Chapter 5 #2
Thank God he’d slept at his own home that night.
He’d yet to sleep at Hailey’s even though they’d been together more than a few nights already.
He knew his dreams well enough that he couldn’t predict when they appeared.
He didn’t want Hailey to have to experience them, or rather him when he had them.
And God forbid if he ever woke up swinging, he wouldn’t be able to deal with the consequences.
It’d been a couple of years since he’d talked to a professional, but it might be time to do that again.
He wasn’t afraid of shrinks, but sometimes the ones who hadn’t been over there just didn’t get it.
They said the right things, nodded at the appropriate times, but until they saw their friends dying or a little kid being shot in the head because he’d crossed the street at the wrong time, they just didn’t know.
He was fine most days. In fact, he was much better than he used to be.
He could sit in busy rooms, deal with loud noises.
His symptoms came later, in dreams. He didn’t have it as bad as other guys, but he knew the nightmares and the fact that sometimes he broke out into a cold sweat, even during the day, may not ever go away.
He’d never been violent, other than needing to box for stress relief sometimes, but he was like that before he’d seen what he’d seen, done what he’d done.
Before he’d had Hailey and had opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready to face—let alone let Hailey see.
He didn’t usually wake up swinging, but it could happen if he weren’t careful.
Things weren’t rainbows and unicorns. Things didn’t just get better.
And even if he had the ability to self-reflect and knew he was in pain and knew he had to move on, it wasn’t going to happen overnight. It might not ever happen.
And that was something he had to live with.
But it wasn’t something he had to force on the woman he loved.
He had brothers who had gone through worse. He knew others had gone through hell. PTSD wasn’t something someone could wear a ribbon for and call themselves a fucking ally. It was something that afflicted way too many people, and yet others who didn’t understand said to just get over it.
He wouldn’t get over it.
And hell, if he got over it, what would happen then? Would he forget his brothers? Forget the ones he’d lost?
He growled to himself, frustrated with the path his thoughts had taken.
Fuck this.
He pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the shower. He pulled the lever to as hot as he could take it, and let it steam up the room when he took care of his business and brushed his teeth. Then he stomped into the stall and tried to wash away the guilt and sin covering him.
If only he had Hailey with him. She’d help.
Whenever he was deep inside her, he forgot the pain and only thought of her.
At the thought of her, his dick filled and throbbed.
He fisted it, his mind going in a thousand different directions, but Hailey was at the forefront.
He thought of her warm heat, the way she gasped as she came, the way she raked her nails down his back.
He placed one hand on the shower wall and pumped into his hand, squeezing at the base and twisting up in rapid motions.
As he pictured her arching her back, her fingers in her pussy as she looked at him, he came.
Hard.
Spurts of come hit the shower wall then slid down in the now cooling water.
He took a shaky step back then roared. He punched the damn wall, his fist sliding through the poorly made tiles.
Pain ricocheted up his arm, and he wasn’t sure if he’d broken his hand or not, but he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything. He was dirty, stained.
Scarred in more ways than one. He’d just fucked his hand, thinking of a woman far too good for him.
He wasn’t worth anything. Just a man who should have died with his men instead of living to see another day…living to love her.
It wasn’t fair to those who had been lost.
It wasn’t fair to her.
As he pulled his hand out of the tile, he winced.
Blood dripped down his skin and to the drain below.
He flexed his hand, but he didn’t feel any burning pain so he figured he’d been fucking lucky.
He was a tattoo artist, damn it. He worked with his hands daily, and he could have easily just ruined everything in a blind rage.
And what would happen if he ruined it again with Hailey, huh?
He should break it off before they got too close. If he broke it off sooner rather than later, there might still be pieces to pick up so they could keep some semblance of friendship.
But first, he’d help her with her ink. He’d do it because he was an asshole and selfish enough to want it to be him to mark her body…even though he couldn’t mark her soul.
Not in the way they both needed.
He wasn’t good enough for that. And once Hailey realized that, it would all be lost.
And Sloane would be alone.
Where he deserved.
Again.