CHAPTER 3
Carla
I can't sleep.
And on the other side of the wall, nothing.
Timothy Shannon is quiet. Too quiet. I keep expecting to hear his television or the sound of him moving around, but there's only silence.
Which means he's either asleep or doing the same thing I am. Lying awake. Thinking.
I roll onto my side and punch the pillow, trying to get comfortable. It doesn't work.
My brain won't shut off. It keeps replaying the parking lot. The black Ram. The way Timothy stepped between me and the truck without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had every right to put himself between me and danger.
And the stupid thing is, I let him.
Worse than that, I was grateful.
I throw off the covers and get up. The apartment is dark except for the glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. I pace to the window and look out at the parking lot below.
Empty. Quiet. No black Ram.
It wasn't Randall. I know that now. The guy in the truck was too old, too heavy, wrong everything. But for those few seconds, my body didn't care about logic. It just knew: threat. Run. Hide.
Except I didn't run.
Because Timothy was there.
I press my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.
This is bad. This whole thing is bad.
I came here to disappear. To keep my head down and rebuild something that looks like a life. The last thing I need is a neighbor who notices things. Who follows me home to make sure I'm safe. Who looks at me like he's already planning how to fix problems I haven't even told him about.
The last thing I need is to notice him back.
But I do.
I noticed the way his shoulders filled out that Henley. The way his voice stayed calm even when I was two seconds from losing it.
"Get it together," I mutter to myself.
I move away from the window and go to the kitchen, and make myself a cup of tea.
I’m steadier now than I was this afternoon, but I can still feel the crash coming.
Adrenaline doesn't just disappear. It lingers.
It builds up in your system until your body forces it out, usually in the form of shaking or tears or both.
I check the locks on the door. Deadbolt. Chain. Doorknob. All secure.
Then I go back to the living room and sink onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs even though I'm not cold.
I shouldn't have told him my name. Shouldn't have let him walk me to my car. Shouldn't have looked into those hazel eyes and felt something I haven't let myself feel in months.
Safe.
God, what a joke. I haven't been safe since the day I met Randall Shelly. Maybe not even before that.
The clock on the wall ticks past midnight. Then one. Then two.
I flip through channels on the television, not watching anything, just letting the noise fill the silence. Some cooking show. A rerun of Law and Order. An infomercial for a blender that can apparently crush rocks.
I should try to sleep. I have a shift at the diner in the morning. Six to two. I need to be functional. Need to smile at customers and pour coffee and pretend I'm a normal person living a normal life.
But every time I close my eyes, I see the black Ram. I see Randall's face. I feel his hands.
So I stay on the couch, wrapped in the blanket, staring at the television until exhaustion drags me under.
***
THE DREAM IS ALWAYS the same.
I'm in our apartment. The one we shared on base at Fort Bragg. I'm holding my car keys. My go-bag is packed and sitting by the door. I've been planning this for weeks, waiting for him to leave for a training exercise so I could get out clean.
But he came back early.
"Where do you think you're going, babe?"
He's standing in the doorway. Blocking the exit. His voice is calm. Reasonable. The voice he uses when he wants me to think I'm being irrational.
"I'm leaving," I say. My voice is steadier in the dream than it was in real life.
He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make me feel special. Now it just makes my skin crawl.
"No. You're not."
He moves toward me, and I back up, but there's nowhere to go. The apartment is small. Fourteen hundred square feet. I measured it once, pacing, trying to calculate how many steps it would take to get from the bedroom to the door if I needed to run.
Thirty-two steps.
I never made it past fifteen.
My back hits the wall. He's still smiling.
"We talked about this, Carla. You don't get to leave me. You belong to me."
His hand comes up. I flinch. I always flinch.
And then his hand is on my throat, squeezing, and I can't breathe, and I'm clawing at his wrist but he's so much stronger, and I'm going to die here, I'm going to die and no one will care because everyone thinks he's such a good guy, such a decorated soldier, and who's going to believe me over him—
I jerk awake with a gasp.
The living room. I'm in the living room. Safe. Alone.
My hands are shaking. There are tears on my face, and I don't remember starting to cry.
"Damn it," I whisper.
I push off the couch and start pacing. Twelve steps to the window. Twelve steps back. Movement helps. It reminds my body that I'm here, now, not there, not with him.
But tonight, it's not working.
Tonight, the fear is clinging to me like a second skin, and I can't shake it off.
I'm still pacing when the knock comes.
I freeze, every muscle locking up.
It's three in the morning. No one knocks at three in the morning.
Unless they found me.
I cross to the side table and grab the Glock 19 from the drawer. I keep it loaded now. Another rule I broke. You're supposed to store the gun and ammunition separately, but that doesn't help when someone's kicking down your door.
The knock comes again. Softer this time.
"Carla?" A male voice. Quiet. Familiar. "It's Timothy. From next door."
Timothy.
Not Randall. Not one of Randall's buddies. Just my neighbor who apparently doesn't sleep either.
"I heard you through the wall," he says. "Are you okay?"
I stare at the door, gun in hand, trying to decide what to do.
I could pretend I'm not here. Ignore him until he goes away.
But he knows I'm awake. He heard me.
And part of me, the stupid part that wanted him to follow me home from Walmart, wants to open the door.
I set the Glock on the coffee table and cross to the door, starting to work the locks. Deadbolt. Chain. Doorknob. My hands are shaking so badly it takes two tries to get the chain off.
When I pull the door open, he's standing there in jeans and a gray T-shirt. He looks tired. Worried.
His eyes drop to the Glock on my coffee table, then back to my face. He doesn't look surprised.
"Bad dream?" he asks.
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
"Can I come in?"
I should say no. Should tell him I'm fine and send him back to his own apartment.
But I don't.
I step back, and he walks inside.
I close the door but don't lock it yet. I need the option of kicking him out if this goes sideways.
He looks around my apartment like he's cataloging everything. The stack of library books on the coffee table. The blanket wadded up on the couch. The mug of tea I made earlier and forgot to drink.
"You want to sit?" he asks, nodding toward the couch.
I shake my head. Sitting feels wrong. Too vulnerable.
He doesn't push. He just stands there, solid and calm, and I hate how much better I feel with him in the room.
"How bad are they?" he asks after a moment.
"What?"
"The nightmares."
I cross my arms over my chest. I'm wearing an old Marines tank top and sleep shorts, and I'm suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing. How exposed I am.
"Bad enough."
"Every night?"
"Most nights."
He nods like this makes sense. Like he gets it.
"I did two tours in Afghanistan," I say, because I'm tired of him guessing. Tired of the questions I can see forming behind his eyes. "Marine Corps. Infantry. Got out eighteen months ago on a medical discharge."
"Combat related?"
"Yeah. I was in a jeep crash. Fucked me up real good."
It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. The real reason I got out was Randall. The real reason was that staying in meant staying with him, and I was going to die if I did that.
But Timothy doesn't need to know that part.
"Where did you serve?" he asks.
"Helmand Province. Sangin. Marjah. All the garden spots."
His mouth quirks. "I spent time in Sangin. Small world."
"Too small."
We stand there in the dim light of my living room, two former soldiers who probably passed each other a dozen times overseas without knowing it.
"Army Rangers," he says. "Fifteen years. Retired six months ago."
"Why?"
"Took shrapnel in Kandahar. Leg." He taps his right thigh. "Healed, but I walk with a limp now. Knew my days running ops were numbered, so I got out on my own terms."
I glance down at his leg. I didn't notice a limp, but now that he mentions it, I can see the way he favors his left side slightly.
"What brought you here?" I ask.
"I needed a change. Needed somewhere quiet to figure out what comes next." He pauses. "You?"
"Same."
It's close enough to the truth.
"The guy in the truck today," he says. "You thought it was someone else."
My stomach clenches. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't him."
"But you thought it was."
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
I look away. "Someone I used to know."
"Someone who scares you."
No sense in lying when he already knew the answer to the question. "Yes."
"Is he looking for you?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I've been careful."
"How careful?"
"Careful enough." I turn back to face him. "I paid cash for this apartment. I don't have social media. I don't use credit cards. I work at a diner where no one asks questions. I've done everything right."
He takes a step closer. Not touching me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact.
"If someone's looking for you, I can help."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"You know nothing."
His gaze holds mine. "I know I'm not going to let whoever this is get to you."
My breath catches in my throat.
He means it. I can see it in his eyes. This man I barely know is standing in my living room at three in the morning, making promises he has no business making.
And God help me, I want to believe him.
"You should go," I say, but my voice comes out wrong. Too quiet. Too unsteady.
"Probably," he agrees.
He doesn't move.
Neither do I.
The air between us feels charged. Dangerous. Like something is about to break.
"Timothy," I start, but I don't know how to finish the sentence.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Everything in me goes still. He reaches up and cups the back of my neck with one hand. His palm is rough and solid, and the touch sends a jolt straight through me.
Then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's hungry and desperate, and I'm kissing him back before my brain catches up.
His other hand goes to my hip, pulling me closer, and I go without thinking.
My hands find his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.
His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound I haven't made in months.
Want. Need. I've been so numb for so long, and now I'm feeling everything at once.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall, and then he's pressed against me, solid and real.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, and I tip my head back to give him access.
His hand slides under the hem of my tank top, fingers splaying across my ribs, and I arch into the touch because I want this, I want him, I want to feel something other than afraid.
"Carla," he says against my skin, and the sound of my name in that voice unravels something in me.
His mouth finds mine again, harder this time, more demanding, and I'm drowning in him. His hand moves higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and for a second it feels good, it feels right.
And then it doesn't.
Randall's hands. Randall's weight pinning me down. Randall's voice telling me to stop fighting, just relax, you know you want this.
I shove at Timothy's chest. Hard.
He steps back immediately, hands up, eyes searching my face.
"Stop," I gasp. "I can't. I can't do this."
"Okay," he says. Just that. Okay.
He's breathing hard, but he doesn't come closer. Doesn't ask why. Doesn't push.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together. "Sorry. Shit. I'm sorry."
"Don't." Timothy's across the room now, hands visible. "Not your fault."
"I wanted—I thought I could—"
"Hey." His voice gentles. "We've got time. No rush."
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't apologize." His voice is steady. "You don't owe me anything."
"I just. I can't."
"I know."
He doesn't know. He can't possibly know.
But he's looking at me like he understands anyway.
"I should go," he says after a moment.
I nod.
He moves toward the door, and I follow because I need to lock it behind him. Need to rebuild the walls he just kicked down without even trying.
At the door, he turns back.
"If you need anything," he says. "I'm right next door."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Carla. Three in the morning, three in the afternoon, doesn't matter. You need something, you knock."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod.
He leaves, and I lock the door behind him. Deadbolt. Chain. Doorknob.
Then I lean against it and press my fingers to my lips.
I can still taste him.
And I'm terrified because I want to unlock the door and pull him back inside. I want to finish what we started. I want to let him touch me and make me forget everything that came before.
But I can't.
Because the last time I let a man get close, I ended up running for my life.