Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ryder
The way her face flushes makes it almost impossible for me to keep my distance. I want nothing more than to back her up against the counter and remind her exactly what she’s missing, but I have a plan and I need to stick to it.
Mumbling something about getting back to work, she practically flees upstairs with her sandwich. I watch her go, enjoying the view as she takes the steps two at a time.
“Sure.” I manage to keep my voice casual, even though every cell in my body is screaming to follow her up those stairs.
As soon as she disappears, I let out a long breath and adjust myself in my jeans. Fuck. This is going to be harder than I thought.
The plan was to make her want me so badly she’d break her own rule, but I didn’t account for how fucking hard it would be on me, too.
When she bent over the counter to grab the mayo, my cock instantly went hard, straining painfully against my zipper.
Grabbing my plate, I grab a beer from the fridge, head to the living room and collapse onto the couch.
Goonie stares down at me from his perch on the bookcase.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I grunt.
He just keeps staring at me, swishing his tail back and forth. Then he shifts and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he paws at a stack of paperbacks on the shelf.
“Don’t even think about it, pudge.”
“Chirrup.”
Down go the books.
“Jesus. No wonder she calls you troublemaker.”
I push up from the couch, pick up the books and set them back on the shelf, then grab Goonie and set him on the floor.
“Behave.”
I turn on the TV, flipping through channels until I find an old action movie, hoping the mindless car chases might help to distract me.
But knowing Noia is just upstairs, probably still flushed and bothered by our slow-burn tête-à-tête, keeps me distracted.
Taking a long pull from my beer, I lean back and try to focus on the screen, but my mind keeps wandering.
This whole slow-burn game is torture, but I can’t deny there’s something intoxicating about the build-up of sexual frustration igniting the fire of anticipation.
My plan is to play this out over the next few days and into next week, then take her on a slow-burn overnight date.
The party at Skin it comes from the air itself, and it’s boiling me from the inside out.
Sand scratches my throat when I breathe in, clinging to my skin as it works its way into the crevices of my gear.
My world is full of dust and beige as my boots crunch on the sand.
I know where I am, because I’ve been here before.
Afghanistan, 2009: Operation Tumbleweed.
I grip the handle of my M4, heart thudding low and hard in my chest. My vest is soaked in sweat and my hands are shaking.
Get it together, Blackwood.
“Ryder, move!” A voice shouts from behind me.
I spin around to see Kade, his face looking just the way it did before the mortar hit. He’s waving me toward the Humvee, shouting something else I can’t hear. His lips are moving, but the sounds in my head have gone muffled, almost as if I’m underwater.
He takes one step and my world explodes.
BOOM!
The sound hits me like a sledgehammer, flinging me backward to the ground. My ears are ringing and the air tastes like metal, burnt meat, and fire.
I scramble forward, my palms tearing open on the jagged rocks. Someone is screaming, but I can’t tell if it’s me or someone else.
Smoke curls around my face, and all I can see is what’s left of a leg and other body parts strewn across the ground in bloody pieces.
My stomach lurches.
Kade is gone.
My lungs refuse to expand. I can’t breathe.
My heartbeat is a loud drumming in my ears as I look around, searching for my gun, but it’s gone.
Disoriented, I turn my head, and the desert landscape shifts, blurring to black.
Bolting upright, I immediately fall out of bed.
My chest stings and my eyes are wet as I push up from the floor onto my knees. I can still feel the heat, still hear the screams.
Dragging my hands through my hair, I give it a yank. I need the pain, something real to drag me back to the present.
A soft meow breaks through the chaos in my head, and I feel something warm and soft brush against my leg.
Goonie jumps into my lap, purring loudly as he headbutts my chin. His warm weight anchors me back to reality, pulling me away from the edge.
“Hey, pudge.” My voice comes out in a rasp, hands shaking as I stroke his soft fur.
Rubbing firmly against me, his purr vibrates through my chest like a tiny engine. It’s amazing how something so small can make such a difference, a steady presence helping to slow my racing heart.
“You’re a good little man,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. “Just don’t tell your mom I said that, okay?”
When my breathing finally evens out, I gently set Goonie on the floor and push myself up on unsteady legs. The nightmare has left me drenched in sweat.
Fuck. I need a drink.
Sweat slicking my skin, I leave my room and head straight for the liquor cabinet, pulling out the bottle of Jameson I bought last week.
Pouring three fingers into a tumbler, I down it in one burning gulp, then immediately pour another.
The warmth of the whiskey hits my veins, dulling the jagged edges of the dream and I head to the bathroom, taking the bottle with me.
Stripping off my sweat-soaked boxers, I leave them on the bathroom floor and turn on the shower.
Pressing my forehead against the cool tile, I let the water sluice away the remnants of my nightmare. By the time I step out, the whiskey has taken some of the edge off, leaving me exhausted but no longer trapped in the past.
I towel off and pull on a clean pair of boxers, not bothering with anything else, and I make my way into the living room.
The house is quiet and I’m thankful Noia is asleep and can’t see this train wreck. Collapsing onto the couch, I stretch out my legs and glance at the clock on the mantle: 3:17 a.m.
Then, like a small ghost, Goonie appears and jumps up into my lap. He turns in three tight circles before settling down, his warm weight oddly comforting.
I sigh and stroke a hand down his back.
He blinks up at me, yellow-green eyes telling me he understands much more than he’s letting on.