Chapter 21
21
CAS
T hrough the smoke, I monitored the black SUV as it turned into the drive and parked. At my side, Benny growled at the newcomer and looked up for instruction.
Damn, best dog ever.
His coarse hair tickled my palm as I patted his head to ease his concern. The second Peters came into view, Benny’s tail twitched along the porch in excitement. I took the last hit off the cigarette and tossed the butt in the makeshift ashtray Alta set out. That woman was serious about litter.
I suppressed the smile that wanted to emerge at just the thought of her.
“She asleep?” Chandler asked as he stomped up the steps.
“Yes.”
“You tuck her in all nice and tight in there?” With a smirk, he nodded to the cabin. “Or is that my job tonight?”
“She’s in her room, yes,” I grumbled around the new cigarette between my lips as I lit the end.
“You wore her the fuck out, didn’t you? You bastard, I told you to take it slow with her. Bet she won’t be able to walk for a fucking week.”
I turned my steely eyes to him. “Watch it.”
Palms up in mock surrender, he stepped out of my swinging reach. “You getting riled up all over a woman?”
Instead of admitting he was spot-on, I leaned a shoulder against the post, placing my back to him.
“Never thought I’d see the day. Knew something would end up happening between you two. Fucking knew it.”
“Enough,” I demanded. He acted like it was national fucking news. Yes, this was the first time, maybe ever, that I had even a glimmer of emotions over someone. Even in the marines, the boys always counted on my ability to stay detached, emotionless and focused on the facts.
“Wow,” Chandler said with an exaggerated sigh. “Anything happen tonight after I left that I should know about?”
I shook my head and took another deep inhale, enjoying the way the smoke burned my lungs. “We went out for dinner because she had shit to eat here. Don’t worry, we stopped by the store on our way back, so there’s food in there now.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How was dinner?”
I shrugged, not understanding where he was going with his question. “Fine. We mostly talked about the case. We both agreed that something else seems to be going on with this guy. Why switch up the type of women he targeted from ‘married to meatheads’ to ‘single and working for the park’?”
“So all business, then,” Peters sighed and leaned back against a post. “Sounds like some date. You don’t get out much, do you? Need some pointers?”
“Fuck off.”
“All I’m saying is she seems like a nice kid, and you’re a little”—he angled his head one way and then tilted it the other, like he was getting a good look—“rough around the edges. Maybe you should, I don’t know, shave. And how about wearing clothes other than a black T–shirt or something with ‘marines’ stamped across it?”
“I know how to fucking date,” I grumbled, even though he had me doubting myself at that point. “Lay off my ass, okay? She’s fine, and I’m fine.”
“Just trying to help a friend out. You respond to her, which is a fucking miracle. Don’t want to see you fuck it up before we head home.”
“Keys.” After catching them midflight, I flipped him the bird and strode to the SUV. Peters had made it halfway through the door when I called out, making him pause. “Don’t fucking touch her, you hear me.” I started to climb in but stopped. “And don’t go telling all our shit tomorrow morning. No one else needs that stuff in their heads.” I cranked the engine and backed out. “I sure as hell don’t want it,” I muttered to myself.
Yes, I was still an emotionless shell of a person, but since leaving the Marines, I was wound tighter now than ever before. The lack of purpose, something to be responsible for in the civilian life, kept me on edge on a daily basis. Sure, I had a job to do, and I did it well, but what could I do with the other hours in the day? Since the demotion, all I did was sit at home, sulking and drinking until liver failure was imminent. I didn’t have friends, didn’t date; most of my time was spent alone, trying to forget. But with her, the emotions she evoked, I had purpose. She needed me, and I needed her.
This unknown side of me, the possessiveness and all-consuming desire for only her, was fucking terrifying and freeing at the same time. What I told her earlier was true. I’d never had anything of my own, nothing to form an emotional connection to; then she walked into my life, cracking the emotionless cage that held me hostage for so long wide open.
Utterly exhausted, I unlocked the cabin door, stumbled to the living room and fell face first onto the couch, still fully dressed. Thumbs shoved against my temples, I massaged in small circles, trying to ease my headache as I toed off my boots, letting them clatter to the floor.
My mind raced with thoughts of Alta and the case. Something was going on behind the scenes, something we hadn’t figured out yet. Every lead led to a dead end. Which left Alta vulnerable and me on edge, because the one place I wanted to be right now was with her, protecting her, but I couldn’t.
No way would I endanger her life so I could be there tonight. Peters was a good guy and a hell of a marine. He would take care of her.
But what rubbed was he wasn’t me.
After several minutes of talking in circles, my lids grew heavy. Not bothering with stumbling to my room, I stretched out on the couch, grabbed a spare pillow and gave in to the pull of sleep.
Somewhere in the fog of deep sleep, the sound of glass shattering urged me awake. Still, the nightmare held me hostage until slicing pain pulled me awake. Disoriented, I blinked the early morning fuzziness away and shook my head to aid in bringing me back to reality. Streams of sweat trickled down my temples, between my bare pecs and back.
Damn. I went to bed fully clothed, and now here I stood in the middle of the kitchen in nothing but black boxer briefs.
I lifted my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead before it dripped into my eyes when a searing throb of pain drew my focus down. Blood dripped from the tips of my fingers in steady drops, pooling on the laminate kitchen floor. Brightness assaulted my unprepared eyes after switching the overhead light on to inspect my hand.
Fine lacerations sliced through the skin of my right hand with several deeper, wider ones scattered in no apparent order. Flexing and tightening my fingers into a fist, I ground my teeth to hold back a cry of pain, but the mobility did mean nothing important was cut or damaged. I hoped.
Reaching into a drawer, I yanked out a clean towel and carefully wrapped the injured hand to stop the blood from making more of a mess. After tying another towel tight around my wrist to staunch the flow of blood, I shifted to the sink to clean up. Something sharp bit into the sole of my bare foot.
Glass littered the floor, along with several knives and the knife drawer, which had been ripped from the cabinet and now lay in splinters amongst the glass. Squatting where I stood, I inspected the various knives until I located one with a bloody handprint along the hilt.
What the hell did I dream about?
Standing with a groan, I turned to the microwave to check the time.
“Well fuck,” I gritted out. The microwave hung precariously by bolts that held it in place. The front had splintered, with a massive hole in the middle like someone had beaten it repeatedly with something hard.
Like a fist.
My fist.
Turning toward the living room, I found a trail of clothes leading to the kitchen.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I yelled at the top of my lungs in utter frustration.
It wasn’t the first time I’d attempted to attack my reflection. Back in DC, mirrors were constantly shattered in my small apartment, windows punched out, and now it seemed I’d been reduced to beating the shit out of even a blurred image of myself in a microwave door.
Wonderful.
So fucking wonderful.
That was why I couldn’t be around her. Why I’d needed to be alone. Who’d want someone who might beat them to death in their sleep and have absolutely no recollection of it? The answer was no one.
It didn’t happen every night, just during periods of high stress. I stared down at the blood-soaked towel. This was my reality. I was fucked in the head. I had enough control when I was awake to manage it, but, when asleep all bets were off.
The sleeping issues didn’t start in the marines. It probably stemmed from my love-lacking childhood. I never knew if I’d be yanked from bed by another foster kid who proceeded to whip my ass. Or sometimes the adults looking after me decided nighttime was the best time to treat you like the disposable human punching bag you were. Or it could also be from always being on edge at school, because yet again, threats lurked everywhere; people loved to gang up on the poor, shittily dressed, and most of the time reeking of body odor kid. Whatever started it, it only escalated in the corps and turned into what it was now after the standoff three years ago.
We fought for our lives every fucking second during those thirty days. The little sleep our bodies forced us to take was filled with gunshots in the background and true, unfiltered terror coursing through our veins. After I made it home and saw the shrinks the military required, it was clear—to them anyway, not me—that I wasn’t fit to continue serving my country. Which was another blow. I always imagined being a lifer with the marines; they were the only family I ever knew. Then they were gone, leaving me fucked and alone.
Alone.
I’d always been alone. But after meeting her, the thought of spending the rest of my life that way seemed pitiful. She changed me, changed my outlook, but that didn’t mean it would change the outcome.
Outside of the closest pharmacy to the cabin, I dumped the bandages, gauze, and antibiotic ointment I purchased onto the passenger seat. At least the worst part was over. Before I left, I painfully removed every sliver of glass embedded in my skin before running out for supplies. Only a few of the gashes looked deep enough to require stitches—like that was going to happen. Instead of waiting at an emergency clinic all day, I drew the separated sides of skin tight together and stuck several butterfly Band-Aids along the cut. I had more important things to do than wait on some doctor who’d ask too many questions.
Twenty minutes later, I had it tightly bound, but loose enough to have full mobility, and pulled the SUV onto the main highway toward the cabin community we shared.
Damn, I was so fucking ready to see her.
And not to have sex, which was a first. No, I just wanted to see her, talk to her, make sure she was safe. Hell, we didn’t even have to speak; just being in the same room with her lifted the weight of loneliness from my chest.
That morning, standing in the middle of the damaged kitchen, nearly naked with a fucked-up hand, you’d think I’d feel embarrassed, but I wasn’t. No, I felt achingly alone. More alone than I ever had been. Maybe because I wanted to be with her, but my fucked-up head prevented me from doing so.
And I hated it.
Ten minutes later, I skidded to a halt in front of her cabin. After three calming deep breaths in and out, I shoved the driver door open wide and climbed out. There was nothing to be nervous about, but then again there was. I didn’t give two thoughts to her panic attack yesterday, but sometimes women were funky about stuff like that, getting all embarrassed and then shutting down. Hopefully Alta was different.
At the front door, I raised my fist to knock, but loud voices and cackles of laughter stilled my hand. Whatever they were doing inside, it sounded like they were having a good time. At eight in the fucking morning.
The door rattled beneath my fist.
One second, I waited.
Two seconds.
I pounded against the door again.
A click, then another and another before the door swung open. Peters stood in the doorway, the door open only wide enough for his body to block the rest of the cabin from view, with a devilish grin. “Oh hey. Was wondering when you’d finally decide to wake up.”
A blip of uncertainty that I hadn’t felt since high school had me tucking my injured hand behind my back. What in the hell were they doing in there?
“Move,” I grunted as I dug a shoulder into his bare chest. I took everything in at once, but peace settled my raging thoughts the second my eyes landed on her. Sitting on the couch, feet tucked under her and wearing the marines sweatshirt I lent her the day before. I smirked.
“Hey,” Alta said with a smile while twirling the end of her ponytail between her fingers. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming back.”
“It’s eight in the morning, you two, not noon,” I grumbled, leaning against the counter so I could keep an eye on her and one on him.
“We’ve been up since five,” Peters said as he walked by. Plopping on the couch beside her, he leaned back and laid his head next to her thighs.
I bit back the swarm of pain that pulsed from my injured hand as my fists clenched in fury. Too close. Way to close to my Lady.
“We’ve been on a run, had breakfast, fed the dog.” Peters rolled his head to look up at Alta. “Okay, new category. Ladies choice.”
Eyes to the ceiling like she was deep in thought, Alta gnawed on the side of her thumb. “Animals,” she said, smiling.
“Fine. Is it a mammal?”
“Yes.”
“Does it run on four legs?”
“No,” Alta giggled.
What game were they even playing?
“Does it fly?”
“No.”
“Does it hop?”
“Yes,” Alta groaned and thumped her head against the back of the couch.
“I’m telling you, Birdie, I’m the best at this game. Doesn’t help that you tell the world what you’re thinking through those beautiful eyes of yours.” Peters shot a look across the room that told me he knew everything that went down yesterday between her and me. “You don’t hide your emotions well. You’re thinking of a kangaroo.”
“Unbelievable. You’re ten for ten,” Alta grumbled, clearly unhappy that he guessed correctly. “Let's play a new game. One I can win.”
“No,” I stated and stepped into the middle of the living room. “His shift’s up. Time to go, fucker.”
Peters nestled into the worn couch. “I’m quite comfortable, actually. Birdie here is quite the host, even though you said otherwise.”
“Hey,” Alta exclaimed, looking hurt.
“I didn’t say—” I rubbed my hand down my face in frustration, but the second the smooth cotton bandages slid down my forehead, I jerked it down.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked, more concern than hurt in her tone now. Unfolding herself from the couch, Alta tiptoed on bare feet to where I stood and tugged my injured hand from behind my back.
“Nothing. It’s fine.” Jerking it from her delicate grasp, I glared at Peters, who remained on the couch, grinning. “Get the fuck out now. Don’t you have a case or something to work on?” I arched a dark brow in challenge.
“Yes, but I’ll be back later to talk through some of the information that came through overnight.” With a groan, he pushed off the cushions and stretched his arms overhead, causing his muscles to ripple every which direction. At my annoyed grunt, his smile grew wider. At the door, he slipped a shirt from his bag and zipped up the army-green duffel. “I’ll text you before I head over in case you’re… you know, otherwise indisposed.”
The moment the door swung open, I shoved my good hand into his upper back, propelling him forward and out of the cabin. The wooden door slammed shut before he was off the porch.
“Did he hit on you?” I asked Alta while staring at the door.
“Seriously?” Even though I couldn’t see her face, there was a hint of amusement in her tone.
“Did he or didn’t he? If he did, then I’m going back out there and kicking his ass until he can’t fucking walk.” Turning, I strode toward her. Eyes wide, she stood her ground as I stalked closer. Good hand cupping her cheek, I pulled her lower lip down with the pad of my thumb. “Or maybe it’s you who needs a reminder of whose you are.”
Her jaw popped open with a gasp, allowing me the opportunity to swoop down and claim her beautiful mouth.