7. CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
These last two weeks have been incredibly hot. I’m spending every night in the arms of a man whose rock-hard body fits like a puzzle piece against mine, a man who’s gorgeous and sexy and the best kisser I’ve ever known. Just thinking about him makes my mouth water and my panties grow damp.
I’m glad Mark is a pillar of control, because I’m the farthest thing from that, at least where he’s concerned.
My newfound sexual desires leave me wanting much more than is prudent, and I keep finding myself wordlessly encouraging him to go further. Putting his hands beneath the hem of my shirt. Wrapping my legs around him when we make out. Rubbing my core against him.
When I get carried away, Mark always manages to dial down the intensity in a way that makes me feel respected, not rejected. Maybe it’s because I can feel the evidence of his own arousal, and I know he’s consciously choosing not to do something we haven’t discussed and might end up regretting. I have to admit, though, I’m toying with the idea of talking to him about advancing our physical relationship beyond kissing.
I arrive early at the clinic one morning and find all the lights already on. I follow the sound of sniffles. Lila’s in her office, red-eyed and clearly miserable, surrounded by a pile of crumpled tissues. I rush to her side. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She shakes her head, waving me off. “I’m fine.”
I perch on the edge of her desk. “Try again.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Third time’s a charm.” I meet her eyes steadily. She remains silent, staring off into space. “I know where you live, and I’m not leaving, so you might as well talk.”
She draws a ragged breath. “I got my period again.”
Damn. I reach for her hand. “I’m sorry, Lila.”
She shakes her head. “I was so sure this time would be different. I just… I don’t know. Maybe it’s not meant to be.”
“Make an appointment with your gynecologist. I’ll go with you if you want,” I offer.
She shrugs. “I’m starting to think maybe motherhood isn’t in the cards for me.”
“Don’t say that. You guys have only been trying for what – seven months? It hasn’t even been a year. Seriously, make an appointment. I’ll come along. We can make a day of it.”
A faint smile crosses her face. “My feet up in stirrups, followed by margaritas. Sounds like a winner.”
I grin. “We could always have the margaritas first.”
She does smile then, before sweeping the tissues off her desk and into the trash can. “Enough about me. How are you and Mark?”
I feel a stupid smile crawl across my face. “Amazing,” I admit. “It’s like nothing I could ever have expected. He’s just – he’s amazing,” I repeat.
Lila studies me carefully. “Be careful, Charlie. You need to take things slowly.”
Her remark puzzles me. “I am. This is just – you know, casual.”
Her violet gaze pins me. “I don’t think you can do casual with Mark. It’ll be too easy for you to fall for him.” She bites her lip. “I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I’m keeping my heart out of this.”
She doesn’t say anything, but her skeptical look speaks volumes.
A funk falls over me as the day wears on. It’s only after I’m home alone, with Mark and Tucker at a sports bar, that I realize what’s lingering in the back of my mind, troubling me.
Lila’s worried motherhood isn’t in the cards for her.
She still has a chance, though.
I don’t.
It’s not in the cards for me at all. Those fuckers made sure of that.
It wasn’t even that I’d necessarily wanted children. Honestly, I’d never given it much thought. I joined the military after my parents died at the end of my first year of college. I was medically discharged from the Army after the kidnapping, and by then, all possibility of motherhood had been ripped away.
I had an epiphany just after the first of this year. I realized – while standing in Maya’s kitchen, hugging her – that I’d give anything to settle down with an incredible man and have kids and dogs and cats and all the beautifully messy chaos that comes with a family.
But that’s not possible.
Not for me.
A deep, intense loss for things I never had and never will have drowns me in a flood of pain.
I work my way through an entire bottle of wine, staring at the flames dancing in my gas fireplace despite the summer heat. I’m still in the same spot on the couch when Mark comes home to find me tearstained and more than a little drunk.
“Baby Girl? What’s wrong?” Worried blue eyes search my face as he pulls me into his arms.
But I can’t tell him. I can’t explain why I’m devastated even though nothing happened today. Nothing’s actually changed. This has been my reality for the past four years. I just don’t let myself think about it, because it hurts too much.
Which is why I need a distraction.
I kiss him instead of answering, converting my pain to passion. Before I realize it, I’m straddling him, pressing my breasts into his chest, gripping his shoulders and arching into him. My mouth slants over his again and again, kissing him deeply, trying to numb my pain with physical pleasure. He groans deep in his throat as I grind against the erection pressing into my inner thigh. His hands spear my hair, holding my head, pulling his lips away and leaning his forehead against mine.
“Easy, Baby Girl,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want easy,” I protest, seeking his mouth again. He kisses me, but he’s gentle.
“Twenty-four hours,” he says, his lips on mine. “Give us twenty-four hours to think this over. No more hasty decisions. You’re too important to me for us to screw things up with something we’ll regret later. Besides, I won’t take things further when you’re drunk and upset. Whatever happens between us needs to be for the right reasons.”
Even in my state of mind, I know he’s right. I crawl off his lap and curl up in a miserable ball on the couch. “Come on, Baby Girl,” he says gently, tugging at a lock of my hair. He pulls my hand until I stand, leading me to the bedroom. He turns down the covers, nestles me into his chest, and holds me until I cry myself to sleep.
For the first time in weeks, I awaken in a panic with night terrors.
It plagues me all day. The telltale bloody stain. The proof of my failure.
Charlie considers herself broken, but the truth is, things are pretty messed up here, too.
Maybe I’m not meant to be a mother. Maybe I’ve lost that chance forever. Charlie did. Why should I be any different? I don’t deserve anything better. If anything, she deserves motherhood more than I do, because those bastards did horrible things to her that they never did to me.
What they did to me was bad enough, though.
After I killed the first man that tried to force me – a feat that still fills me with pride, given his size advantage – they shackled me so I couldn’t fight. They chained me to a table edged with iron rings, its wood stained black with old blood. My arm restraints were looped through the rings, my legs chained to the table legs. I was face down, spreadeagle, nude from the waist down.
Even then, they never came to my cell alone, not after I left the first man drowning in a pool of his own blood. They came in groups, each one taking a turn with me, hour after hour, day after day.
Eleven days is an eternity when measured by rapes.
When we were finally rescued and hospitalized, I was diagnosed with pelvic inflammatory disease. In layman’s terms, my rapists had caused an infection that had spread past my cervix and into my uterus. The doctors cured the infection, but they warned me I could have problems later on. I assumed they meant something like hepatitis or HIV, neither of which I developed, thankfully. Maybe they’d meant fertility problems.
Charlie had offered to go to the gynecologist with me, but I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I shifted the subject to her and Mark. There’s so much between the two of them already that it won’t take more than a nudge to push them into a full-blown relationship. She insists she’s taking things casually, but anyone can see she’s falling for him. Mark’s been half in love with her for years, so as long as he accepts that, they’ll be fine. Her initial statement about him not being comfortable enough for sex still troubles me, though. They both have body image issues that only complicate an already-delicate situation.
I pick up the phone three different times to make an appointment with my gynecologist, but I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough to hear her say those bastards won after all.
I dream of the rapes in detail, waking up screaming for the first time in years.
Lila’s shrieks startle me into alertness. I sit up quickly, reaching for her, stopping myself just in time. She’s having a nightmare, thrashing violently after kicking the covers off the bed. Her negligee is twisted around her hips from her flailing. Heart-wrenching wails echo off the walls as she screams over and over, “No! Don’t touch me! Stop!”
The lamp is on beside our bed. Like Charlie, Lila can’t tolerate darkness. My chest grows tight as I helplessly move away, feeling her pain and fear. I can’t touch her. She’s disoriented, and she won’t know it’s me. Physical contact now will only make it worse for her.
My clear, calm tone masks my own pain. “Sweetness, it’s Tucker. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.” I repeat myself over and over until her screams turn to sobs.
“Sweetness? You with me?”
Lila flings her trembling body against me. I wrap my arms around her and stroke her back, her tears soaking my bare skin. After several minutes, I lay us down, tugging the comforter up before brushing her damp hair out of her tear-stained face. “What can I do?”
“Hold me,” she begs. I tighten my arms around her, kissing her temple.
“What if they won?” she asks a few minutes later in a small voice.
I pull back to look down at her. “What if who won?”
She swallows hard. “If – if I can’t have kids. What if they took that from me, too?”
Understanding dawns. Another month without conceiving has her remembering what happened, wondering if those bastards are the cause of that misery, too.
Lila’s broken expression makes my heart clench. She’s worked so hard and come so far. When I first came home, she was terrified of my touch. It took a lot of work, tears, and therapy to get to where we are today.
My frustration from a couple of weeks ago evaporates. If Lila needs to use me as a stud, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for her, and sex with her is a pleasure, not a hardship.
I cup her face in my hands, looking her in the eye. “As long as we have each other, Sweetness, they didn’t win. Even if you can’t carry a baby, we have options. We can foster, adopt, whatever you want. Family isn’t just blood. Look at us and Charlie and Mark. We’re not related, but we’re definitely family.” She nods as another tear falls.
I hold her tightly long after she falls asleep, until night has bled into sunrise.
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since Charlie and I decided to try “more”, whatever that means, and it’s been the best time of my life. This newfound ability to be openly physical is freeing. Most nights, after the sun sets below the ridgeline, she and I retire to the back deck and light a fire in the stone firepit. We cuddle on a lounge chair together and sip wine, listening to tree frogs, crickets, and cicadas as the sky grows dark. Her house is set back far enough from the main roads that there are no street lights to pollute the view. We bask in the cool evening air, watching the stars appear in the inky night. When we go to bed, I’m no longer standing guard all night while Charlie sleeps. Instead, we sleep together, tangled in each other’s arms.
We’re teasing, flirting, dancing around the inevitable.
And I want more.
Kissing her is amazing, but it’s getting harder and harder –no pun intended – not to give into the urge to go further, especially when she wants it, too.
At the same time, though, I’m uncomfortable with the thought of having sex. Not because of Charlie – my body aches to be buried deep inside her, skin to skin. I want her like I’ve never wanted any other woman.
I’m uncomfortable because of me. Because of my body.
I used to be a good-looking guy. Sandy hair, blue eyes, nice smile. I’m tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. I wasn’t arrogant, at least I don’t think I was, but I knew my looks and athleticism distinguished me from the crowd. Then an asshole with an IED literally blew my world to hell. Now my body is a roadmap of scars. Pale pink ones of various shapes and sizes are scattered all over my upper body from shrapnel punctures, chest tubes, and surgery to repair free-floating broken ribs. A lavender line spans the width of my abdomen from another surgery to stop internal hemorrhaging. Purple scars track down my right thigh to my knee, courtesy of multiple surgeries for my femur fracture. One scar runs down the center of the thigh; two others run down the outside. A circumferential pattern of pale white dots highlights where external fixators pinned the bone fragments together. Pale patches – some textured like a cheese grater – disfigure my left inner and right outer thigh from second and third degree burns.
And lest we forget, there’s the amputation. I lost most of my right leg below the knee after it was ripped to shreds by that goddamn bomb.
Now I have a stump.
God, I hate that word. The PC term is “residual limb”, but most people, even amputees, still call it a stump. Even my stump is scarred, with a thin line crossing the end where they “refined” the shape after sawing off the damaged part of my leg.
I don’t talk about it to anyone, especially not Charlie, but when I look at my right leg – or what’s left of it – it literally turns my stomach. A knot forms in my stomach, a chill runs up my spine, and a queasy sensation washes over me. I’m not squeamish. If I were, I’d never have lasted fifteen years on the battlefield. But the sight of that weirdly rounded appendage on my body disgusts me.
That’s why going any further with Charlie is problematic. I’m fine removing my shirt. I’m scarred, but I’ve worked out enough that I’ve got the full six-pack and visible inguinal muscles that vee toward my groin, aka the “sex lines”. My body right now is as toned as it’s ever been. After three months in a hospital, I was weak, but with little to do besides heal and work out, I’ve been pushing myself, so even my right thigh is thick with muscle.
But below the knee, there’s just this… unmuscled, soft thing, like a large pale worm.
And I fucking hate it.
So going further with Charlie?
I have no idea how to pull that off without exposing my scars and my stump.
And the thing is, Charlie-my-best-friend has seen it all before. She dressed my wounds, and she’s massaged my leg for months, and it never bothered me, because she’s my best friend.
But Charlie-my-possible-lover?
That’s different.
My fucked-up body isn’t something my lover should see. I can’t even turn out the lights, because Charlie can’t handle darkness after what those bastards did to her. Her surroundings have to be well-lit so she can feel secure, so no one can sneak up on her. Besides, if she and I ever reach that point, I want the lights on. I want to drink in the sight of her luscious body and burn it into my mind forever.
God, I can’t wait for my osseointegration surgery. I need to be normal again.