's world and too much a product of the world to be satisfied in a faith that dictates so many rules. Some churches regulate dress, some music, some holidays... not to mention once-saved-always-saved, saved-by-works, saved-by-grace, saved-by-baptism, saved-after-death. And then, there is the Tribulation: pre-trib, mid-trib, post trib, no-trib saints. How could one be sure of anything?

  “Lord! Do you really care about anything besides our hearts”? I asked aloud. I didn't get an audible answer, but I recalled that “Out of our hearts comes every thought, word, and deed.”

  I stood in the shower and did my monthly breast exam, which led me to do a heart-check also. My breasts didn't have any lumps, but my heart listened to the murmurs of the evil siblings, Anger and Pride and their toxic therapy—Revenge and Guilt. So oppressed was I with fear, regret, and self-condemnation that I could hardly look at Travis, who had summarized our romantic encounter in one simple word: “Fun.”

  Which of us was right? While I am not sure of everything, I am certain of this: my faith isn't something I can throw away like the stuff in my closet that has become uncomfortable or unfashionable. Somewhere along life's ride, my faith had become much more than the fabric of my life, full of holes and stains. It wasn't something I put on to cover myself, but something that had taken root, like my baby once had, and grown in my spirit. I could not, would not, abort it. Sighing, I shook myself like a wet dog and let my worry’s fly.

  Mac unlocked the door, turned on the lights and led me through the empty church building with a protective hand on my shoulder and a warm smile on his face. “Sit over there, Sunny.”

  “Oh, Pastor.” The waterworks came. I hadn't slept in days, but had lain awake with visions of a divine boiler rocking crazily under pressure and my sin-ometer gauge spiking well past the DANGER zone. I had committed an unpardonable sin. I was afraid... and my heart was breaking.

  Just because Travis believes there are no consequences for recreational sex didn't make me exempt from the truckload of guilt that had parked on my chest. Joyce, in Feather Falls, had always preached that while God loves me, there is hellfire and damnation in store for sinners. And Lord knows, I am a sinner. In my heart, I understood that I was no different from Starla, Logan, or even Paige for that matter.

  I confessed to Pastor Mac that I was “seeing someone,” and Mac easily and graciously read between the lines.

  “You’re not going to want to hear this,” Mac picked up where we had left off. “I understand and believe me,” he said emphatically, “you have my sympathies. That being said, don't ask me for my blessings. The Bible is clear that you are to 'leave and cleave' and become one with your husband.” He leaned over the desk and removed his glasses, so nothing stood between us. “You are still one couple, even though you guys live in different houses.”

  “But I won't go to hell if I divorce him. Right?” I asked. I needed to double-check this. “The Bible says that I can divorce Chance because he has been sexually unfaithful.”

  Macs' features softened, and I swear the man could see right through my hypocrisy.

  “That is true. There is nothing, absolutely nothing,” Mac asserted, “that will send you to hell. God does not go back on his promises, but there will always be consequences for our choices. Stopping smoking doesn't mean you won't die of lung cancer, and leaving Chance doesn't guarantee you'll find happiness elsewhere. I will not advise you on the matter of divorce. That is strictly between you and God, but I do urge you to pray long and hard before deciding. The deeper the wound, the longer it takes to heal. Perhaps, you should give it time.”

  His gaze was steady and kind. No accusations, no judgment. Just compassion.

  “You see,” Mac continued, “most people have the wrong idea about Christian forgiveness. They confuse meekness with weakness and think forgiveness is forgetness. Forgiveness is really a way of declaring your faith in divine justice. You can step back and let God fight the battle for you. A lot of angry people lose sleep while their offender snores on without a care in the world. Forgiveness will never change the other person. It can only change you.

  Are you looking for happiness or satisfaction? I want you to be happy, and my dear, you will never find it in revenge. Only regret. Living in a state of anger and bitterness is a lot like swallowing poison and hoping it kills the other person.

  Talk with your husband, Sunny. Denying that you have suffered a serious hurt won't heal your wounds. They will only get infected and kill off whatever hopes you might still have for a future together. Chance stays away from you because you told him to and because he is afraid. Only you can offer reconciliation.”

  This felt like another religious burden. Everything was on me. It was always on me. Nothing ever offered me justice when it came to Chance. I should have left the meeting with Pastor Mac feeling justified about having had sex with Travis. Logan had taught me a lot about biker justice, and payback and my job had taught me about accountability and punishment.

  Having sex with Travis was fair. It was payback. It was just. But the meeting with Mac hadn’t felt like either. I had gone to my pastor in search of peace and returned home tied in emotional knots. I knew I was missing something important, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the hell it was.

  While reunification with Chance didn't seem likely, especially in light of my ambivalence and temporary insanity with Travis, I knew I wasn't ready to dig out and file the divorce papers that lay buried under a mountain of junk mail. Mac is a wise man and I trust and love him, so I decided to follow his advice and made the choice to keep the doors of communication open with Chance. Pouring a glass of wine for courage, I picked up the phone.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Mercy and I are sharing a plate of mango tofu tacos.”

  “Tofu tacos? Have you been talking to Ashley?”

  “Sort of. I told Shane I needed a change and Ashley called to tell me that I need to give up meat.”

  “How's that working for you?”

  “Mercy, no! Bad dog! Mercy! Argh... no!”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Taco is gushing out the sides of her mouth. Outside! Oh man, there’s slobber everywhere... not the remote... She slimed it, brown with orange chunks. It looks like... Ugh! Never mind.
”

  Mercy is a big dog and never does anything in a small way. I smiled at Chance’s sounds of disgust as he cleaned up the Mercy mess.

  When I asked if he still felt like going for a ride, Chance stopped grumbling.

  “You bet! I'll pick you up around ten tomorrow,” and later, “Have a good night. Sweet dreams.”

  I did not have a good night. It was plagued by disturbing dreams that I was glad I couldn't remember later. It was almost 10:00 a.m. and Kissme was head-butting me to get up and let her out. The sun was heating up and I had just enough time to brush my hair and suck down a quick cup of coffee. I was ready to ride.

  People typically think you’re a wimp if you ride on the back of a motorcycle—unless you’re wearing a patch that makes them think again. What they don’t know is that it takes a lot more courage to ride hands-free, trusting the driver with your life, than it does being the one with both hands on the wheel, so to speak.

  Riding has always been a kind of therapy for me. You have to love bikes to understand—or horses or airplanes, hiking or swimming, skydiving or trying a new recipe—anything that requires focus and risk. Chance pulled in the driveway, his bike refracting daylight like a piece of polished onyx burning in the sun. I hurried so he wouldn't turn off the engine. I didn't want to talk. I was tired from treading the mental hamster wheel round and round and getting nowhere. I needed to ride—in spite of a surge of post-traumatic stress from having gone over a cliff the last time I rode. I pulled on my helmet and gloves and prayed as I swung my leg over the VTX, “Lord, please don’t let him kill me.”