Hot Shot (Hot as Puck Book 2)

17. Blake

Shouting wakes me from a deep sleep.

At first I’m confused. The room unfamiliar, the bed not mine…

But then my brain shakes the cobwebs of sleep loose and I remember.

I’m in Parry Sound.

With Bran.

“Laura.”

The cry has me throwing off the covers and launching out of bed. I know it’s Bran even though the voice doesn’t sound like his.

It’s hoarse, raw, muted.

But it has to be Bran. There’s no one else here.

Darting out of my room and into his, I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first.

He’s in bed, on his stomach across the middle of it, legs hanging off one side, arms reaching off the other.

“Laura!”

His arms stretch further, his fingers curl, release, curl, and his legs work like crazy. It’s weird but I think he’s trying to skate, trying to reach…

“Oh god.”

He’s having a nightmare about his daughter. Because this isn’t a dream. He’s not lost in some pleasant memory of his child. He’s locked in the agonizing loss of his little girl. Real or imagined, the result is the same.

His grief is tearing him apart while he sleeps.

“Bran!” I race around the bed and reach for his shoulder. Giving him a shake, I yell, “Bran!” again.

He jolts but goes right back to pumping his legs, trying to grab onto something with his hands.

“Laura!”

I give him another shake, harder this time, but he’s still trapped in the nightmare, his limbs still working, his breath huffing in and out of his lungs in harsh rasps. “Bran. Please. Wake up.”

I hate seeing him like this. Hate that I can’t help him, can’t take away the pain he’s obviously in. This time I grab his elbow, try to pull his arm down, but it’s no use. He’s too strong, too determined.

I’m just about to leave the room, pull an Oakley and dump a bucket of water over his head when he groans. The agony lacing the sound has my gut pinching, my heart stopping. There’s another pained moan before he goes perfectly still, then his whole body sags, goes limp on the bed.

I don’t know if the nightmare has let him go but I can’t stand to watch him flail through it again so I move closer, close enough I can grip his head, tip it up and press my lips to his brow.

“Branton. Wake up. You have to wake up.” My voice is a little above normal volume, my words stiff with command. “Wake. Up. Now.”

“She doesn’t belong to me anymore.” His murmured words have my heart sinking, my lungs squeezing.

“Oh, Bran.” I press a kiss to his skin. “I’m so sorry. So so sorry.”

“I have to let her go.”

My heart breaks for this man. I can’t imagine, don’t want to imagine, the agony of losing a child. Not in the circumstances Bran lost Laura. It was a tragedy and the fact it might have been avoided if he’d done anything different must weigh on him heavily.

It weighs on me and I’ve only just learned of what really happened.

What must it be like for him to live with that level of pain for years? Hell. He hasn’t been living.

Has barely accepted my appearance in his hidey-hole. I thought the last couple of days have been better. He seems lighter somehow. I don’t know if what I’m doing, pushing him to reclaim his life is the right thing. Maybe I should leave him be, let him find his way back on his own.

Except… I can’t leave him like this. Now that I know what he’s going through, what he’s been through, I can’t walk away.

Not like I did before.

And if I’d known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have walked then either. I would have continued to call him, send him messages. More than the ones I did send. On his birthday. At Christmas.

Smoothing my hands over his head, I urge him to roll over. He’s still asleep, muttering about letting Laura go, that he shouldn’t have kept her this long, and I ache because I don’t know what to do. How to help him.

Do I wake him up?

Do I leave him be now he’s not calling out and thrashing around?

Do I curl up beside him and offer comfort, warmth, my presence, as reassurance he isn’t alone?

With a sigh that seems to come from his toes, Bran rolls away, twists around, and reaches for a pillow. Pulling it beneath his head, he lets out another big breath and relaxes.

I watch him for a few minutes. Watch for signs the nightmare is back. Watch to see if his breathing is even. Watch because he’s changed so much and yet he’s still the same.

The same man I fell in love with. He’s just laced with scars, hidden beneath barriers of his own making. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to weather this with him.

I want to be.

I want to have a chance at the future we once talked about.

I want…

I want Branton Lattimer to be mine.