Gambled - A Titan Novella

by Harber, Cristin

  Sarah had also had two very long phone calls with Mia. After repeating several times that couple’s counseling wasn’t her specialty, Mia had talked about Sarah’s abduction experience and the mental ramifications that came with that type of trauma.

  Trauma didn’t seem like the right word. At first. She’d thought about trauma in terms of emergency rooms. Lots of blood. Car accidents or school shootings. Major circumstances like that. But the more Mia talked, the better understanding Sarah had that trauma could be physical or emotional. There were people who’d been watching the Twin Towers fall from the safety of their living rooms, and they had mental and physical reactions, years later, when they saw low-flying planes. Mia called it post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD.

  Mia also hadn’t been sure that flying to Saint Lucia was the best answer for Sarah and Brock to work out their problems, especially if there was a traumatic stress issue.

  She had thought about everything Mia had said, then spent an unhealthy amount of the day on the Internet before she’d come to the unscientific determination that Mia was right. She suffered from PTSD and had to deal with it.

  But also, the more Sarah analyzed her life before the abduction… I didn’t live. I just moved through the motions.

  Some days her husband was there. Some days he wasn’t. Sometimes she wanted more, and other days, the complacency of life was fine.

  “Final boarding call…” The overhead speaker announced her flight for the third time since she’d been in the bathroom nearest the gate, holding the sink rim and trying not to toss her breakfast.

  “You can do this.” She stared in the mirror and ignored the people eyeing her as they washed their hands. “Get on that plane.”

  She ran out the door, through a crowd of travelers to her gate. Her purse bumped under her arm, all the contents threatening to spill.

  “Wait!”

  Before the door shut, a flight attendant turned around, annoyed. “Almost missed us. Ticket?”

  Hands shaking, she pulled the ticket out. “Here.”

  A quick scan of the ticket and a fake smile, and the attendant handed her ticket back. “Enjoy your flight.”

  ***

  Brock looked out the window. The luggage had been loaded. The crew had gone through its pre-flight check. It’d been a while since he’d flown on a non-chartered flight, but the procedures were all the same. He’d been offered a pillow, a drink, then a beverage because apparently he looked like he needed it.

  Sitting in the front row of first class, he saw every person get on the plane. None were his wife. He sank into the chair, not believing he was flying solo to paradise. First decision to make, should he drink himself back into a stupor where the Titan guys wouldn’t come kick his ass, or should he fly back and try Sarah again? He pinched his eyes shut and saw her pink smile, could smell her familiar essence. A primal, possessive roar threatened to escape. Easy decision. He’d fly back and try again.

  “Hi.” Her soft voice pulled him to the present. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Angel. The pressure grinding inside melted away. She was taking a chance on him, thank God.

  “Hey.” He jumped up to help her to her seat, unsure what steps to take. Should he hug her? Smile? Make awkward small talk?

  Sarah scooted by him, making herself small in the narrow space and clutching her purse to her chest. She collapsed into the seat and buckled in. “I almost didn’t get on.”

  “Glad you did.” Understatement of the day.

  “I talked to Mia.”

  Alrighty, no small talk. Sarah was jumping in, and he could too. “Okay.”

  “I think…” She leaned over and tucked her bag under the seat and sat up, holding his gaze. She pushed her tiny shoulders back and raised her chin. “I have some traumatic stress issues to work out.”

  Now there’s a big revelation. He saw it often with victims Titan rescued, but he never stuck around for the aftershocks. Was never part of the process after Titan declared mission accomplished. What did he say to that light bulb? Whatever it was, he sure didn’t want another reaction like when he dropped honeymoon.

  “Okay,” he murmured. So much for jumping into a conversation when all he could manage was a stupid word.

  She didn’t seem to notice his limited vocabulary. “But there’s more than traumatic fallout to work through. If we can give our relationship another chance, then I want to work on other things as well.”

  Other things? Like what? She toyed with her bottom lip. It was a familiar hesitation. There was more to come. Not entirely sure he wanted to hear it though. Seriously, there were other things to work on? News flash to him and a knock to his ego.

  “I was happy, Brock. But I was complacent happy. Hot husband. Quiet life. No worries. But now I want more.”

  He stilled his head from a harsh welcome-to-reality shake, all shocked and defensive. She hadn’t been happy? What on earth was complacent happy? The flight attendant who’d offered him a soda then a bourbon tinkered nearby, and he could tell she was listening. This was a very private conversation, and it was about to happen in a very public place. The other passengers felt too close. Prying eyes and ears awaited his faults not just as a protector, now also as a husband.

  If Sarah could wait until they had the white noise of flying, that’d be his preference. His fingers wanted to tap, but his brain was pulling rank and telling him to shut up and listen. If Sarah would give him a chance, why risk losing it again? “More. Okay. You want more.”

  Her participation meant an interest in bringing his family home again. So he could man up and do more. He needed to know what more was, but he could do it. Weren’t too many things in life he couldn’t do. A little guidance would be necessary. More seemed vague. More was unexpected.

  His collar felt tight as he swallowed a lump of uncertainty. “I’m game. But…”

  “But what?” Her brown eyes narrowed.

  “I think better in terms of specifics. Strategic objectives. Tactical maneuvers.”

  A tiny, relieved smile upturned the corners of her lips. “You’re looking for a battle plan?”

  Now she was speaking his language. “Actually, I had a battle plan, angel. But more may’ve just thrown me.”

  “You show me yours; I’ll show you mine.”

  Every dirty thought he’d ever had about his wife came up in intense detail. Showing her goods wasn’t what Sarah meant, but she never had shied away from what she wanted. Right? After two kids and ten-plus years together, they didn’t have a problem in the bedroom. Still, it didn’t keep his imagination in check.

  “Brock?”

  Back to the more conversation. “Yeah?”

  “You got me on this plane, now what?”

  Sharing his battle plan with the enemy was a no-go. But she wasn’t the enemy. Sarah was the goal. Bringing her and the girls back home was his objective. All the details that went into his plan were mission critical. He’d need a little forgiveness and acceptance of his explanations. He agreed that she’d lobbed their marriage away because she was traumatized, not reacting clearly. Healing was needed. How upfront should he be with his tactical maneuvers?

  Decision made: tell her the end goal. “I don’t want to go home until I know we’re really going home. Together.”

  The captain came over the loudspeaker, announcing they were next in line for takeoff. Brock wasn’t used to the waits and delays of commercial flights. When Titan wanted to go somewhere, they’d go. If he wanted to go somewhere, he’d fly ’em. His hands itched for the control of the cockpit. In there, everything was measured and displayed. Every calculation scientific, a known reaction for every manipulation.

  Sarah looked out the window as they took off then back to him. “You’re assuming this will work?”

  Yeah. “Maybe the same way you’re not? I don’t fail, angel—”

  “You did.” The tart words flowed over her sweet lips as her eyes hardened. “And that’s why we’re here.”

  That stu
ng a dagger to the damn heart. He was shut down, nowhere to go, and wanted to scream, You’re alive, aren’t you? The kids are safe. I didn’t fail! A restless tightness in his chest itched to escape. He might’ve gotten her on the plane, but her tone said that was all he had.

  He and Sarah sat a million miles apart, climbing toward their cruising altitude. The therapist’s voice rang in his head. She’s been wounded. You’ve been unavailable. For everything that went wrong, you’re the scapegoat. Not that it’s right, but that’s probably the way she feels. You both need to heal, together. If that’s really what you want.

  It was what he wanted, and even though he didn’t believe he’d failed, Sarah thought so. Damn, he wasn’t used to failing in her eyes and certainly not getting called for it with such anger from his wife. He swallowed his pride, ignored the pressure in his chest, and let minutes pass.

  The cabin’s overhead lights dimmed, and after the flight attendant offered him another drink, he turned his attention to Sarah. “Tell me about more.”

  Her eyes bounced away from him, nervously avoiding him. She nodded and smoothed her hands over her pants. After a moment of rifling through her purse, she pulled out a purple fabric-covered book. “You have a battle plan. I have chicken scratch.”

  Handing it to him, her hesitancy was overpowering, and she waited, sitting still as a statue. The brightly colored suede cover showed cared-for wear, and his thumb toyed with the edges of thick paper. “What is this?”

  It looked special. Treasured, and he’d never seen it before.

  “Open it.”

  Butterflies swirled in his stomach at the secret in his hands. Since when did Sarah keep secrets from him? Probably since he’d been so open about why he’d had them live off the grid and hidden the details of what he did for a living.

  Or hell, had it not been a secret? Had he just not noticed?

  He opened past the first few pages, watching her expressive eyes watch him, then looked down.

  His breath caught in his chest. “This isn’t chicken scratch, angel.”

  He turned another page. More of the same. Page after page, he took in pencil-sketched scenes. Stars and mountains. Ocean waves breaking on a beachfront. Incredible detail, as if photographs had transfixed themselves from real life to sketch paper. Minute details. Powerful, purposeful smudges. Light, dark. Shading and space. It was raw, uninhibited talent.

  “You drew all these?”

  She nodded, a shy grin and a pink hue cast on her face.

  His wife was an artist? An extraordinary artist. And he hadn’t a clue. “I never knew.”

  She leaned back into her chair again, breathing out a sigh. “I know. I’ve kept a lot from you. Not intentionally.” She looked out the window again. “I shouldn’t have thrown that failure jab. Something clicks in my head, and I either shut down or lash out.”

  Classic PTSD. How much had she talked to Mia?

  Her forearm draped over the armrest, and he took her hand, smoothing his thumb over the ridges of her balled fist.

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  Her shoulders scrunched. “I always thought I was strong.”

  “You are.”

  Sarah shook her head and laughed sadly. “I’m not. Actually, I was up all last night writing down everything I should’ve told you. It’s toward the back of my sketch book. That’s the more. That’s what I want.”

  Her tight fist relaxed, but her fingers fidgeted in his hand while she shifted in her chair.

  He cleared his throat. “Look…” All this honesty bullshit burned like indigestion. Didn’t taste good coming up, and ignoring it didn’t help. “I thought I was strong too.”

  Brown eyes flashed to him, ready to lob an accusation. But nothing came. Progress?

  He continued, “I thought I was invincible. Could control the world. Guess when you can fly hot and fast, wire explosives to take out a cartel, you just assume you can save the girl. You were right, angel. I put you and the girls in danger. It killed me. Sliced my soul into pieces.”

  Saying it out loud hurt. Physically hurt. Stomachache. Throat ache. Headache.

  “Brock… I didn’t mean…”

  “Whatever you meant, that’s the truth.”

  Putting it out there, showing his ass to the universe, didn’t make the aches lessen. The jet engines droned. Heavy silence blanketed them.

  “Like I said, I was up all night.” She stifled a yawn. “I’m going to close my eyes. But you should read what I wrote. If you want to. Maybe you’ll want to write down some stuff too. It… was eye-opening.”

  Write down stuff? No, thank you. Jotting down the emo-explosion from within was a little too mamsy-pansy for him. If he did that, he’d have to queue up some new age music on his iPod and trade in his thick-as-mud black coffee for some feel-good herbal tea.

  What he wanted was for his woman to fall asleep against him. She could snooze, he could page through her notes, see what more was, and adjust his strategy as needed.

  Sarah pulled the center armrest up, and he lifted his arm for her to lean against him. But she didn’t. She leaned against the window, pulled the shade down over her shoulder, and tucked her feet in where the armrest had been. Balled up, she’d positioned the absolute farthest away she could’ve been without switching seats.

  Wrong again. His head dropped, and he ran a hand through his hair. Time to gather intelligence. The purple book held the answers.

  Skipping past pictures better suited for a gallery than a sketchbook, he found the first page of notes.

  My List of Secrets.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Brock started with the section Sarah had titled Secrets and ended with her bulleted Bucket List. No way was he writing down anything comparable. First, because his self-worth as a husband had drained down the shitter, and, second, because his thoughts were all shock ’n awed.

  Looking from the purple notebook to the sleeping beauty, he knew his eyebrows neared his hairline. Knew there was a perma-blush dyeing his cheeks. What he hadn’t known was his wife.

  As the jet descended, Sarah stirred. His heart clattered inside his chest. Not rhythmic. Definitely sporadic and panicked and turned-the-hell-on.

  She would ask if he’d read her notebook. He could lie and say no. He could combust and say yes. Or he could just look at her the way he knew he was looking at her now, and she wouldn’t have to ask the question.

  His skin was crawling, burning to touch her. Be with her. Make her read aloud everything she’d penned on paper.

  Fuck, man. He needed off this plane. Now.

  Wheels hit the ground, and Sarah’s eyes cracked open, locking on his. She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t have to. “You read it.”

  One short chop of his head issued a confirmation.

  “What’d you think?”

  He blew out a hard breath, feeling too confined by the seat belt and his pants. “That we’re not having this conversation in the front row of first class.”

  She giggled. Giggled. Her cheeks pinked, and goddamn, if this plane didn’t get to the gate and un-board them, he was going to pull the emergency hatch.

  Never. Again. Would he fly commercial. Never.

  Finally, the damn door opened, and he took Sarah by the hand. She said his name, probably grabbed her purse and that notebook. He never needed to read that notebook again, every word emblazoned on his memory.

  Focused solely on finding a private location, he marched them out. They were the first ones onto the runway, and he scanned the perimeter. Old habit, looking for potential threats, but right now, he mostly needed to find the quickest way inside.

  “Brock,” she called, keeping up with his quick pace. “Brock.”

  They reached inside; air conditioning bathed across his heated skin that had nothing to do with the tropics. He turned and raked a gaze over her body. Seclusion. Needed. Now.

  Nowhere met his criteria. Wasn’t there a flyer’s club? Meeting rooms? An isolated gate with rows of empt
y chairs was ahead. It’d be good enough until he regrouped.

  They reached the semi-insulated area, and he spun around to face the vixen he didn’t know as well as he should. Brown eyes flared; flecks of copper sparkled. Her face was so familiar but suddenly so different. Long eyelashes and a tiny, heart-shaped face peered up. Lips that she licked when she was nervous, licked when she was turned on. Lips that she licked right now.

  “Angel.” He inhaled through his nose, trying to slow his roll. Mauling her in an airport probably wasn’t high on her recover-rebuild list. His mind flashed back to her notes. Well, maybe it was. I want us to be more spontaneous. I want the superhero to come home and take me. Nothing to do with being his wife. Everything to do with uncontrollable testosterone.

  He treaded choppy water. One wrong move and it could all end with her jabbing her finger into his chest, reminding him how he’d let them down. “Sarah. You didn’t write down a lot about surviving an abduction. About feeling traumatized.”

  “Nope. I didn’t.”

  Her breasts were perked, the rise and fall of her chest mirroring his. They stood inches apart, and he came closer. Hands on her shoulders, sliding down her arms, anchoring on her waist. She didn’t flinch. No pulling away this time. “I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. Then you’ll peel out, leaving me with a hard-on in an airport. Alone.”

  “I’m barely listening to you now. Don’t worry about it.”

  Her honesty made him sway on his feet. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  “Good.”

  “Angel. Not what I expected.”

  She nodded. “Think that’s been the problem.”

  A growl rumbled in his chest. “I didn’t know there was a problem.”

  “Fine.” Her tongue wicked over her bottom lip again. “Wrong word.”

  “Tell me the right one.”

  “More,” she whispered, smooth as silk.

  Same word, better context. It made him growl, again. He didn’t ask. Wouldn’t hesitate. Not now. It’d been too long since he’d tasted her. Since he’d held her hungry little body against his.