Chapter Thirteen
~Annabelle~
T he clock’s second hand ticks a full circle, the large hand clicking onto the five. It’s five minutes after his normal appointment would have started. Of course, he’s not here. I told him I couldn’t work with him anymore. For some reason, though, I haven’t filled his time in my calendar with any other clients. It’s been almost a full week since he stood in my apartment, his back bruised and scarred, my fear gripping and commanding.
There was a part of me that thought he might still show up. Maybe not on Monday, but today. Our regular Friday appointment. I mean, it has been almost a week. But of all the things Patrick is, or was, he was never late. He was always punctual. His military discipline, I suppose.
I open his file and scan through some of my notes. He was never very forthcoming with anything he decided to tell me. I always had to drag or coerce information from him. It took three weeks before he told me that both of his parents died in a small plane crash when he was only ten. A plane that his father was piloting. His father had been taking his mother away to Martha’s Vineyard for a weekend getaway. The plane ended up in the ocean. He didn’t tell me anything else about their deaths. I’m not sure if he even knew.
His grandmother raised him, sending him to West Point in his father’s footsteps, where he graduated at the top of his class. This I knew from his military records, not from any information he had shared. He was selected for the Army Air Assault School, and again, graduated one of the top candidates in his class. He became part of the 101 st Airborne Division, which specializes in air assault operations, based in Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
In 2016, the brigade was deployed to Iraq to assist with Operation Inherent Resolve. In December 2017, two weeks before his tour was to end, his helicopter was shot down by an RPG missile, killing three of the four crew members on board. He was the lone survivor. He broke the lower tibia and fibula of his left leg, sustained a concussion, took six stitches above his right eye, and suffered burns on his hands. He was honorably discharged from the Army after spending three weeks in a German hospital base.
He had been referred to me by another colleague who had advised that Patrick suffered from nightmares, guilt, and other traumatic, stress related symptoms. He wanted to fly again, but because he was involved in a crash, the FAA required psychiatric evaluation and clearance. Unable to get Patrick to open up, he sent him to me. We see how well that worked out. My attraction to him resulted in actions I’m not proud of, and now I’m questioning my judgment as a professional at all.
The thing is, I really do want to help him. This is more than a job to me. It truly matters to me to be able to help someone. There are too many stories of soldiers returning from war that commit suicide. I know all too well what that does to a family.
I glance at the picture of my mom and I on the corner of my desk. I’d put most of the pictures of my dad away in a drawer. I had tried to forgive him, but some days, the anger over what he did was just too much. We deserved more. He deserved more. But back then, when my father served, there was a negative stigma attached to anyone who couldn’t withstand the pressures of war. You were deemed weak or mentally incompetent if you needed help.
I pick up my phone and dial my mom.
She answers on the third ring. “Hey, sweetheart. This is a nice surprise.” Just hearing my mom’s voice lifts my mood.
“Hey, Momma. I have a break between clients and started thinking about you.”
“Well, I was just sitting down to have a cup of coffee, so your timing couldn’t be better.”
“Momma?” We don’t talk about what my father did very often, so I’m afraid to broach the subject with her. “Do you think we could have done anything to save Dad? Should we have done something more?”
“Oh, honey.” My mom lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know. Your father had a lot of demons haunting him when he came back from Afghanistan. Remember, he’d been stationed there for almost two years.”
“Did you know how bad it really was?” I pause. “I guess what I’m asking is, did you think he would ever do what he did?”
“No.” She sniffles, and my heart sinks, turning my stomach, knowing I’m causing her pain. “Never.”
“I’m sorry, Momma. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“I know, I know.” She sniffles again. “No matter how much pain your father was in, I just thought he loved us more, or enough that it would see him through it.”
“What do you mean?” My brows furrow.
“I thought me loving him, and him loving us, would be enough to ease his pain. But it just wasn’t. He needed something more. Something else. He had no way to deal with all of that pain, all the memories. I just wish I had known a way to help him. Because, Belle, I don’t care what it would have taken to ease that for him, as long as it meant he might still be here today.”
Her words sink deep, their meaning so much more than she can realize. Patrick and his guilt. His need for pain. The punishment his release.
“I wish he was still here, too. But, Momma?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad I still have you.”
“Oh, honey, me too. I love you.”
“I love you, too. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Okay, bye, honey.”
“Bye, Mom.”
I hang up the phone. I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that Patrick would never hurt me. He wouldn’t want or expect that from me either. His pain is for a very different reason, one that I know I can help him with. But I wonder how far he’ll go to continue to ease his pain and his guilt.
S itting through the rest of the day with my clients has never been harder, because all I want to do is go and see Patrick. But I had already cancelled all my client appointments the Friday before, so I am not doing that again. I have been more than unprofessional in my actions with one client; I refuse to do it to anymore.
Finally, after my last appointment, I get in a cab and head to his apartment. I didn’t call. I have his number on file, so I could have. He left me last week stating I know where to find him, so I’m throwing caution to the wind and just going. My appointments end at four on Fridays, so it’s early enough in the day that I’m hoping I can catch him at home.
The cab pulls up to the curb in front of the address I provided, and I hand the driver the fare before stepping out onto the sidewalk. I take a deep breath, turn, and stop mid-stride. Patrick’s jogging down the street, wearing a pair of shorts, his shirt tucked into his waistband, and his puppy panting in his arms. I shake my head, not quite sure what I’m seeing is real, but it is. It’s the end of March, and while today is a relatively mild day in New York City at around fifty-five degrees, it’s still cold out.
I can tell when he notices me because his step falters, and the expression on his face changes to one of surprise, his eyes a bit wide. He comes to a stop in front of me, his chest heaving as he pants.
“Nice jogging accessory.” I point at the dog then reach under his chin to give it a scratch .
“Yeah, he made it one mile, and then I had to carry him the other four.” He looks down at the dog, exasperation on his face.
“Patrick, he’s a puppy. They can’t run five miles. They can barely walk around without tripping over their own feet when they’re this small.” I take the puppy from his hands, snuggle it against my chest, and start talking to it in a baby voice. “Kane, he doesn’t know a thing about taking care of you, does he?”
I look up at him to find him staring down at me, his expression blank. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, grimacing. “I need to take a shower. Do you want to come up?” He nods to his building.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I state, not really answering.
“Then come up.” He runs a hand down his chest, wiping the sweat away. Of course, my eyes fix on that damn nipple and the metal hoop stuck through it. And, of course, he notices, looking down to where my line of sight is fixed, and chuckles. “You can wash my back, or my front, if you want.”
My eyes fly up to his, my mouth falling open to protest, but I don’t. Because, oh my, the thought of soaping him up in the shower just caused a rush of heat to surge between my legs. He chuckles again, at my reaction I’m sure, and places a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the door. “Come on.”
We climb in the elevator, and he leans over me to press the number eight, his bare shoulder brushing against my arm sending a tingling sensation across my skin. My eyes scan the tattoo across his back. ‘All Pain is Fleeting’. I find myself hoping that the statement is true as he straightens and looks over at me .
“Aren’t you cold?” In other words, please put your damn shirt on before I climb you like a tree and forget every other reason I came here.
“Nope.” He grins wickedly, taking pleasure in my discomfort. “Are you?”
“Me?” I ask stupidly.
He aims his gaze at my chest, and I glance down, horrified when I notice my nipples are pointed beneath my blouse. I feel my face flame in embarrassment as I try to shift the puppy to cover up my traitorous girls and glare back at him. “It’s cold out.”
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, a knowing smile smirking his lips. The elevator comes to a stop, doors opening, and I step out in relief. One more minute in that confined space, with his scent invading my senses as much as his half-naked body, and I may have started dripping down my damn leg. I should have gone home and put on jeans instead of coming straight from work in this skirt.
He strolls ahead of me, opening the door to his apartment, then holds it for me and Kane as I pass through.
“You don’t lock your door?” My brows arch up.
“Where would I have put the key?” He looks down at his body, of course bringing my attention to it again, and I roll my eyes. “Besides, I have a dog now. He’ll protect me.”
I look down at the puppy, sleeping like a log in my arms, and give him a lopsided smile. “Yeah, okay.”
He walks further into the apartment, pulling the t-shirt out of his waistband and tossing it onto the back of one of the stools as he walks into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, grabs a water bottle, and proceeds to chug its contents in five seconds flat. He throws the empty bottle away then looks up at me. “You want something to drink?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’ll be ten minutes.” He points to the bathroom. “Unless you want to join me.” He looks over at me, one brow arched seductively.
I nod, staring dumbly at him. “No, I’ll wait here.”
He chuckles. “You sure?” He starts toward the bathroom, a smug smile on his face. “I’ll keep the door unlocked, just in case.”
He winks as he shuts the door behind him, and I look up at the ceiling, mumbling out loud. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. I’ve never wanted to take a damn shower so bad in my whole life.”
I walk around the apartment to see if I can find a bed to put the dog in, but don’t see one. It’s possible it’s in the bedroom, but there is no way I am stepping foot in there. I place him on the couch, smiling when he lets out a little whimper then rearranges himself into a tight ball and falls back asleep.
I take my purse that had been hanging over my shoulder and put it on the floor next to the couch. I shrug the open cardigan I’m wearing off, placing it on top of my bag, then walk around looking at things.
There’s not a lot to look at. His coffee table is scattered with game cartridges, remotes, and a couple empty beer bottles. He has a huge flat-screen mounted to the wall, above a cabinet that holds various electronic equipment. There’s a bunch of built in bookcases on one wall, so I walk over to check out what he has. Lots and lots of Stephen King, and then text books. Lots of military based and historical books .
There are two pictures in the corner on one of the shelves. One is of the pregnant girl I saw at the Ball. She’s hugging a man, who I’m going to assume is her significant other. The other is of a couple in their later thirties or early forties. I pick it up and study it. From the style of clothing they’re wearing, I’m going to guess it was taken in the nineties, and I wonder if they’re his parents. The man in the picture bears a striking resemblance to Patrick.
The door to the bathroom swings open just as I’m setting the picture back down. Patrick emerges from a cloud of thick, heavy steam, a dark blue towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from the ends of his hair onto his chest. I blink and then turn away from him, knowing my body, if not my expression, will give away the arousal he’s stirring up in me.
I jump when I feel his fingers wrap around mine, pulling me back around. “Come with me.” It’s a demand, not a request, his voice husky. My feet respond, following when he leads me into his bedroom, what I want to talk to him about momentarily forgotten.