CHAPTER 5
Carla
Timothy's apartment feels completely different than mine. Maybe it's because his furniture is nicer. A real couch instead of the secondhand thing I bought off Craigslist. A coffee table that doesn't wobble. Bookshelves lined with paperbacks and what looks like military manuals.
Or maybe it's because it smells like him. That clean, masculine scent that made me dizzy when he kissed me.
I stand in the middle of his living room with my duffel at my feet, feeling like an idiot.
What am I doing here?
I'm a Marine. I survived two tours in Afghanistan. I can field strip an M4 in under a minute. I can hit a target at three hundred yards. I can handle myself in hand-to-hand combat.
And I'm hiding in my neighbor's apartment like some scared little girl.
"You okay?" Timothy asks.
I turn. He's standing by the kitchen counter, watching me with those hazel eyes that see too much.
"Fine," I lie.
"You sure? Because you look like you're about to bolt."
"I'm not going to bolt."
"Good." He moves into the kitchen and opens the fridge. "You hungry? I was going to make something."
"You cook?"
"Basic stuff. Nothing fancy. But yeah." He pulls out chicken breasts and vegetables. "Spent fifteen years eating MREs. When I got out, I decided I was going to learn how to make real food."
I should offer to help. Should do something other than stand here feeling useless.
But I can't seem to move.
Everything that happened today is catching up to me.
Seeing Randall. Hearing his voice. The way he looked at me like I was still his.
Like the past eight months didn't matter.
Like I didn't have a choice. Me making the decision to pull the trigger and shoot him at point blank range. Ending this once and for all.
And then Timothy stepped between us without hesitation. Without asking. Just deciding I was worth protecting and acting on it.
No one's ever done that before. I had been willing to kill Timothy and destroy my life to be free of him. And Timothy stopped that.
"Carla."
I blink. Timothy is standing in front of me now, close enough to touch.
"You're shaking," he says.
I look down at my hands. He's right. They're trembling.
"I'm fine," I say again.
"Stop saying that."
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth."
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "The truth is I'm tired. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder every second of every day. And I'm tired of pretending I have any control over my life when clearly I don't."
"You have control."
"Do I? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm just reacting. Just surviving. And now I'm dragging you into my mess, and you're going to get hurt because of me, and I don't know how to stop that from happening."
"I'm not going to get hurt."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He reaches up and cups my face with both hands, tilting my head back so I have to look at him. "I've been doing this a long time, Carla. Handling threats. Neutralizing targets. I know what I'm doing."
"Randall isn't some target. He's Special Forces. He's trained. He's dangerous."
"So am I."
"You don't understand. He's obsessed. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants."
"Then I'll make sure he doesn't get it."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
But I've been let down too many times. By the system that was supposed to protect me. By the people who were supposed to believe me. By myself for thinking I could handle Randall on my own.
"You should eat something," Timothy says, dropping his hands. "You look like you haven't had a real meal in days."
He's right. I've been living on coffee and whatever I can grab between shifts at the diner.
"Okay," I say. I can’t fight him anymore and truth be told, I don’t wan to.
He goes back to the kitchen, and I sink onto the couch, watching him move around the space. He's comfortable here. This is his territory. His sanctuary.
And he's letting me into it.
I don't know what to do with that.
He cooks the chicken in a pan, adds the vegetables, seasons everything with things I don't recognize. The apartment fills with the smell of garlic and something spicy.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
Timothy glances over his shoulder and smirks. "When's the last time you ate?"
"This morning. Toast."
"That's not food."
"It's carbs."
"It's not enough." He plates the food and brings it over, handing me a fork. "Eat."
I take a bite, and it's good. Really good. Better than anything I've made for myself in months.
"This is amazing," I say.
"It's just chicken and vegetables."
"Still amazing."
He sits next to me on the couch, close enough that our thighs almost touch. I want to crawl on top of him and lose myself in his body for hours and hours. I shouldn’t be thinking these things. Not now. Not when Randall is out there somewhere, planning his next move.
But I can't stop. I want to forget what Randall’s hands felt like on me. I want to replace that with a good memory. Timothy would be a good memory.
We eat in silence for a while, and then Timothy asks, "How long were you with him?"
I set my fork down. "Two years. Met him at Fort Bragg. He was charming. Funny. Everyone loved him. I thought I was lucky."
"When did it start?"
"The abuse?" I stare at my plate. "About six months in. Little things at first. Controlling what I wore. Who I talked to. Where I went. I told myself it was just because he cared. Because he wanted to protect me."
"But it got worse."
"Yeah. It got worse." I take a breath. "He hit me the first time after I came back from a deployment.
I'd been gone for seven months, and when I got back, he accused me of cheating on him.
Said I smelled different. Said I looked at him different.
I told him he was being ridiculous, and he backhanded me across the face. "
Timothy's jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything. Just listens.
"I should have left then," I continue. "But he apologized. Cried. Said he'd been so scared of losing me that he lost control. Promised it would never happen again." I laugh bitterly. "It happened again two weeks later. And then again. And again. Until I stopped counting."
"Did you report it?"
"Once. To my CO. He told me to work it out. Said Randall was under a lot of stress. Said maybe I should try being more understanding." I look at Timothy. "No one believed me. Everyone thought Randall was this great guy. This hero. And I was just the difficult girlfriend who didn't appreciate him."
"That's bullshit."
"Yeah. It is. But that's how it goes. He's Special Forces. Decorated. Respected. And I'm just some enlisted grunt who can't keep her man happy."
"Don't talk about yourself like that."
"Why not? That's what everyone else thought."
"I don't."
I meet his gaze, and there's something fierce in his eyes. “Then I started fighting back and I got thrown in the brig.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Tell me about it.” I pick up my fork and begin to eat again. Fuck it. This meal was too good to let Randall ruin it.
"I think you're the strongest person I've ever met," he says. "You survived two tours in combat. You survived an abusive relationship. You got out. You rebuilt your life from nothing. That takes guts. That takes strength most people don't have."
"I don't feel strong."
"You are."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's wrong. But the way he's looking at me makes it hard to breathe.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "Why are you helping me? You barely know me."
He sets his plate on the coffee table and turns to face me. "You want the truth?"
"Yes."
"I've been watching you since the day I moved in. Noticing you. Wanting to talk to you but respecting the fact that you clearly wanted to be left alone. And then I saw you in that parking lot, and I knew. I knew you were in trouble. I knew you needed help. And I knew I wasn't going to walk away."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine."
The words hang in the air between us.
"I don't belong to anyone," I say.
"That's not what I meant." He leans closer. "I mean you're mine to protect. Mine to take care of. Mine to make sure no one ever hurts again."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
And then he's kissing me.
It's different from the kiss last night. Less desperate. More deliberate. Like he's savoring it. Savoring me.
I should pull away. Should tell him that I'm too broken for this.
But I don't.
Instead, I kiss him back. I want the memory of him.
His hands go to my waist, pulling me closer, and I let him. I let him because I'm tired of fighting. Tired of being alone. Tired of pretending I don't want this.
I want him.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, and I tip my head back to give him access. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying across my ribs, and I arch into the touch.
"Carla," he says against my skin. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "If we do this, there's no going back. You understand that?"
"I understand."
"I'm not going to be some rebound. Some guy you use to forget about him."
"You're not."
"Then what am I?"
I don't know how to answer that. Don't know how to put into words what I'm feeling. So I show him instead.
I kiss him hard, my hands going to his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He's all muscle and scars, and I want to know the story behind every one of them.
But not now. Now I just want to feel.
He stands, pulling me up with him, and walks me backward toward the bedroom. We're kissing the whole way, hands everywhere, and by the time we get to the bed, I'm shaking.
Not from fear. From want.
He lays me down and covers my body with his, and the weight of him feels right. Safe.
"You sure about this?" he asks for the third time.
"Yes. Stop asking."
"If you need me to stop—"
"I'll tell you. I promise."
He nods, but I can see the concern in his eyes. He's terrified of hurting me.
"Timothy." I cup his face. "You're not him. You could never be him. Okay?"
"Okay."
He kisses me again, slower this time, and his hands start working on my clothes. Shirt first. Then my bra. Then my jeans.
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable.
But I don't.
Because the way he's looking at me, like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, makes me feel powerful.
"You're gorgeous," he says.
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it to be nice. I'm saying it because it's true." His hands skim over my body, touching everywhere, and I gasp. "Every inch of you is perfect."
His hand slides down my ribs, over my hip. Pauses. "Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." But my heart is racing. He must feel it.
"We can stop."
"No. I want this. Just... give me a second." I close my eyes. Breathe. This is Timothy. Not Randall. Timothy, who stopped when I asked. Who's asking permission for everything.
"Okay," I say. "I'm okay."
“Are you sure?”
"Timothy."
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking and touch me."
He grins. "Yes, ma'am."
His mouth follows the path his hands took, kissing his way down my body, and I'm trembling now. Aching.
When he finally touches me where I need him most, I nearly come apart.
"Easy," he says. "We've got time."
"I don't want to take it slow."
"Too bad. I do."
He takes his time, drawing it out, making me beg. And when I finally can't take it anymore, when I'm on the edge and ready to scream, he strips off the rest of his clothes and settles between my thighs.
"Condom?" I gasp.
"Nightstand."
He reaches over and grabs one, and I watch him roll it on. He's big. Bigger than Randall. And for a second, fear tries to claw its way in.
But then he's kissing me again, and the fear dissolves.
"You still with me?" he asks again.
"Yes."
"Tell me if I hurt you."
"You won't."
He pushes inside, slow and careful, and I'm so ready for him that it doesn't hurt. It just feels full. Right.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel incredible."
I can't speak. Can't think. Can only feel.
He starts to move, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groans and picks up the pace, and I'm lost in it. Lost in him.
"Say my name," he says.
"Timothy."
"Again."
"Timothy."
"That's right. I'm the one inside you. I'm the one making you feel this way. Not him. Me."
"You," I agree. "Only you."
He kisses me hard, possessive, and I kiss him back with everything I have.
When I come, it's like nothing I've ever felt before. Not just physical. Emotional. Like something inside me that's been locked away for months finally breaks free.
He follows a moment later, my name on his lips, and then he's collapsing on top of me, breathing hard.
We lie there for a long moment, tangled together, and I'm suddenly terrified.
Because this wasn't just sex.
This was something more.
Something I'm not sure I'm ready for.
He rolls off me and disposes of the condom, then pulls me into his arms.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes.
For the first time in eight months, I feel safe.
And that scares me more than anything Randall could do.
Because if I let myself believe this is real, if I let myself fall for Timothy, and then I lose him, I don't know if I'll survive it.
But lying here in his arms, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek, I realize it's too late.
I'm already falling.
And there's no going back.