Chapter 20 #3
He gazes at me. "You really mean that? You never doubted me?"
I shake my head. "Never. Not once. I woke up in that dark, awful place, but you were there. I…if I'd been alone?"
He shakes his head. "It was tough."
In addition to physical therapy, Killian has also spent a lot of time in psych therapy—his parents flew in a renowned PTSD specialist who focuses on prisoners of war or people who have been held captive in some way, like Killian was.
He did EMDR, talk therapy, and horse therapy—he flew to Florida for a weekend for the horse therapy.
He still struggles with the flashbacks at times, and dark rooms still give him trouble, but he's worked through the worst of his trauma responses. As much as you can in such a short time, at least. We both know it’s going to be a long process, getting over that captivity.
His biggest issue is impatience with himself, feeling like he should be able to get over it sooner.
"The faith you have in me, Story?” he says, gazing down at me. “It's…" he swallows hard, shakes his head. "It's fucking everything to me."
"That goes both ways, you know," I say.
We sail for a little under an hour, a green lump of land in the distance growing larger by increments.
Since we weren't going out into the seriously deep water of the open ocean, we're towing a rigid dinghy behind us.
When we're within a hundred yards or so of the island, Killian anchors us and pulls the dinghy to the stern.
We toss our bags into it and then Killy transfers the supplies—gallon jugs of drinking water, two large insulated coolers full of food, a portable camp stove, and a few other odds and ends.
As we zip from the boat to shore, Killian's face brightens, a grin spreading across his face the closer we get. "I've always loved coming here," he tells me. “It's one of my favorite places on earth."
“Really?" I ask.
He nods, throttling back as we near the beach. "Absolutely. It's paradise."
"You already live in paradise, Killy,” I point out.
“Yeah, but this is…" he shrugs. "It's different. You'll see."
The beach is a small crescent of sand against a backdrop of tropical island foliage. Beyond the beach, the jungle looks to be pretty damn well impenetrable, as advertised.
We hit the beach and he tips up the outboard motor, jumping out and hauling the boat all the way up onto the sand.
Now that we're ashore, I can see that the wall of jungle foliage isn’t quite as dense as it seemed from a distance—in fact, I spy the shadowy line of a path leading into the forest. The jungle marches right to the water's edge a few hundred yards in both directions to either side of the beach, making this spit of sand the only place to land, unless there's more beach somewhere else around the other side.
I almost miss the hut at first. It's built just inside the treeline so it almost disappears from view, just the shadows of outlines that aren’t natural to a forest.
We each grab one side of a cooler and carry it to the hut—there's a small porch made of hand-planed wood planks in front, ending right at the sand, with a pair of Adirondack chairs off to one side.
It's a tiny structure, properly termed a hut or shack, but it looks sturdy and well-built, with real glass windows, storm shutters, and a solid door.
It's weathered and aged, but I'd say it's only been here a few decades at most.
Killian uses his free hand to open the door and leads the way in.
It's dark and cool in here, despite the heat: the reason it was built in the shade of the jungle.
Sunlight streams in from the windows and open front door, illuminating a single open room—a bed along the back wall in the left corner, a tiny walled-off cubicle in the opposite rear corner, which I assume contains the incinerator or some other type of off-grid toilet.
There's a low counter framing the corner on the front wall opposite the bed, and a round table and two chairs in the last corner.
Under the counter is a small and adorably pink dorm fridge; a single Edison bulb housed in bubbled glass hangs in the center of the room, and the sink features a small hand-pump for the well.
I peek back outside and see a solar array out in the sand a few yards from the shack, angled to catch the sun from rise to set; there's a switch on the wall with a handwritten label reading "GEN" on it; further around the side of the house, Killy tells me, is an outdoor shower, which uses an electric pump and a rain-catch barrel.
Killian flicks the switch and a generator behind the shack rattles to life.
"The real power comes from the solar panel," Killian explains. "But there's a small diesel genny. We mainly just use it to get the fridge down to temp. Once it's there, the solar system can keep it there and run the lights, toilet, and shower.”
"This is actually kinda bougie, babe," I say. "Much fancier than I was prepared for when you said 'fishing hut.' "
He laughs. "I'm comfortable here, but I wanted to temper your expectations. It's not the Hilton, but it's decent for a couple nights away."
I capture his hands. "Killy, it's perfect.
" I smile up at him. "I mean, this is me we're talking about.
I'm an accomplished woodswoman. I'm just as comfortable with a handmade lean-to and a campfire as I am at a hotel.” I sidle closer, pressing my body against his.
"I don't need a five-star resort or the Ritz, baby.
I just need you." I look around, more as a gesture than anything. “This? What more could a girl ask for?"
"Plumbing? Electricity? Wi-Fi? A-C?"
I laugh. "Plumbing." I point at the toilet closet and hand pump. "Electricity." I point at the light bulb overhead. "My phone is off and will stay off." I point at the open door. "AC." I nip the tip of his chin. "Like I said. What else could a girl ask for?"
He shakes his head. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"Deserve doesn't enter the equation, baby," I tell him.
"Who deserves anything? Deserve implies that it has to be earned.
And Killy-honey, you didn't earn me. I love you because of who you are.
Not because of what you did or who your parents are or how much money they have, or any of that.
I love you because you're cool and funny and interesting and smart and fierce.
I love you because you're hot as fuck. I love you because you fought like a barbarian to protect me and to get me home.
I love you because my heart and mind and body just recognize something in you, honey.
It was not and is not and will never be because you do or do not deserve anything. "
He tugs my lower lip down. "There's that old lady wisdom I love so much."
I fake a glare. "Who are you calling an old lady, young man?" I nip his lower lip playfully. "Let’s get the rest of the stuff in so we can go for a swim."
He growls. "Okay, but I need to see that bikini. Stat."
I shake my head. "Once the stuff is in,” I tell him.
“If I take this cover-up off, nothing else is going to happen.
Trust me." I dance out of his reach as he grabs for me, tripping and skipping backward into the sunshine.
"But I suppose I could give you a little preview.
" I point at him. "You stay right there, mister. "
He shoves his hands in his pockets—because even men's booty shorts have decent pockets. "Yes, ma'am."
I smirk, then bite my lip and let my need for him light up my eyes, my face. I can let it all out now. Feel it all. Express it all. I've kept my need for Killian pent up inside me for months now. And not to put too fine a point on it, it's been torturous. For us both, I know.
I lift the hem of my cover-up inch by inch, shimmying my hips, dragging it up my thighs to my hips, then to my belly, and then up around my neck, baring my bikini for Killy.
As I reveal it, he slowly shoves the sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes go wider and wider, so comically that I have to stifle a laugh.
He takes an involuntary step forward, reaching for me. "Jesus H Christ, Story."
I give a cutesy shrug-and-curtsey with a demure grin. "What, this ol' thing?"
"You know exactly what it's doing to me, so don't play, woman." He snorts. "This ol' thing."
I let the hem drop. "Let’s get the stuff put away." I wink at him, turn away, lift the hem in back and wiggle my ass at him. "So we can get to the fun stuff." I smack my butt cheek. "Namely…this."
"Well, when you put it like that,” Killian says, trotting after me with a shit-eating grin on his face.