15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Charlie’s shocked gasp and the tears she didn’t want me to see replay in my head on a loop.
I steel my resolve. Better to hurt her a little now than a lot later. I can’t let her get in any deeper with me, not now that I know I’ll never be whole.
I assume she’ll come back in a couple of hours, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t call, doesn’t text. Nothing.
What did you expect? You told her to leave. You told her you didn’t want her here.
Lila and Tucker try to video-chat with me, but I make excuses, telling them I’m hurting. When they ask for Charlie, I tell them she’s sleeping at the hotel after being awake for nearly sixty hours. I hope she is, but the truth is, I don’t want them calling her and finding out I sent her away. I’m not up to hearing about it from them.
I don’t sleep at all. The nurse gives me something for pain and something else for sleep, but when I close my eyes, all I see is Charlie’s hurt expression.
I’m startled when my cell phone rings late in the night. It’s the front desk of the hotel. “I apologize,” the woman on the other end says, “but with the screams coming from your hotel room, I wanted to be sure you were alright. Miss Emerson said it was the television, but other guests said it sounded like someone was being attacked, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t need to call the police.”
My stomach clenches. Charlie’s screaming.
I realize the woman doesn’t know I’m not at the hotel and scramble for a response. “No, you don’t need to call the police. We fell asleep with the television on. Charlie woke up and tried to turn it off and hit the volume button by mistake. I apologize for the disturbance.” I thank her for her concern and hang up, running my hand through my hair.
Fuck. Charlie’s having night terrors. The same thing happened when she slept upstairs after I acted like an ass after our first kiss.
Instead of relying on her gun, she trusts me to keep her safe.
I close my eyes in frustration. How am I supposed to stay away from her when I know what happens when I do?
Black, soulless eyes glitter, leering at me in the darkened room. The only light comes from a small lantern flickering in the far corner of my stone cell. I hang suspended by my wrists, the rusty wire looped around them gnawing all the way to my bones.
The Chihuahua sneers, gripping the huge blade tightly in his hand. It’s oxidized as well, old and scarred from use. He steps forward, dragging the tip lightly across my skin before using the razor-sharp edge to slice into my left breast. It stings, but it’s a shallow cut. He won’t plunge the blade into my chest and kill me. Not yet, anyway. He’s having too much fun playing with his newest toy. He continues carving up my breasts, one slice after another, not too deeply, but enough to cause blood to crawl in slow trails down my abdomen.
I grit my teeth and close my eyes, and it irritates him that I’m dissociating from his torment. He backhands me, smashing my lips. The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.
Then he moves his knife lower, between my thighs.
He laughs coarsely as he simulates the sex act with his knife, driving it deep inside me. Every thrust feels like fire, and when I suck in a deep breath, he twists the blade as he pulls it out. The more I struggle, the more it hurts, and I stop fighting, clenching my jaw, refusing to make a sound, unwilling to give him the pleasure.
When blood runs freely down my thighs, he throws the knife down, unzipping his pants and moving behind me. He grips my hips roughly. I kick back, but he’s already between my legs, and I can’t get any leverage. All I can do is try to shift my hips away, but he only laughs, grunting as he thrusts like a rutting animal. The pain inside me intensifies as he forces his way deeper into my bloodied flesh.
The loud ringing of the telephone beside the bed startles me. I’m on my knees beside a dresser, panting, my heart pounding in my chest. I stare around, momentarily confused before recognizing the hotel room.
I’m safe.
I get to my feet and answer the phone.
“Miss Emerson, we’ve had calls about screaming in your room from several other guests. Do you need an ambulance or the police?”
“No,” I say hoarsely. “No, it was – the television,” I stammer, casting about for a plausible excuse.
“Alright, ma’am. If you could keep the volume down for our other guests, I’d appreciate it.”
I apologize and hang up, damp with sweat and trembling. I sit on the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my hands.
Fucking night terrors.
Breathe.
I’m safe here.
Breathe.
When my heart rate has returned to something close to normal, I get to my feet and stumble through a shower. After dressing, I go downstairs to the lobby. A young woman sits at the front desk, twirling a lock of her dark hair, reading a paperback novel.
“May I help you?” When she looks up and speaks, I recognize her voice from the phone.
“I was wondering if you had a night manager I could speak with.”
“Is there a problem with your room?”
“No, nothing like that. I just wondered if there was someone I could talk to.”
“Hey, Gus!” she calls over her shoulder without taking her eyes off me. “Can you come out here?”
An older gentleman pokes his head out of an office door behind her. When he sees me, he straightens and comes to the desk. He’s dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, with rolled-up sleeves that reveal tanned forearms and a hint of dark ink. He looks to be in his late sixties, with thick white hair and dark eyes that see everything. He glances toward the girl behind the counter.
“She asked to speak to the manager.”
He smiles when he steps out to meet me. “How may I help you?”
The lobby door opens and a couple of obviously-intoxicated frat boys stagger toward the elevators. “Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”
He looks at me curiously before nodding. “Come on back to my office.” He leads the way to a small room not much larger than a janitor’s closet. He gestures to a chair and closes the door.
“Wait,” I say, unable to keep the panic out of my voice, still shaken by my dream.
This man isn’t going to hurt me.
His eyes flash to mine, and his face softens at my expression. He pulls the door half open and takes a seat behind a desk stacked with papers and gnawed pencils.
“What can I do for you, Miss –?”
“Emerson. Charlie Emerson. I – I’d like to pay for the hotel room for the guests on either side of me and below and above me for tonight.”
White eyebrows raise sharply. “Why?”
“For disturbing them.”
“Why?” he repeats, pushing up his sleeves further and leaning back in his chair. The action reveals more of his tattoo, and I recognize it.
“Airborne?”
“The 187th Airborne Infantry. Korea.” He studies me carefully. “You served.”
I nod. “Eleven years as a frontline medic.” I swallow hard. When I look up, those dark eyes that don’t miss a thing are staring right at mine.
“That wasn’t the television they were hearing, was it?” After a second, I shake my head. “Flashbacks?”
“Night terrors,” I murmur. “I was captured. It was… hard.” I look up and find him still watching me closely. “I was wondering if you had another room I could move to, maybe a ground floor corner room where I won’t bother your other guests.”
He turns to his computer, pulling up a screen, clicking and typing rapidly. “Not disability-friendly, no,” he says finally.
My shoulders sag. “Then I’d like to cover the bills for the rooms on either side of me and above and below me for the remainder of my stay.”
“That’s going to get expensive.”
I shrug. “They shouldn’t have to be disturbed because I’m – because of me.”
He studies me carefully before reaching for a stack of papers, flipping through them.
“We’re updating the D-wing on three floors,” he says, pushing two large pages toward me. One is the schematic of a floor of the hotel; the other appears to be a schematic of the exterior of the building showing the levels. “A pipe burst on the seventh floor and flooded all the way down to the fifth. We’re reopening the rooms next week. The remodeling is finished on the fifth and sixth floors. They smell like fresh paint, but the rooms are ready to go. They’re still painting and papering on the seventh floor and moving furniture in, so it’s noisy in the daytime, but I have a disability-friendly room on the sixth floor that’s ready. You can have it, if you like. But there won’t be anyone else on that floor,” he says, “so if that would make you uncomfortable –”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly. “Can we look at it?”
He gets to his feet and pulls a key card from the top drawer of his desk. I follow him out of the office. “Back in a minute, Trudy,” he tells the girl at the desk. She doesn’t even look up from her book.
The room does smell of fresh paint, but it’s not overpowering. It’s the mirror image of my current room, with two queen-sized beds, a refrigerator and microwave, a corner desk, and a walk-in shower with rails and a bench. It’s crisp and clean and quiet. “When can I move in?”
“Whenever you and your companion are ready,” he says.
My smile falters. “He’s actually in the hospital. He had surgery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I shake my head. “It’s a good thing.” At least, it was supposed to be. “He’s Army, too, or was, until he lost his leg from an IED. The surgery was to set him up for his permanent prosthesis. He’ll be released in a few days, but we may stay here a day or so after he’s released, depending on whether he feels up to traveling.”
Gus shakes his head. “Service comes at a high cost,” he muses. “Please consider yourself and your companion guests of the hotel as thanks for your service.”
My jaw drops. “I can’t let you do that.”
He grins and taps his gold name badge. “I’m the manager. You can’t stop me. And I’ll knock a chunk of the bill off for the ones who were woken up.”
“I don’t mind paying,” I protest.
His smile turns sad. “I believe you and your companion have paid more than enough.” Then he holds out his arm toward the door. “Let’s go downstairs and I’ll get you a key to this room and a trolley for your luggage.”
An hour later, I’m checked out of my old room and into the new one under the name VIP GUEST at Gus’ insistence. Trudy looks mildly impressed when Gus shoos her away from the computer and handles the details personally, especially when she sees the name he puts in. I catch her studying me with interest, trying to figure out if I’m someone famous.
It’s a long day without much to do. Mark not wanting me around means I basically have nothing to do but sit around waiting for him to be released. I don’t feel like sightseeing or going out. Instead, I order takeout and stream movies on my laptop for background noise, hoping to drown out his voice in my head.
“I don’t want you here. Leave.” His icy blue eyes glare at me, his lips curled back.
I jolt awake, knocking my phone to the floor as a chill runs up my spine.
I’ve not let myself dwell on the fact that I’ve fallen in love with Mark. Honestly, with everything going on – his surgery, his abrupt shift in attitude, my night terrors – I’ve managed to push it from my mind. I’ve also tried to forget the way he jerked his head back in revulsion when his overly enthusiastic physical therapist called me Mrs. Chandler. The only thing I’ve not been able to chase from my mind is the realization that I need Mark much more now than I did before.
I was afraid of losing Mark during his surgery after all we’ve been through to find happiness. Things go wrong. People have reactions to anesthesia or antibiotics. People bleed out. Hearts stop for no apparent reason. I was worried about the plethora of medical complications that might take him for me.
It never once occurred to me that I might lose him because his surgery was a success.
Charlie didn’t come in this morning, even after her night terrors. I was sure she would. I reassure her when she has them. I dry her tears and hold her until she stops trembling.
But I haven’t seen her since I told her to leave.
Since I told her I didn’t want her here.
The sharp loss of her presence invades every corner of my soul. Charlie and I have always been close, linked in a way that transcended friendship. We understand each other without words. We ground each other. Since we tried “more”, that closeness has only deepened. I’ve shared more with her than with anyone else on this planet. My mind. My body. My soul.
My heart.
She deserves so much more than I can give her, but my desperate need for her overpowers my resolve. By late afternoon, after my fifth grueling PT session with Shane, I break down and call her cell phone. It goes to voice mail.
“Hey, Charlie. I was just checking on you. Call me.”
Two hours later, I call again. Voice mail. “I haven’t heard from you. Just checking on you.”
Eight in the evening. Voice mail. “Charlie? Are you okay? Call me.”
By ten that night, I’m going out of my mind. I look up the number for the hotel and call. “I need Charlie Emerson’s room, please. I can’t remember if it was 312 or 321.”
I hear the clicking of keys and breathing into the mouthpiece. “It looks like Miss Emerson checked out of the hotel.”
That can’t be right.
“Are you sure?”
“She checked out of room 312 a little after five this morning, sir. Will there be anything else? Sir?” I end the call, my mind whirling.
She left me?
My eyes close as the truth rings loud and clear in my mind.
You told her to, dumbass. She did exactly as you asked.
You said, “I don’t want you here. Leave.”
What did you expect? You told a woman who shared every part of herself with you that you didn’t want her around. You hurt her, asshole, badly enough to make her leave, and she didn’t do that even after that bullshit you pulled in San Antonio.
No. She can’t leave me.
Please, no.
I need her.
I try her phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Charlie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I –”
I love you.
“I miss you. I’m sorry, Charlie. Please come back. Please don’t give up on me.”
But there’s no answer. I text, but there’s no response.
The pain in my body is nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
It’s three-thirty in the morning, and I’m standing at an all-night big box store, staring at a rack of phone chargers, trying to figure out which one fits my phone. After knocking it under the bed earlier, I forgot about it. When I went looking for it to call Lila, the battery was completely dead, and my charger was nowhere to be found, presumably lost when I changed hotel rooms.
I stare back and forth from the tip of the packaged charger to the little port in my phone. Finally, I pry open the package to check. It fits, and I make my way to a register.
As soon as I plug my phone in at the hotel, it lights up. Voicemails, missed calls, and missed texts chime like a casino in Vegas. I let it charge while I shower, hoping the hot water will ease some of the tension from my neck and shoulders.
It doesn’t.
I pad across the newly carpeted floor and sit down on the bed, still in my robe, rubbing a towel through my hair. I have seven voicemails. I’m surprised to find the first four are from Mark, each one progressively more anxious, until in his fourth one, he says the words I needed to hear. I miss you. Please come back. His last phrase seizes my heart.
Please don’t give up on me.
Those are the same words he spoke after his epic eruption on me in Texas, the words that made me return to his hospital room.
I won’t give up on him. His behavior is driven by his injury. We – myself, Tucker, Lila, and Tom – supported him through his initial injuries and recovery, and we’ll get him through this stage, too. He just needs time to recalibrate.
The next three voicemails are all from Lila, beginning yesterday afternoon. “Hey. I didn’t call last night because Mark said you’d been awake since Sunday, and I was hoping you were asleep. Call me when you have a minute and let me know how things are going.” The second is from ten-thirty last night. “Hey, Charlie. Mark called asking if I’d seen you. What’s going on? He said you’d checked out of the hotel this morning. Call me.” Her final message is from well past midnight. “Charlie, I’m getting worried. Are you alright? I don’t care what time you get this, please let me know you’re okay. I love you.”
I glance at the clock. It’s four-thirty in the morning. I’m not going to call and wake her up to tell her I’m fine. I send a text explaining why I changed rooms and giving her my new room number under “VIP GUEST”. I also tell her I haven’t seen Mark since Tuesday and why.
It’s now Thursday.
I haven’t had his lips on mine since Monday morning before his surgery, a situation I’m hoping to rectify in the very near future. I pull on denim shorts and a loose white sleeveless blouse, stick my feet into flats, and run a comb through my hair before tossing a few things in my backpack and grabbing my keys.
There’s a twenty-four-hour McDonald’s near the hospital, and I pick up breakfast and coffee for us on my way in. When I reach his room, I pause outside his door, quietly opening it in case he’s asleep.
He’s not.
He’s sitting up in bed, wide awake, and he looks like hell.
He’s pale, and he has dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a mess from running his hands through it, something he does when he’s stressed. He’s wearing the same tee shirt and loose shorts I helped him put on Monday night, when he was sick of the hospital gown.
His pale eyes meet mine as soon as I cross his threshold. “You came back,” he says, sounding surprised.
“I did.” I cross the room and deposit our coffee and food on the bedside table.
“Where did you go?”
“You told me to leave,” I remind him.
“But where did you go?”
“The hotel.”
He frowns. “You checked out of the hotel yesterday at five in the morning.”
“No, I changed rooms. I’m on the sixth floor now, in a wing that they’re renovating.”
“They don’t have you listed in the computer,” he persists.
His third degree is becoming annoying, especially since I left at his insistence, and I huff in frustration. “Call them and ask for the VIP guest’s room. I’m in 642.”
His eyebrows raise. “A VIP room? You upgraded?”
I shake my head. “It’s just like the room we had. It’s a long story.” I change the subject, watching his face. “My phone battery went dead, and I lost my charger changing rooms. I didn’t get your messages until this morning.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m having a harder time with this than I expected.”
I move to sit down beside him on his uninjured side. “Are you hurting? Do you need a massage?”
He shakes his head. “It hurts, but the meds help. I meant I’m having trouble with…” He gestures toward his leg.
“Why?”
He shakes his head. “This was supposed to make things better. It was supposed to fix me so I’d stop being a useless cripple. I look even more freakish now than I did before.”
I frown. “First of all, you’ve never looked like a freak, so stop saying that. You look like a warrior who fought like hell and has the battle scars to prove it.” His eyes tighten, and I raise my voice, frustration creeping into my tone. “No, Mark. You’d never say that garbage about Stubbs, and I’m not going to listen to you say it about yourself. No more ‘half a man’ bullshit, no more ‘useless cripple’ nonsense, none of it. Quit focusing on what’s not there and focus on what is.”
He sits silently, and though I’d like to say I’ve gotten through to him, I’m pretty sure he just doesn’t want to argue. His stubborn expression doesn’t relent at all.
I don’t want to argue either, so I reach for the bag of food. “Here. Let’s have breakfast and then I’ll help you into the shower.”
“I can’t get my dressings wet.”
“You won’t. I have a plastic bag and medical tape. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
An hour later, he’s fed, shampooed, and bathed. I help him settle back in the bed and glance at the clock. “You’ve got a couple of hours before your chipper therapist shows up. You should get some rest.”
He startles me by grabbing my upper arms and pulling me down onto his broad chest. His hand slides into my hair as he cups my head. “I haven’t kissed you in three days. I need you,” he says against my lips. I want to remind him whose fault that is, but the feel of his lips is too delicious. My hands slide over the firm muscles of his chest to rest on his shoulders as he plunders my mouth with deep wet kisses that make my body throb. His hand skates over my ribs to knead my breast. I moan softly into his mouth, and he groans as he reluctantly pulls away. “I’d give my left ass cheek to bury myself inside you right now, Baby Girl.”
I smile, relieved that he’s acting like himself again. “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m quite fond of your ass. How much longer until they release you?”
“I’m not sure. Another day or two, I think.”
“God, I hope it’s just one,” I murmur, realizing too late I spoke my thoughts aloud, and he chuckles, kissing me again.
When Shane arrives for Mark’s therapy, he’s carrying two black canvas bags. He sets them on the sink and claps his hands together. “I’m glad you’re here too, Charlie, because today’s the big day. Your prosthetics are here.” Mark’s eyes widen. “I’m going to teach you how to connect them. You can’t walk with them until your implant fuses to your bone. We’re just going to practice attaching and detaching today.”
The process is surprisingly simple. The end of Mark’s abutment fits perfectly into a connector on the prosthesis. He inserts an Allen wrench, gives it one and a quarter turns, and checks to be sure it’s secure. “Snug, but not too tight,” Shane instructs. He has Mark repeat the process several times, connecting and disconnecting. He makes me do it as well. Once he’s satisfied, he returns the prostheses to their canvas storage bags and reaches for the footie attachment.
“Twenty pounds for fifteen minutes six times today,” Shane announces. Mark maneuvers to the edge of the bed and attaches the rubber footie while Shane readies the walker/ scale. At thirteen minutes, Mark’s thigh is trembling from the effort, and he’s bouncing between fifteen and thirty pounds of pressure, unable to maintain control. At fifteen minutes, Shane tells him to relax. Mark sinks onto the bed, his chest heaving.
Shane frowns. “When’s the last time you had anything for pain?”
“Last night.”
His frown deepens. “I know you don’t like the meds, but you’ve been down this road before. If you’re hurting too badly to participate, you won’t make progress, and you’ll have a slower recovery. If you want to walk sooner, be smarter.” He returns the walker to the corner of the room and glances at the clock. “I’ll be back at eleven. Your goal today is to prove you can do these exercises on your own. If you do well enough, you may be able to discharge tomorrow. And take the damn meds.” He gives him a stern look on his way out, and it’s such a sharp contrast to his usual perkiness that I laugh when the door closes.
“Your surfer-boy therapist just chewed your ass,” I grin, and Mark scowls. “He’s right, though. I could see your thigh muscles quivering.”
“Fine,” he mutters, pressing the button for his nurse.
He’s not happy about it, but he’s cooperating, at least for now.
Dr. Walters comes by later with a nurse in tow. “We’re going to change your surgical bandage and teach you how to care for your stoma. That’s where your fixture exits the skin,” he explains. He removes the dressing, exposing a bruised but clean incision with a neat line of sutures across the tip of the limb.
Mark watches, his jaw flexing. It’s not difficult – washing it daily with water and baby shampoo, followed by a surgical scrub. In between, he can cleanse it with saline and a gauze pad. His sutures can come out in ten days. In the meantime, he can cover them with a nonstick dressing or leave them uncovered.
His jaw clenches tighter the longer he’s forced to view his leg. Mark read everything he could get his hands on about this surgery. He knew – we all knew – he’d have a rod protruding from his leg. That was the entire point of this surgery. I can’t understand why the sight of it is so upsetting. Part of the pre-op visit at the VA included a consultation with a psychiatrist to discuss body image. Surely even a moderately-skilled professional could see Mark’s self-loathing.
Then it hits me. He wasn’t honest with them. Mark said what he thought they wanted to hear so he could have this surgery. He was convinced it would make him “normal”, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, so he said whatever he needed to say to make it happen.
He’ll get used to his implant. Looking at a picture in a book or a plastic model in an office isn’t the same as seeing it on your own body. It’s just a shock. He’ll adjust. He just needs time.
Right?
A freak. I’m a goddamned freak.
I look like a shish-kabob, waiting to go on the grill. A shiska-Mark. All I need to do is stick a few veggies on the end of my damn pirate’s peg.
I can conceal it, I guess, if I wear pants while my prosthesis is attached. And when the prosthetic was attached, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, yeah, it’s still an artificial leg, but it looks high-tech, especially with the carbon-fiber and the hydraulic ankle. That should give me an almost-normal gait when I can finally walk on it. The abutment is still creepy, though.
At least I’m on my way to becoming upright and mobile. They say in three months, I’ll be crutch-free, and that’s something I can’t wait for, to walk around like everyone else, and no one will see my shameful secret if I don’t share it with them.
The problem is when my prosthetic comes off. That’s when the freak show is on full display, my shish-kabob exposed, unable to be hidden. And when is that?
Oh, right... at night. When I’ll be in bed.
With Charlie.
I can’t be next to Charlie like this. I can’t bear the thought of her looking at me with revulsion.
What if I skewer her with this thing?
What the hell am I going to do? I didn’t last three days without touching her. Hell, I barely made it twenty-four hours before I broke down and started leaving messages on her phone.
But I can’t be with her. She deserves better.
I need to pull back, wall off my emotions, and stuff my love for her into a dark corner of my heart. I have to bury my feelings, because Charlie deserves someone amazing. And a lifetime with a freak isn’t amazing. It’s a nightmare.
I’d have been better off if I’d died in that goddamned explosion.
We both would.