Chapter 21
RYDER
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Tracker’s words from long ago whisper all around me.
“You have to make a choice. Only you can do it. Only you can dig down deep enough to find whether there’s anything left worth fighting for.”
I can still feel the cold, sleek metal, the roughness of the grip biting into my sweaty palm, and my finger wrapped tightly around the trigger.
“Are you worth fighting for, Ryder? Are they? The ones just like you.”
My hands shake, and I curl them into fists, remembering the first time I pulled the trigger. I did it. And then I did it again, and again, and again. It was the first time I’d felt something like control. Something I’d never experienced before.
Whether I realized it or not, that day, I made a choice. I chose myself so that I could learn to save them. The ones taken to be used and left to rot from the inside out. The ones no one thinks about. Those who believe nobody will ever come for them.
Now, I face another choice. Only this time, I must choose myself—fight to take back another thing they stole from me.
I grab my phone, step into the closet, and shut the door.
“Hey, Ry.”
Jamie’s peppy voice only heightens my agitation when I need her to crawl through the ugly layers of hysteria threatening to consume me.
“Jamie.”
“Where are you? You sound like you’re in a tunnel.”
“I’m in the closet.”
“What’s going on? Is this like when we took Track’s night vision goggles to see if they really work and dropped them, then called Van from the closet to see if she’d help us fix them?”
I don’t respond, breathing through my panic. There’s a long pause before her bright tone dampens.
“Wait, is this a mayday?”
“I wish,” I force out, running a hand through my loose waves. “I’m wearing a dress that I’m pretty sure is made for a Barbie.”
“You’re in the dress?” Her voice perks back up. “How is it?”
“Small and suffocating.”
“I bet you look beautiful.”
My gut twists into another knot, and I wonder how much more it will tolerate before it shoves itself up my throat.
“Jamie,” I whisper her name as if it’ll help me. “He’s going to touch me, probably in the way a guy would his date.”
I rest my forehead in my hand, needing my racing heart to calm the hell down. This is ridiculous, but. . .it’s not.
“Ry, you know Cole and that you can trust him.”
For some reason, my nerves are telling me this is about more than just my sensory and trust issues. There’s something new in all of this, and the unknown of it all is pure torture.
“But I can’t freaking flinch or tense up when he puts his hand on my back or brushes up against me.”
“Breathe, Ry.”
I listen to her gentle voice, sucking air in and pushing it out slowly.
“Maybe you should…tell him.”
“Right and say what? I hate when people touch me.”
There’s a small laugh. “I mean, yeah. It’s true.”
I groan, needing her to help me.
“Ok. So, maybe it’s like when you were in training, and you had to get used to working in the dark. You had to learn to engage all your other senses to identify your surroundings.”
“What?!”
“You’ll hate this, but settle your stubborn ass down and listen. Practice.”
Shit! No!
This sounds like what Kerry suggested, and it’s a fucking terrible idea.
“Just close your eyes and desensitize yourself to him. You know how your senses work. It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“Ask him to touch me?” I spit out. “Hold on. Let me find a match and a sprinkle of gasoline so I can light myself on fire.”
She laughs. She freaking laughs, and I want to reach through the phone and pinch her.
“Well, don’t do that. You’ll ruin that pretty dress. Just think, this is like the prom we all missed.”
“Jamie, I’m losing my ever-loving shit, and you’re thinking about prom!” It comes out as sort of a growl as my windpipe shrinks to the size of a straw.
“Ry.” She says my name as if I’m being ridiculous, but that’s the pot calling the big freaking kettle black because she’s lost her damn mind. “Tell him physical contact is triggering, and since you need to appear as a couple, you have to be able to identify and be comfortable with his touch.”
She needs to not use words like “couple,” or I’ll vomit for sure.
I put my head between my knees. “I’m here to protect him! I can’t be some weak-ass, afraid of a little physical contact!”
Jamie sighs. “Ryder, you are the baddest of badasses. Nobody is messing with you. But, as much as it sucks and as hard as it is, sometimes even you have to be vulnerable.”
Jamie’s got her bossy pants on.
“Right now, this is your job. Who gives a shit if he thinks you’re insane? You’re there to guard his good-looking, talented behind, and you need his help. Now, get out there and have him put his hands on you.”
I pull oxygen in through my nose and blow it out.
I see what she’s done. She’s turned this into a job requirement; maybe I can do that. It’s not about me. It’s about protecting him.
“Damn. Have you secretly spent overtime with Kerry? Jamie, what the hell?”
There’s a moment of silence before she speaks, giving my body and heavily beating heart a chance to settle down.
“You can do this, Ry.”
I force myself up and step into my heels.
Boots. I want my boots in case I need to smash someone’s face in.
“Ok. I have a job to do, which today will involve a little touching.”
“Yep!”
“And I’m not going to lose my shit.”
“Nope. Not tonight anyway.”
“Love you, James.”
“I know. Even when I don’t.” Her voice is tender, and my chest squeezes tight.
“And Ry.” Her voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper.
“I’m only saying this because I really hope someday you say it back to me.
” She pauses. “It’s ok if you find out you don’t mind it when someone runs their hand down your arm or slips their fingers between yours. ”
I hear the struggle in her voice as my throat burns with pain from wanting this to be simple and not complete and utter torture. Every damn bit of it.
“You are the strongest, bravest person I know. You’re going to rock this fake girlfriend thing.”
It’s such a ridiculous thought, I swallow the knot in my throat and laugh, wanting to believe it. “Nah, you’re the brave one believing we can actually have that someday. I’ll let you believe for both of us.”
“Deal.”
I take some deep breaths, gathering myself before glancing in the mirror once more. I tug on the tight, stretchy fabric, making sure it covers my scar and as much skin as possible.
I open the bedroom door.
I can do this. I will fucking do this!
Cole stands in the kitchen, fastening a cuff link on his crisp white button-down shirt that fits like it was made for him. He’s as handsome as they come.
I take a tentative step into the kitchen, and his head lifts. Those perceptive blue eyes meet mine.
I want to run right back to my room as they move over me. Not in a way that makes me want to vomit, but in a way like he, too, has to get used to us like this and what we are about to do.
I suck in my stomach and hold my breath as if it will make me brave.
“You look. . .beautiful.” His hands fall to his sides, twisting his wrists slightly to slide his cuffs down.
I roll my glossy lips together.
Shit. Here goes nothing.
“I…”
Just say it. Who cares what he thinks? This is my job.
“This. . .won’t be easy for me.” I ease the truth out.
His dark brows pull together.
I bite my cheeks to force my mouth open again. “I need your help.” I push it out quickly before I change my mind.
“Ok.” His voice is gentle, and his gaze is set on mine, waiting.
I fist my hands, hoping it will strangle everything coming for me.
“Ryder.”
I carefully release my breath. “I have difficulty with being…touched.”
His eyes flick between mine.
“We can’t walk in there looking like—”
He takes a small step closer. “Tell me what to do. . .or not do.”
“This sounds totally stupid, but—”
“Ryder, tell me what will help.” His demand is so cautious it causes the ache to spread from my stomach into my chest, where it blooms and pierces.
It’s a new kind of pain. One I haven’t felt before, and it creeps into dark places left undisturbed after they were gutted so long ago.
I square my stance, trying to summon my fearlessness. “I’m. . . hypervigilant,” I admit. “I see and feel things that other people don’t.” I stare at the floor. “If I know what your hands feel like, I’ll know they’re yours and not someone else’s.”
I bite down on my lip, knowing I sound like a complete nutjob.
When he doesn’t say anything, I force my gaze to meet his.
His frown is replaced with all that self-assured confidence. “Ok. Tell me what you need.”
I know what Cole smells like. I know his voice.
What he sounds like when he coughs or clears his throat.
He has a scar on his chin about a centimeter in length, likely from a deep cut.
One of his ears is a tad lower than the other.
When he’s concentrating, the tip of his tongue presses against his top lip.
I know his stride and how he carries himself—his right shoulder dipping slightly as he thrusts his leg forward and then the other.
He walks tall and confident but loose. I can close my eyes and see him jogging off the field, and if there were no names and numbers, I’d still know exactly which one is him.
But I don’t know what his hands feel like.
I bite my lip harder, forcing my mouth open and choosing myself. “Can I. . .see your hands?”
One eyebrow arches. “You want to see my hands?”
“Yes, I know it sounds insane—”
He steps forward, extending them, palms up as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I glance at him and then his hands. He stands perfectly still, ready and waiting to help me. Two hands worth millions of dollars, and I’m treating them like they might be weapons.
Every muscle in my body contracts, and I want them to calm the storm of nervous humiliation rolling through me.
I run my fingers delicately over his, easing over the calloused patches. When I flip them over, two of the knuckles are rough with scabs.