Chapter 11
LAINE
The cold seeps into my bones so gradually that I don't notice until my teeth start chattering.
Three hours since Blake and I talked by the medical station, and my time was filled with checking vitals, cleaning wounds, and handing out supplies.
The temperature dropped another ten degrees as the sun disappeared, and I've been so focused on keeping everyone else warm that I forgot about myself. So dumb, but also, pretty much my m.o.
My fingers are numb, which is a problem given that I'm supposed to be taking blood pressure readings. I fumble with the cuff on Mrs. Martin's arm, trying to position it correctly, but my hands won't cooperate.
"You're shaking, honey." Mrs. Martin peers up at me with concern. She's seventy-three, diabetic, living in a tent behind the QFC. And she's worried about me.
"I'm fine. Just need to—"
A heavy blanket drops around my shoulders. Wool, scratchy, smelling faintly of cedar and motor oil. I know who it is before I turn around. Is the fact that I can feel his energy a good thing? Maybe it's my lizard brain sensing danger.
Only I don't think I'm in danger from him. Not anymore.
"Stubborn woman," Blake mutters.
His hands find my upper arms through the blanket, and he starts rubbing. Friction heat. Basic survival technique. I should pull away, should tell him I'm fine, should—
"Jesus, you're frozen solid." His voice is rough. Annoyed. "How long have you been out here without a break?"
"I don't know. Couple hours?"
"Three. It's been three hours, Laine. I've been watching."
"If you already knew, then why did you bother asking?"
“Because I’m trying to figure out if you’re oblivious or being deliberately reckless.”
He growls low in the back of his throat, then scowling, he's steering me away from the medical station. His grip is firm, insistent. Not painful, but not taking no for an answer either.
"Wait I—"
"Danny can cover for five minutes. You're no good to anyone if you get hypothermia."
He's right. I hate that he's right. People still need help, though.
Blake steers me toward one of the industrial heat lamps near the supply tent. The orange glow hits me from ten feet out, and my whole body leans into it.
So warm.
There aren't any chairs. Just crates and pallets, all taken by people who actually need them. I open my mouth to say I'm fine standing, but Blake's already dropping to one knee on the cold ground.
"Come here." Oh geez. This very big, very tough man is kneeling at my feet, literally offering to support me.
Yeah. No. I'm not in danger from him. I don't think he's going to try and hurt me with his words any more.
But the way he looks at me? Yeah, he's still dangerous.
"What? No. Blake, I'm not going to—"
"Settle down." He tugs my hand, pulling me off balance. I half-stumble, half-sit onto his thigh, the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. "You don't weigh anything. Relax."
Well I wasn't worried about my weight considering his thigh's the size of a tree trunk, but good to know I guess? But sitting on his lap —leg isn't a good idea. Being close to him in any way is a bad idea. It's stirring up stuff that doesn't need to be stirred up. "This is ridiculous."
"So is freezing to death because you're too stubborn to take a break." His arm circles my waist, steadying me, but also locking me in place. "Five minutes. Then you can go back to saving the world."
I want to argue. Should argue. But the heat lamp is pouring warmth over us, and Blake's body is solid and warm against my side, and my fingers are tingling.
"Fine. Five minutes." This is my first winter. Maybe I am more like Bethany than I thought, because I chased the sun too. Accepting a post in the middle of winter anywhere was something I just didn't do.
Apparently, I still have a lot to learn about these temperatures.
"That's what I thought."
We sit in silence for a moment. Around us, the camp continues its quiet evening rhythm. Someone's playing guitar near one of the fires. A group of men are sharing a thermos of something that's probably not coffee.
"How's your stomach?" I ask finally. "No pukey pukey?"
The looks he shoots me cracks me up. I try to cover my mouth with my hand, but my whole body's shaking with laughter. Thank God he doesn't seem too pissed off about it. There might even be a little smile trying to hide at the corner of his mouth.
"No I didn't puke. For fuck's sake, a guy gets a little woozy once, and suddenly he loses all respect." He's grumbling under his breath, but that little smile gets a tiny bit bigger.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I shouldn't make fun. It's just—you went down so fast!" I'm still fighting giggles, wiping tears from my eyes. "One second you're all tough military guy, and the next you're sitting on the ground."
I take a deep breath, letting the last of the laughter go. It feels good to release it, but the reality of where we are—the freezing cold, the tents, the smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies—rushes back in to fill the space.
I look at Blake, really look at him. The gray in his stubble, the lines around his eyes that weren't there a few months ago.
"I guess you don't get the luxury of being soft where you were before. The armor has to be pretty thick to make it out alive."
"Has to be." Blake shifts slightly, adjusting his knee under my weight. "When you go through that kind of thing together, it either bonds you or breaks you. Sometimes both."
I think about Reid. About what he told me once, late at night, about the men he served with. The ones who made it home and the ones who didn't.
"You and Reid," I start, then stop. Not sure where I'm going with this.
"Me and Reid," Blake agrees. He doesn't push. Doesn't fill the silence. Just waits. It's something I appreciate about him, this stillness.
Reid's kind of like a toddler. If he's quiet, there's trouble. Not that I think of him like a child, but that exuberance, that busyness is all him.
"He never talked much about his service. I knew he was in the Marines, knew about Jared, but the details..." I trail off. "I guess I didn't ask enough questions."
"Reid doesn't like to talk about it. Never has." Blake's voice is quiet. "Some of us process by sharing. Some of us process by not sharing. Reid's the second kind."
"Which kind are you?" I almost want to slap my hand over my mouth. The Blake from before would have shut down this conversation. And by shut down I mean he'd have said something mean.
"I used to be the second kind," he says finally. "Kept everything locked down tight. Figured if I didn't talk about it, it couldn't hurt me."
"What changed?"
"Jared died," he says simply. Direct. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "After that, keeping it locked down stopped working. But I didn't know how to do anything else, so I just... stayed broken for a while."
My hand finds his. I don't plan it. But I can't not touch him.
Comfort him. His fingers are rough, calloused, warm despite the cold.
He doesn't pull away. The danger sign in my head is flashing, but I'm ignoring it.
It's not that hard really. I've never been this close to Blake for this long.
And I sure as heck never felt him under me like this.
Yep. That danger sign's short-circuiting now.
"You're not broken, Blake."
"Cracked, then. Chipped around the edges." He almost smiles. "Like that mantelpiece I was working on. Looks solid from a distance, but up close you can see all the places where it's been patched."
"That's not a flaw. That's character. That's proof of survival."
He turns his head to look at me then. His eyes are so dark in this light, the blue a stormy grey, and there's something in them I haven't seen before. Something raw. Something I can't look away from.
Darn it, Laine. This is so not smart.
"You're something else, you know that?"
"So I've been told."
The heat lamp crackles. Somewhere behind us, the guitar player switches to a slower song. Blake's hand tightens around mine, just slightly, and I feel that tightening all the way up my arm.
"When I was over there," he says slowly, "I used to think about what I'd do if I made it home. Plans, you know? Lists. Stupid stuff, mostly. Learn to cook something besides eggs. Fix up a house so I finally had somewhere that was mine. Find someone who could put up with me."
"Did you? Find someone?" I am so screwed up. Why does the idea of him with someone bother me so much? I love Reid.
Love. Not loved. Because all those feeling are still there under the leftover hurt. So if I love Reid, why am I holding hands with Blake?
It's just platonic. I'm being a friend.
Liar liar pants on fire.
"Thought I wasn't looking anymore." His thumb traces a slow circle on my palm. "Figured I'd missed my window. Too damaged, too difficult, too—"
"Too much?"
"Yeah." He exhales. "Too much. That's what my ex said, anyway. Before she left."
I didn't know there was an ex. Reid never mentioned it. Another thing I didn't ask about.
"When was that?"
"Long time ago. Before Jared. Before everything." He shrugs, the movement shifting me slightly on his knee. "Doesn't matter now."
But it does matter. It matters because Blake is opening up to me, telling me things I sense he doesn't tell anyone, and every word just makes me want to know more.
He's such a good man. Under all the harshness, all the walls, all the damage—he's good. He volunteers at a homeless camp. He took care of Reid without asking for anything in return. He held a dying soldier in his arms and still remembers his name, his family, his dreams.
And he hurt me. Deliberately, cruelly, because he didn't know how to handle what he was feeling.
But I'm starting to understand why.
Is this some version of Stockholm Syndrome? Am I delusional in thinking I could find my way to forgiving him?
Because I'm already mostly there. Not to mention the fact that I can't seem to stop myself from staring at his lips. His face is all sharp angles and harsh features, but his lips look so, so soft.
"Blake."
"Yeah?"
I should stop. Should think about what I'm doing, what it means, what happens next. Should consider Reid, consider the mess we've already made, consider all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But Blake is looking at me with those stormy eyes, and his hand is warm around mine and the heat lamp is making everything glow orange and gold, and I'm so tired of thinking.
So tired of being careful.
So tired of not knowing.
I tug my hand from his and cup his face. His stubble scratches my palms. His breath catches and his eyes widen. But he doesn't pull away. If anything, he sways just a little bit closer.
That's as close to a yes as I'm going to get.
I kiss him.
Not a peck. Not a soft brush of our mouths that I could talk my way out of. Oh, sorry. I got a wee bit of the dizzy. My lips just fell on yours. Total accident. Oh. Um. I was grabbing your hair? Right. Well, I needed help balancing.
For one perfect, terrifying moment, he kisses me back. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, and his lips move against mine, and shoot, there's heat. So much heat. A scary amount.
Then he's pulling away. Standing. Dumping me off his knee so fast I stumble.
"Blake—" Oh my God. I should not have done that. That was such a bad idea.
He's already pacing. Three steps away, turning, three steps back. His chest is heaving like he's been running. He won't look at me.
"What the hell was that?"
"I don't—" I follow him, trying to get into his line of sight. He turns away. "Blake, please."
"You can't just—" He runs both hands through his hair, gripping the back of his skull. "You can't do that, Laine. You can't—"
"I know. I know, I'm sorry, I just—" I just had to know. Now I wish I didn't.
"Why?" He spins to face me finally, and there's something desperate in his expression. Hurt and confused and angry all tangled together. I am such a jerk. A completely selfish jerk. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know." More lies. If there is a hell, I'm definitely going there.
"That's not good enough." His voice is harsh. Not cruel like before, not designed to wound, but hard. Demanding. "You don't get to kiss me like that and then say you don't know."
He's totally in the right. I'm the one who screwed up. "I felt like I had to." True. And not. I didn't have to. I wanted to. I'm thirty-two years old. Old enough to know that this pull that I'm feeling is rare. "I needed to—"
"Needed to what? See if you could break me twice?" He laughs, a harsh, horrible sound. "Mission accomplished. Gold star. You can tell Reid you—"
"This isn't about Reid!" I yell. Yep, people are looking. We both stand still, long enough for everyone to go back to what they were doing.
It's not about Reid. It should be, but it's not. How can I feel terrible about all of this, but still want to kiss him again?
"Bullshit." He's pacing again. Agitated. Like a lion in a cage. Is it terrible that I think he's beautiful? It's terrible. I know that. But I can't help it. "Everything is about Reid. You're his—you were his—"
"I'm not anyone's anything right now!" I grab his arm, force him to stop moving. I want his eyes on me. "I don't know what I am or what I want or who I want it with. I just know I couldn't stop thinking about you, and I needed to know—"
His chest is heaving, eyes burning into mine. "Know what?"
"If I have feelings too!"
The words echo in the cold air. Somewhere nearby, the guitar has stopped. I don't know if anyone is watching us, and right now I don't care.
Blake is staring at me. His arm is rigid under my grip.
"Feelings," he repeats flatly.
"Yes." My voice cracks. "Feelings. For you. The kind I shouldn't have. The kind that make me feel like a terrible person because you're his best friend and I was supposed to love him—I did love him—but then you told me what you felt and I couldn't stop thinking about it—"
"Laine."
"And I know it's wrong. I know it's probably a betrayal of everything, and Reid would hate me, and you probably hate me too now because I just complicated everything even more—"
"Laine."
"But I had to know, okay? I had to kiss you and see if it felt like something or nothing, because I can't keep wondering—"
"Laine." His hands close around my shoulders. Firm. Grounding. "Stop. Breathe."
I breathe. Once. Twice.
"What did it feel like?" His voice is quiet now. Rough. "The kiss. What did it feel like?"
I close my eyes. The taste of him is still on my lips.
"Something," I whisper. "It felt like something."