11
ADAM
"What the hell was that?"
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared into the darkness. For the first time in years, my sleep hadn't been interrupted by painful memories. This time when I woke with sweat coating my skin, it had been a very different name that left my lips.
Maddie.
I'd whispered it so many times and still, the feel of her name on my tongue had the blood in my veins buzzing. I wasn't entirely sure why this woman was having this effect on me, I just knew it was a welcome reprieve from the nightmares that had haunted me for so long.
Even though it only led to a different kind of frustration.
Dropping my head, I screwed my eyes shut and heaved out a breath. The feel of Maddie in my arms was still as vivid as if it had just happened and not hours ago. As suspected, her subtle strawberry scent and kind eyes had followed me into my dreams.
Tormenting me with images of my hands fisting those honey blonde tresses while my mouth learned the taste of her skin. Those whiskey irises bored into me, and that sweet voice of hers had whispered my name breathlessly.
The cold hand of reality had ripped me from my dreams right then and I'd never been more disappointed. It wasn't rational, this sudden interest I had in her. Just as the sense of calm I could only achieve in her presence wasn't logical.
Pushing to my feet, I looked down and was reminded yet again of the very strange direction my night had taken. For the first time in I didn't even know how long, I had something that needed hands-on attention. There were absolutely zero doubts as to whose name would be on my lips when I did.
***
Unable to sit still, I'd started pacing the kitchen, only pausing every few minutes to will the slow drip, drip, drip of the coffee maker to hurry the heck up. Of course, at the very back of my mind, I knew the restlessness had nothing to do with my need for a caffeine fix.
No, the fix I was craving came in the form of a five-four, possibly five-five, packet of dynamite. Since I'd woken in the middle of the night, Maddie hadn't left my thoughts. After the obvious reason was taken care of, my mind had drifted to her and that swollen ankle.
How was she getting around?
Did she manage to eat?
Was she keeping it elevated ?
Did she have someone who was taking care of her?
As much as it irritated me, I couldn't stop thinking about her. The amount of time that woman was spending running around in my mind was embarrassingly high. And I didn't know what to do about it.
Or if I wanted to do anything about it.
If I were honest, daydreaming about a living, breathing woman was a lot better than the alternative. The one where the past refused to retract its claws out of my battered and bruised soul.
I eyed the coffee maker again, relieved that there was enough tarry liquid in the carafe to satisfy at least one of my needs. Mug in hand, I topped it to the brim and slipped through the glass door.
As it had done for the past few days, my gaze immediately went to the beach before I realized my beach ballerina wouldn't be performing any time soon. I wasn't even close to being prepared for the deep rush of disappointment that descended over me.
The light-wood Adirondack creaked loudly as I lowered my frame into it. Sighing heavily, I took a long swallow from the steaming mug in my hand, and instead of watching the waves roll to shore, my gaze flicked to the house next door.
What are you doing right now?
An incredibly stupid idea started forming and before I had time to properly process it, I was on my feet and striding toward the fence. I'd covered half of the distance when the fog covering the logical part of my brain finally lifted and I dug my heels in .
Was I really about to hop the fence and knock on her door?
How would that conversation have gone over? If ever there'd been a time to smack myself upside the head, it was at that moment. I had no business initiating anything with anyone.
My mood changed on a dime and it wasn't particularly fair to drag anyone into that. I looked down at my hand still clutching my morning coffee. Brows drawing together, I willed the black liquid for answers.
Not just any answers. I needed to know why after all this time, I had this deep-rooting need to be different. To not be so broken that the thought of letting anyone close scared the shit out of me.
Tipping the coffee out on to the grass, I stalked back into the safety of my house, locking the door behind me for good measure. I rinsed the mug, set it on the rack, and then stared at the scenery beyond the window.
A frustrated growl tore from my lungs when the only thing I wanted to see on that beach was Maddie.
My insides twisted with the confliction spreading through me.
On the one hand, I was relieved at the sudden change in direction my thoughts had taken.
But on the other, I knew this… infatuation or whatever the hell it was had to stop.
It wasn't healthy.
A distraction of any kind would have been welcomed with open arms but since nothing was happening, I flopped down on my couch and turned on the television.
Flicking through the channels, I swore roughly when one channel was streaming a movie about a ballerina and a dance show of sorts was on the next.
Without changing it, I turned the volume down. I tossed the remote beside me, my cellphone catching my eye when the remote landed on it. Maybe it was finally time to reach out to a friend. Someone who knew me from before the accident. If anyone could give me some perspective, it would be Griffin.
He'd been as loyal as a brother even, especially, when I'd been a stupid prick and had blamed him for Angie being gone. As the memories of the unsavory words I'd spewed at him swirled around my brain, I was once again reminded how damn lucky I was.
My family, my friends, all of them could have walked away and left me to rot in the hole I'd dug for myself. No one would have blamed them one bit. But that wasn't how the people in my life did things. They stayed—even when I chased them away—and they fought like hell to drag me back.
I owed them so much.
Mindlessly staring at the muted television, I tossed the phone from one hand to the other. The last time I'd willingly sent a text to anyone had been a hell of a long time ago. So long, that I didn't even know how to initiate a damn conversation.
My gaze shifted from the wall-mounted screen to the one in my hand. I swiped the screen and opened my messaging app. After scrolling through the few numbers I had saved in my contact list; I pulled up my friend's number and stared some more .
How the hell did people do this? My thumbs fumbled over the small illuminated letters as I typed.
Me: What's up?
There. Short and straight to the point. The tiny dots on the screen started jumping almost immediately.
Griffin: Who died?
Me: What?
Griffin: You never text. Who's dead?
With a grunt, I threw my head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I was still upstairs, asleep in my bed because everything about the past twenty-four hours was just… weird.
I'd barely resigned myself to that idea when the phone I was still clutching buzzed in my hand, my friend's name flashing in big bold letters. Just how discombobulated I was, was evident when I poked the green button without giving it a second thought.
I didn't get a chance to utter a word before a concerned, "What's wrong?" reached my ears.
Admittedly, I felt like an idiot. I'd managed to isolate myself to the point where my family and friends figured the world was ending when they received any form of communication from me.
"Nothing," I finally breathed out. "Just wanted to check in." The familiar squeak of his truck door opening and closing sounded from his side. "Busy?" I asked.
"Nah. Just got to the station." He'd barely said the words when the background noises registered.
A sharp pang of sadness hit me in the center of my chest. I missed it. Firefighting was about so much more than putting out fires. There was a good reason why a station was called a house. You were a family bound by a mutual love for something so completely fascinating and destructive.
"You still there?" There was a muffled sound that I assumed to be his office door closing when the chattering faded.
"Yeah, still here."
"So," Griffin drawled, his Irish accent curling around the last letter. "You wanna tell me what's up with you?"
I rubbed my chest and turned my head toward the glass door and repeated, "Nothing."
A chuckle floated through the line. "Did you forget who you're talkin' to? We might not be related by blood, but we're brothers still."
"I know."
I heard his voice, but I couldn't make out the words. Even through his closed office door, I heard the distinct sound of the fire alarm. The insistent sharp ringing calling you to action. No doubt, brave men and women were scampering around, throwing their gear on and rushing to get to the rig.
For a fraction of a second, the thrill I always got when I heard that alarm vibrated through my veins. But it was gone just as fast. Taking another part of me with it.
"Ah, shite," he groaned. "I have—"
"Go." The word felt like sandpaper clawing at the inside of my mouth and throat. The bell still ringing in the background like a sledgehammer to the heart.
"Aye," he said softly. "We'll talk later." The line went dead a second after that and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to smash the device in my hand against the nearest wall. I was living in a prison of my own making with absolutely no idea how to escape.
And just like that, the nightmare was back, only this time I was wide awake with nowhere to hide.