by Cecy Robson
I shudder. Today might have been something out of a bad dream for me. But for years, war had been his everyday nightmare.
Hale nudges me with his elbow. “Why don’t you check on him?” he says. “I’ll go around and make sure the team’s getting the stragglers off the beach.”
I pat his arm appreciatively. I didn’t realize how lost in my thoughts I was until Hale touched me. “Thanks, Hale.”
My feet kick back the moist sand as I ease down to Callahan’s side. He frowns when he sees me and wraps the large blanket folded at his side around me. It’s one of those we use for emergencies, I wonder briefly which guard he asked for it, but I’m so touched by the gesture, I don’t wonder for very long.
“You look cold,” he points out.
“I’m all right.” It’s what I claim, but when I feel the warm skin of his shoulder press against my cheek, I realize how chilled I am in these soaked clothes.
His hand skims down my arm and over the quickly forming goose bumps. The days have been so hot. But beneath the overcast sky, I feel that same bitter cold I felt when I went after that little boy. I saw him out there, but the current was taking him out to sea so fast, it took me a long time to catch him, and another few minutes to find him when the ocean dragged him under.
The sand was kicking up from the bottom, making it hard to see. But God led me to him, and gave me the strength I needed to get him to shore. He was there for us, all of us, helping us save everyone we needed to despite our low numbers.
“You followed me here,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
“I couldn’t stay in bed without you,” he says, his words warming me in a way this blanket never could.
He gathers my body around him, like I’m not soaked to the bone, and like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I also didn’t want to leave you out here on your own. If things got bad, I wanted to be around to help.”
The deep thrum in his voice causing me to melt further against him. “Thank you,” I tell him.
In the quiet that takes us in like the breeze skimming across the sand, I remember how it felt to lay against him all night. I draped my body against his. Not only because of my need to feel close to him, but because he seemed to drift away. I don’t want to admit how much he scared me, or how I worried he’d run out into night. But I can’t ignore what I saw, or pretend his reaction was no big deal.
“Last night was really hard on you,” I say, wondering if he can even hear me with how softly I speak.
“Yeah,” he offers, but not much more.
“Is it always that bad around fireworks?” I press.
“Don’t know,” he says, appearing to hesitate to even answer that much.
I feel him trying to put some space between us, so when he rests his cheek against my head, I’m grateful for the closeness it seems to bring us.
“It’s the first time I’ve heard any real explosions since I’ve been back,” he admits, the roughness in his voice and his sudden response taking me by surprise. “I don’t think they would have been as bad, but things have gotten worse for me since learning Billy died.” He huffs. “For all I know, maybe it still would have been bad, even if nothing had happened to Billy.”
“Have you been to counseling?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I tried it, briefly. But I couldn’t keep going. I wasn’t ready to talk—to put it all out there. All I wanted to do was to forget.”
“But you haven’t forgotten,” I say carefully.
“No. You don’t forget things I’ve seen,” he says. “Those memories etch into your bones and become a part of you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing I could say something better.
My arms fasten around his waist. I want to take away some of that pain and ease his suffering. But I know I can’t, so I wait, resting my head against his chest. It’s my way of reminding him he’s not alone, and maybe to remind myself he’s also with me.
He pauses then angles his head, examining me closer. “You all right?”
I nod quickly, but then pull up the edge of the towel to cover my face when a lump claims my throat and my eyes burn with impending tears. Callahan draws me closer, speaking low against my ear.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. When I don’t answer he says, “Tell me why you’re crying, baby.”
Something about the way he calls me “baby” is so comforting that after a moment, I’m able to reign in my emotions to some respectable degree. But I’ll admit, some of that fear I felt escapes my eyes and trails down my cheeks.
I use the towel to wipe my face and sniffle. Crying is not something I do often. But when it happens, it’s like my soul is bleeding tears. I don’t like this feeling, and every last emotion that comes with it, and I especially don’t like it now. Everyone’s okay, I remind myself. Everyone.
It’s not the first time I’ve had a post-rescue breakdown. But the situation today, coupled with the night I spent with Callahan makes my fears more brutal and raw. I think it’s because my vulnerability appears to dismantle more in his presence. It’s not a bad thing, I reason. It’s simply the way he affects me. Everything around him—all these emotions—be it sadness or joy I feel to the extreme when he’s near. Yet I wouldn’t want it any other way.
With Callahan with me, my world is simply better.
Feather-like kisses sweep along my temple. “I don’t like to see you cry,” he tells me.
“Sorry, but I’m not always as happy as people think,” I confess. “And sometimes, I really get sad.”
He waits for me to say more, and I don’t disappoint him. “I don’t have to tell you that there’s a lot bad in the world,” I begin. “Through actions of others, or sometimes, like today because of chance. I’ve had a lot of good, and smiles, and have laughed more times than I’ve cried. But some people haven’t been as blessed.” My gaze falls to my feet where my toes are digging into the sand. “I can’t explain it, but when I see others hurting, it breaks my heart.”
“I think I understand,” he says.
Maybe he does.
He smiles softly in the quiet that follows, only to ultimately close his eyes and take a breath. When he opens his eyes again, I watch his stare grow distant. He’s no longer with me, not fully. He’s remembering, be it because of what he saw here today, or everything he’s experienced over these last few days.
Watching the way he withdraws, destroys me. Yet there’s nothing I can do right now to help him.
I kiss him briefly, wanting my lips to linger, but knowing that now isn’t the time. “I still have to finish up here,” I tell him. “Why don’t you head back to your place? I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”
He nods and doesn’t argue, which pains my insides even more. I still don’t know Callahan well. What I do know is how much I want to.
And how fast I’m falling in love with him.
I remain at the beach a lot longer than I intend. By the time I pull into Callahan’s gravel driveway and skid to a stop, it’s almost dark. I don’t mean to run, but I do, anxious to reach him.
The house is dark when I hurry in, exactly like it was the previous the night. This time, instead of that horrible silence I encountered yesterday evening, the sound of pouring rain blasts from his bedroom. He’s listening to the CD I purchased him, even though there’s no noise in the distance. I don’t know what he’s doing, I only hope that it’s helping.
“Callahan?”
I stop short when I find him sprawled across his large bed. His arm is draped over his face and the opened container of earplugs is on the nightstand to his right. I don’t think he can see or hear me, but somehow, he realizes I’m there.
He drops his arm away and sits up, his eyelids heavy from more than just the lack of sleep. Callahan is a man exhausted by life and all he’s endured in its grip. I sit beside him and pass my hand along his bare chest.
“Hi,” I whisper.
My voice is so low, I’m not sure he can hear me with all the whit
e noise despite that I notice he’s not using the earplugs I’d brought him.
He brushes my hair from my shoulders. “Hey,” he says back.
“Did you have dinner?” I ask.
“No,” he replies. “It’s been a bad night.”
Because of those awful memories, he doesn’t add. “Are you hungry?” I ask.
He nods, and rubs his face, searching for something to say. But he’s already shown me enough.
I lean in, offering him a brief kiss. “I’ll make you something to eat. Why don’t you lie back and try to relax?”
When he doesn’t move, I press my hand against his shoulder. He clasps it, his face on mine as I edge him down to the mattress.
The way he holds my hand against his shoulder, I think he means for me to join him. But then it slips away. I watch him as I back away. Something in his leaden stare telling me that despite the white noise CD, the voices of his demons continue to whisper.
I head into the kitchen and wash my hands, then fish around for something to make him. I settle on grilled cheese and tomato soup given that it’s fast and easy to prepare. It's cold in the house with the A.C. blasting, but I think the hum from the motor is the reason it’s on so high.
I make several sandwiches and cut them up into tiny triangles that he can dip into the soup. It’s not much of a meal, but we both need to eat, and I need to get back to him.
When I make it back to his room, he’s covering his eyes again, but appears more restless, clenching and unclenching his fists like he’s raring for a fight. I reach to stroke his foot so he knows I’m back, but end up startling him instead. He jolts and kicks out, striking my packed tray.
The soup sloshes against the sides of the bowls. I barely keep everything from spilling. He hurries to his feet, trying to help me steady the tray.
“Sorry,” he says.
He’s breathing fast. It’s not as bad as last night, but it’s far from the slow methodical breaths he usually takes. It scares me. He scares me. I don’t want him to fall back into that darkness I found him in―that terrible place where he sees his friends dying around him.
I place the tray on the dresser and face him, his hands gripping my hips when mine glide along his chest. My stare latches onto his. But the way he takes me in, I’m no longer certain that panic and trauma are what’s escalating his breathing.
My focus trails along every inch of his form. A small scar mars the spot below his right nipple. I’m not sure if it’s an old wound from Iraq or something from childhood. Right then, I don’t care and bend to trace it with my tongue.
His breath catches. In my exploration I see another scar. This one’s thinner, longer. It must have been painful, whatever caused it, but it doesn’t detract from his beauty nor does it discourage me from tasting it. My tongue continues to discover him, going down until I’m almost to his belly button.
Callahan’s hands slide along my curving spine, stopping where my T-shirt has ridden up to rest against my lower back. When his fingers skim the edge, I’m certain he means to pull it over my head, and strip me out of it. As scared as I am, I won’t stop him. I want to lie naked beneath him and have him push inside of me. Just like I want his hips to pound and grind with each thrust.
The thought of him pumping into me makes me dizzy with desire and sends chills streaking down my limbs. Is it normal to be drawn to someone so sexually? I’m not sure, but I don’t care. All I know is that I need him.
No one’s ever evoked such primal need like Callahan. I envision myself spreading my legs for him, him sliding in, and working me until I cry out with pleasure . . . just as I did this morning when he roused an orgasm with his long, thick fingers.
I continue to kiss the planes of his hard stomach. I’m past his navel, and want to go lower. Yet instead of freeing me of my shirt, he clasps my elbows and guides me to him, stamping his lips on mine.
His kiss is desperate and needy, the kiss of a man who’s dying and wants to be saved. I return his affection, circling his neck—wanting to be the one to spare him from his pain and lure him away from his past. With the weight of my body, I press against him, falling with him and onto the bed. I lift off enough just to rid myself of my shirt. But when I dip my head to renew our kiss, he turns his head away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, panting softly.
He doesn’t answer. I stroke his soft hair, letting my fingertips skim down to his beard, hoping to speak to him with my touch.
Instead of allowing me to soothe him, he rams his eyes shut. The movements of his chest so pronounced, they lift me with him.
“Callahan,” I say. “Please talk to me.”
Slowly he turns to face me, the fire lighting his irises so intense, my hand freezes in place. “I want to make love to you,” he rasps. “All night if you let me.”
I nod, barely able to control myself. “It’s what I want, too.”
I bend forward to kiss him, only to have him jerk his chin away from me. I don’t understand what he’s doing, or why he appears so torn. Can’t he see how bad I need him?
He shakes his head, clenching his jaw tight as he speaks. “Not like this, Trin. Not the way I am.”
I try to reach for him only to pull away before my skin makes contact, my hand shaking with how much I desire him.
Callahan grasps my fingers, bringing them to him, his eyes closing as he runs his cheek along my knuckles. “I want you so bad,” he breaths against my skin. “And I want it to be good. Right now, I’m not okay. Do you understand?”
I don’t answer because I know how bad he hurts. Yet that doesn’t stop me from wanting to give him pleasure. It’s what his body demands of me, and the one thing I can do to make him feel better . . . if he’ll just let me.
“Trin,” he groans. “Don’t cry, baby.”
I don’t realize that I am until the first tear escapes. He sits us up, carefully holding my face as he presses small kisses to my eyes, the tip of my nose, and lips. “Let me get through tonight, and the next time we’re alone, I’ll prove to you just how bad I want you . . .”
Chapter Sixteen
Callahan
I wake sometime around ten. My first instinct is to reach for Trin. But she’s not here. My bed feels strangely barren without her. I rub my eyes, but then drop my hand irritably against the mattress.
Once again I’m in my self-imposed isolation. But that sweet little thing has more than proven it’s no longer where I want to be.
Annoyed and pissed at myself, I shift out of bed. The more I think about last night, the more my fury builds. I hate how there are days where I think I’m all right. Not great, but functioning and doing well enough. But then that darkness creeps up on me, reminding me it’s still there and threatening to kill me where I stand. Maybe it was Billy’s death that started it all. Or maybe it was fireworks. Whatever it is, I’m tired of it.
I’m so screwed in the head I couldn’t give Trin the one thing she wanted. Hell, the one thing we both wanted.
The last thing I remember was holding her close as I did my best not to remember. Despite the CD she’d brought me, nothing could drown out the explosions ingrained in my memories. They banged around my skull like falling bowling balls, keeping me from touching her like I wanted to.
The blasts I heard were reminiscent of the day that missile struck the Range Rover Billy was in. The damn thing detonated right in front us. If it hadn’t been for Darton at the wheel of our vehicle, we would’ve hit our fellow Rangers head on and joined them in the afterlife.
Darton maneuvered our SUV behind a crumpled old structure, shielding us from incoming fire. We split up, hitting the ground running. Some ran to pull Billy out and sort through the unmoving bodies trapped inside. The rest of us were supposed to cover them. Instead we lost our shit. We didn’t fire, we didn’t cover. What we did was shoot anyone stupid enough to cross us.
I killed eleven men in under thirty minutes. One after the other like some kind of twisted carnival game I couldn’t
possibly win, but continued to play. Nothing stood in my way. No mercy, no conscious, nothing.
I aimed. I fired. I sent those bastards straight to hell. And considering what I did, and how I did it, I know one day I’ll meet them there.
I lean against the dresser and grind my teeth. Last night was four kinds of fucked up. A mix of beauty and ugly. Peace and violence.
Trin stood before me, her body pure and untouched by the trials and vices of life. But I couldn’t taint her with the sin I’d committed and was reliving. I didn’t want to see her perfect face, while the imperfections of my life poked at my soul and reminded me of the deeds I’d done. And I didn’t want to touch her with those same hands that aimed that rifle and took all those lives.
Not then.
She cried, like she thought I didn’t want her. But she’s all I ever wanted, even though I never knew it.
I flop back down on the bed and adjust the pillow behind my head. Despite our rough night, I can’t help laughing when I think about how she used to bug the ever lovin’ shit out of me. And how the day she first ran with me on the beach, I actually tried to run away from her.
My smile vanishes. Now all I want to do is run to her, lift her in my arms, and not think about ever letting go. When she’s not with me, it’s like something important is missing from my life, like air―no, not air, more like sunshine. She’s my brightness, my light, even though I never intended her to be.
I tuck my hands behind my head, staring at the silver ceiling fan I installed the previous week. I’m not sure what’s happening between me and Trin. I just know it extends past the way we’ve kissed and touched. While I wasn’t prepared to feel what I’m feeling, or how quickly it’s happened, I can’t deny what this woman means to me.
Christ. Whatever this thing is that Trin and I have, it’s serious. I may not have wanted it, looked for it, and tried to shove it away. But it’s definitely something I don’t want to be without.
And I plan to show her tonight.
“Here you go, Mr. Perrington.” I slide the crazy old coot his shot of Captain Morgan so he can take his “vitamin” as he calls it.