Fallen Stars (Stone Bay Series Book 3)

Chapter 31

My knee bouncesas I sit on the edge of Oliver’s bed—our bed—and give myself a mental pep talk. So far, all it is doing is making me more antsy. No matter what I think or say or do, I can’t seem to sit still this morning.

And it pisses me off.

I rest my hands on the tops of my thighs and press down. “Just stop,” I mutter under my breath. Pinching my eyes closed, I will this ceaseless burst of energy into extinction.

As if my mind wants to torture me further, my knee bounces faster.

Just. Fucking. Stop.

I ease my eyes open, clamp my thighs just above the knees, and exhale my frustration.

Across the room, with the door open, Oliver drags a razor down the thick layer of shaving cream along his jaw. Every other stroke, he leans closer to the mirror and angles his chin down or up or off to the side. He appears so at ease—with himself, with me, with life.

I’d kill for a fraction of his tranquility.

Eyes fixed on his hands, his fingers, the way he shifts his lips as he shaves around them, a sense of calm soothes some of my fidgety nerves. Enough to make my foot settle and knee relax.

Oliver.He has always been a balm for my soul.

Needing further distraction from my restless thoughts, I rake my eyes down his body.

Towel hanging low on his hips, water drips from his curly hair and dots his chiseled chest. Corded muscles in his arms flex as he swipes the razor over his skin then waves it under running water. Setting the razor down, he wets a washcloth and rubs off any residual shaving cream.

Pivoting, he exits the bathroom, pads across the room, and goes to the small walk-in closet. Just before he steps inside, he tugs the towel free and flashes me his sculpted ass.

My skin heats at the sight. My cock twitches beneath my zipper. An undeniable hum courses through my veins.

Fuck, I want him.

So damn much.

But every time I attempt to do anything more than hold his hand or caress his cheek or lean into a side embrace, memories from then invade the present and I nosedive into a panic attack.

Almost four goddamn weeks of therapy and normal hugs still freak me out. I can barely touch Oliver or be touched by him without seeing the sadistic motherfuckers that came into my cell and violated me.

Why can’t I erase the nightmares from my mind? Why can’t I move forward and forget those horrific sixty days?

A hug. All I want is a hug from my boyfriend. Warm arms wrapped around my middle. Strong chest pressed to mine. Nose in the crook of my neck as he breathes me in. Undeniable love radiating between us.

I miss the feel of him in my arms. The way his body molds perfectly to mine every time. The way he knows exactly how to hold me in every moment. Gentle or strong or greedy.

I miss the taste of him on my tongue. The way every kiss with Oliver is as potent and heady and addictive as the first. His moans that tell me he needs more. His whimpers as I deepen the kiss and push us further.

I miss how everything clicks into place when we’re connected in every possible way. How the world completely disappears. How everything is perfect when he’s inside me, or I’m inside him.

Before that night, I miss the way we were before then.

The only way to get back there is to heal and resume life as it once was. Not fully. One manageable step at a time is how I rediscover normal and take back my life.

A little more than a week ago, I bolted from my parents’ house. Wandered the streets until I bumped into Oliver. Thought I was hallucinating when he called my name.

For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t seeing things. Thank god.

He brought me back to his apartment—our apartment—and made me feel safe. At home for the first time in weeks. With his hand in mine, he eased some of my burdens. Not expecting anything in return, he shouldered some of my weight. And after I cut myself open and spilled the atrocities of the last two months, he promised to help me find normal again. Together.

That night, I took my first step toward normal. I made my address the same as his. Again.

Today, the next big step is walking through the front door of TWSIS.

By no means am I ready to dive into work. But I do want to find a daily routine of sorts. Part of that routine includes easing back into a job I love—even if I’m only doing grunt work for months.

“Ready?” Oliver asks as he steps out of the closet in jeans, a Poke the Yolk T-shirt, and black Vans. A hoodie draped over his shoulder.

I love how Oliver doesn’t question my decision to go to work today. How he doesn’t try to steer me away from activities or places or people.

If anything, he supports my decisions. Even encourages them.

When I brought up work a few nights ago, Oliver told me Tymber comes into Poke the Yolk every morning, orders the same thing, then mentions how much he misses me in the office. Not my work. Not my financial worth to the company. Me.

His relayed message would’ve come across as endearing to some. For me, it said I was wanted. Necessary. That my absence didn’t go unnoticed. I am more than just some whiz behind a computer screen.

One simple message further solidified my resolve.

More than his support, I love that Oliver doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask what I will be doing in the office. He doesn’t sprinkle everything I want to do with doubt. He doesn’t suggest activities I dislike because they’re good for recovery.

Oliver trusts me to make the right decisions for myself.

And it’s his confidence in me that makes me love him even more.

“Mm-hmm.” I rise from the bed, grab one of his hoodies from the closet, tug it over my head and inhale deeply, then meet him at the door.

We jog down the stairs to his car and I scan our surroundings. He unlocks it with the fob as I round the hood for the passenger side, hop in, and lock the doors. As I click my seat belt in place, he cranks the engine and tugs on his hoodie. While we wait for the car to warm up, I connect my phone to the stereo and scroll through playlists.

Much to my dismay, it’s still recommended I don’t get behind the wheel.

Dr. Hampton says we’ll do a test drive in a week or two. But until she gives the all clear, my parents have hidden the keys to my car and bolted the garage.

On the upside, my replacement driver’s license, bank cards, and cell phone arrived at Oliver’s—our—place a few days ago. Although I don’t currently need any of them, holding those small plastic rectangles and having more accessibility to the world gives me a sense of normalcy and inclusivity.

I select a playlist I haven’t listened to in over a year, set my phone in my lap, melt into the seat, and let the music drown out my incessant thoughts.

Oliver reverses out of the driveway, shifts gears, then reaches across the console and takes my hand in his. The entire drive to Poke the Yolk, his thumb gently strokes the length of my knuckles and assuages my anxiety.

Dawn barely colors the sky as we exit the car and cross the lot for the employee entrance of the restaurant. Inside, Oliver peels off his hoodie, hangs it on a hook, then fetches an apron.

“Come on.” He tilts his head toward the open door separating the office from the kitchen.

I’ve been back here a couple times—weekend days when Oliver closed—but never when Max, one of the cooks, was on the clock.

“Morning, Max.”

Peeking over her shoulder, her brows tug together. She lifts her wrist, checks her watch, then narrows her eyes at Oliver. “You’re early.” Turning back to the griddle, she flips pancakes and eggs. “Should I get used to it?”

Oliver scoffs. “Not if you’re smart.”

She holds up a spatula. “Noted. Breakfast?”

“Please.” Oliver prattles off his order then looks to me. “Whatever you want. You can take it for later.”

Food has been a weird subject since my return.

Doctors talked with me at length on how to ease back into normal eating habits. They gave me a list of gentle foods—whatever the hell that means—and when I should introduce heavier items into my diet.

My parents hired a chef exclusively for me. They wanted to make sure the doctor’s list was strictly adhered to. If the list said vegetable soup for dinner five times a week, that’s what was delivered to my room.

I hated those damn food lists.

Oliver is oblivious to the doctor’s recommendations.

With the exception of the night of the Fall Fest, when he ordered pizza with my favorite toppings, he lets me choose what I eat. Most days, it’s Emina’s dishes for breakfast and Nero’s massive entrées for dinner. Belly ache be damned, I clear my plate during every meal.

“French toast, scrambled eggs, and turkey sausage.”

“On it.” Max holds up her spatula again, shaking it twice.

Oliver fills two mugs with coffee and we take a seat at the small table in the back. Kirsten enters the kitchen and chats with us for a moment. Like Oliver, she doesn’t ask how I am. Like me, she knows what it’s like to be under the microscope after a traumatic situation.

We eat breakfast in relative, comfortable silence. Oliver clears his plate, but I save a slice of French toast and sausage link for later.

With my leftovers in a box and a to-go cup filled with coffee, I squeeze Oliver’s hand and tell him I’ll see him when his shift ends. Wanting to avoid the town gossip mill, I exit through the back. Surveying my surroundings, I cross the lot and head for the street.

TWSIS doesn’t unlock its front door for another hour, but I spot Tymber’s car in the lot as I dash across Opal Trail.

The nervous energy I had an hour ago flares back to life. Only now, it’s accompanied by skepticism and insecurity.

Can I do this?

Can I walk back into TWSIS and not lose my shit?

Can I work there without reliving the horrors I unearthed while hunting for the person who eventually became my captor?

Will I ever be able to sit behind a computer screen again?

Will I be able to do what I love without constant flashbacks?

Only time will tell. But I pray I don’t lose another piece of myself to those assholes.

I take a seat across from Tymber on a couch in his office. “I have no expectations for my first day back.” Dropping my chin to my chest, I stare at my fumbling fingers a moment before I shove them beneath my thighs.

“This place is as much your baby as it is mine.”

The backs of my eyes sting as I meet his gaze. “Means a lot.” Nodding, I roll my lips between my teeth.

“Just glad you’re home.”

Home.

Yes, this place is as much my home as Oliver. Just a different type of home.

“Any idea what you want to do today?”

I shake my head. “Thought I’d loiter for a bit. See what calls to me.”

My gaze shifts to the cluster of screens over his desk and a torrent of anxiety swells beneath my diaphragm. I inhale a shaky breath and meet his tired eyes.

“It’ll be a while before I’m online again,” I admit.

“Not worried about it.” A strained smile curves the corners of his mouth. “With the big case closed, things are much quieter now.”

Unsure what to say, I take a sip of my coffee.

“The case files have been removed from your office.” He shrugs. “In case you’d like to go in there and clean.”

Maybe that’s what I need right now. To wipe the slate clean. Erase anything that may trigger my time away.

And I can start by scrubbing any evidence of that case from my office.

The paperwork may be gone, but the hours I spent at my desk, sifting through the darkest recesses of the world, poison the air and walls and furniture. Before I dive back into work, I need to eradicate the hell I brought to light.

“Five hours and this place is unrecognizable.” Tymber whistles as he glances around my office.

“Still have lots to do, but it’s a start.”

Moving closer to Tymber, I cross my arms over my chest and scan the room. Give today’s work a thorough once-over.

Compared to my previous setup, no one would think this is my office.

Which is exactly what I need.

Clean slate.

Tymber points to the desk in the middle of the room. “Don’t move that on your own, man.” He reaches behind himself and rubs a hand up and down his lower back. “Back pain isn’t just for old people.”

I want to laugh. I want to tease him and tell him he is old, even though five years is all that separates us in age.

But I do neither.

Instead, I blurt, “How did you figure out where I was?”

Beside me, Tymber stiffens.

The temperature in the room plummets.

The topic I’ve spent the better part of four weeks avoiding is thrust center stage, by me.

Tymber slowly turns to face me, his expression guarded. “Levi, I…” He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and squeezes. His gaze falls to the floor for one, two, three breaths before meeting mine again. “I’ll never keep shit from you.” Dropping his hand, he crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re like a brother.”

I wait for him to continue, but several minutes pass in silence.

“But…”

Something akin to familial love passes over his face. “I don’t want to be a source of pain.”

The back of my eyes sting. “Appreciate it.” I sniffle and swallow past the sudden swell of emotion. “But I need this.” I roll my eyes. “If therapy has taught me anything, it’s that I need to conquer my demons in order to heal and move forward.”

Tymber tips his head toward the couch and chairs shoved together. “We should sit down.”