Shattered Dreams (Shattered #2)

18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I have a new workout partner in rehab. Terrell, who’s been with me since the beginning, moved to an earlier slot after getting a new nine-to-five job managing a shipping company. My new partner is a kid named Kip. His injury is similar to mine, except his amputation is on his left lower leg.

I can tell you a lot about Kip.

For example, I can tell you his amputation happened when a bomb destroyed the truck he was in. A stranded vehicle on a desert road meant his humvee had to go off-road to pass it. A buried IED went off beneath them when they did, and he and another soldier were ejected from the vehicle. The other two soldiers in the humvee were badly burned in the resulting fireball. The second ejected soldier ended up with a broken neck and a traumatic brain injury. Now he’s a quadriplegic with no memory of who he or anyone else is. He doesn’t even recognize his own mother.

I can tell you Kip spent two months in the hospital, that he broke every vertebrae in his back between L3 and S2, that he fractured his right shoulder blade, multiple right ribs, and his right hip. I can tell you he has a titanium hip replacement on that side and that he struggled with his crutches until his ribs healed. I can tell you the explosion ripped his left ankle off, but the surgeons refined his amputation to just below his left calf.

I can tell you his now-ex-girlfriend’s name is Jennifer, and that she has black hair that falls to her tiny waist, huge blue doe eyes, and has had – and wrecked – three new cars in the past two years – a Mustang, a Camaro, and a Miata. Her favorite color is gold (the twenty-four karat variety), and she loves gifts. I can tell you she dumped him, but he believes it’s temporary. Just a rough patch, is how he’s put it.

Repeatedly.

I can tell you his best friend’s name is Kyle, and they share a ground-level apartment. Kyle doesn’t think much of Jennifer, but he tries not to say much about it around Kip. Kip overheard him on the phone with his mom, though, and now she won’t stop coming over to check on him.

I can tell you all these things because for the love of God, Kip. Just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

Today’s topic is the car he’s thinking about getting Jennifer. A nearby dealership has last year’s model convertibles on sale for twenty percent below sticker price because the new inventory is in. He thinks he can swing it, though it’ll cut his own budget painfully thin. But it might end their “rough patch” and help Jennifer see he’s worth a second chance.

Thankfully, Tom doesn’t mind talking to him, leaving me to focus on getting my exercises done and escaping. Kip’s a good kid, but I don’t have the emotional energy to feed his desperate need for approval and acceptance. It takes all my effort to keep my foul moods from leaking out onto Charlie like I did in Texas, though that was less “leak” and more “steady stream”.

Charlie is the best thing that ever happened to me. I know that. But I’ve also known since I woke up with this fucking pirate peg leg that she deserves something better than I’ll ever be able to give her. I know I need to let her go, but I’m weak, and she knows it. She uses her perfect body to pull me back in, and my willpower shatters like glass. She’s my heroin, and I’m completely addicted.

A week or so after I finally get to start wearing my prosthetic, Tucker and I go out to his usual sports bar. It’s packed to the gills, too loud to even hear each other. After a couple of beers, we call it a night. When I get home, Charlie’s in my shower. “Knock, knock, Baby Girl,” I call from the doorway, not wanting to startle her.

She opens the glass door a crack, and I catch a glimpse of creamy skin, gorgeous curves, and bright eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you home so soon. Want to join me?”

She draws me in like a moth to a flame, and despite knowing I ought to decline, I’m powerless to resist. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I scurry back to the bedroom and divest myself of my jeans far enough to use the Allen wrench to remove my prosthesis. I yank it out of the leg of my jeans before peeling them the rest of the way down and off my body. I finish stripping quickly before attaching my flesh-colored shower leg with its non-slip foot, then grab my crutches and hurry to the bathroom.

A couple more months and I won’t need these damn crutches at all.

I leave them outside the shower, using the handrails and my good leg to limp to her, still only partially bearing weight on my prosthesis. She faces me, her wet hair slicked back, her eyes luminous. “Hi,” she murmurs.

I lean closer, gripping the handrail with my right arm and bracing my left arm on the shower wall, caging her body. My lips close over hers. “Hi,” I answer against her lips.

Soft sighs. Softer flesh. Quiet groans and loud moans. Hard planes. Lush curves. Slick skin. Heat. I devour her with my mouth before spinning her around to face the wall. My mouth finds the place where her neck meets her shoulder, grazing her with my teeth. My left hand cups her breast before moving lower to stroke between her legs. My erection juts out, and I thrust lightly against her pussy from behind, sliding from her entrance to her clit and back, and she moans, chasing my cock with her body.

That’s all the encouragement I need.

I wrap my arm around her waist, guiding her hips back as I sink into her. She gasps, moving forward slightly before pushing back against me, her inner walls gripping me.

God, she feels good.

I try to hold back, but she’s so responsive, pushing back, pulling me in further. I growl deep in my chest before gripping her hip tightly with my left hand, hanging onto the shower rail with my right hand for more powerful thrusts. She’s braced with her hands against the wall, and I release her hip, capturing her wrists to slide them higher up the wall, straightening her body and changing the angle at which we fit together before slamming into her.

In a split second, everything shatters.

Charlie turns ferocious in the space of a single breath. She jerks free from me and whirls, elbowing me below the ribs hard enough to double me over. A second elbow catches me in the face, followed by a shove that knocks me back onto my ass, skidding across the wet floor of the shower. I stare at her, confused as hell.

She’s panting, snarling, wild-eyed and fierce, but she’s not… here. She’s somewhere else, another time, another place. She scoots backwards on the bench, backing into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest as she stares blankly, breathing hard.

Oh fuck.

“Baby Girl?”

There’s no response from her, none at all.

She’s having a flashback.

I replay the last couple of minutes and suddenly feel sick.

Fuck. What was I thinking?

Guilt washes over me, thick and sour. When I rescued Charlie from that cell, they’d suspended her by her wrists and raped her from behind God knows how many times.

And I just held her wrists above her head and fucked her hard in that exact position.

“Baby Girl? Baby Girl, it’s me. You’re safe.”

But she just stares, wordless, unblinking. Broken.

I stand carefully, backing away to the rear wall of the shower. I check the temperature to be sure the water’s warm before angling the shower head toward her. I’m not sure how long it might take me to get through to her, and I don’t want her getting chilled. Then I brace myself on the rail, limping toward the shower door. Cold air rushes into the steamy space when I open it, and she shivers. I reach for a bath towel and drape it over her, careful not to touch her. She doesn’t move. Warm water soaks into it immediately. Hopefully, it will keep her warm. I leave the shower door open so I can monitor her without encroaching on her space.

I’m pretty sure a naked man isn’t something someone reliving a rape should see, so I dry off quickly and drag on shorts, leaving my shower leg attached. I hobble back into the bathroom.

Charlie hasn’t moved an inch, and her eyes are glazed. It reminds me of her expression when they summoned me from Afghanistan to Walter Reed. She was catatonic then. It was so bad, they were considering placing her in a psychiatric hospital.

I drop a towel onto the floor in front of the shower, mopping up the excess spray from the shower before sitting down. I’m in her line of sight, but still far enough away that I’m not a threat, and she has the high ground.

“Hey, Baby Girl. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I’ve got you, Baby Girl. You’re safe.” I repeat the same phrases over and over as I observe her, my stomach clenching at my thoughtlessness. As minutes pass, her breathing slows and deepens. I’m watching when her arms tense around her knees and her eyes widen.

“You’re safe, Baby Girl. You’re at home, in my shower. No one’s going to hurt you.” She jumps visibly, her eyes tracking for the source of my voice before she freezes.

“Oh, God,” she whispers.

“Tell me where you are,” I prompt her.

“Cedar Ridge. My house. Your shower.”

“Tell me four things you can see.”

“Water all over the floor, a wet bath towel, you sitting on the floor, and a bruise coming up on your face. I know where I’m at. Oh, God, Mark, did I do that?”

“Do what?”

She throws off the saturated towel and flings herself toward me, nearly slipping on the wet tile. I catch her in my arms as she lands on me, wrapping her wet body around me, her legs around my waist and her head on my chest.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean – ” My throat gets tight at the thought of scaring her, of hurting her.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I – I hit you, didn’t I? And shoved you. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I wasn’t – I didn’t see you. I only saw them. Him.” She trembles violently against me.

I stroke her wet hair. “You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you ever again.”

But I did, because I got too caught up to think about how my actions might affect her.

Again.

Charlie curls closer to me, naked and wet. I lean back and reach for a towel on the wall rack. I wrap it around her, rubbing her through it to dry her damp skin. When her back is dry, I slide a hand between us, gently drying her front, not letting myself linger over her curves.

“Come on. We’ll go sit on the bed and I’ll dry your hair,” I murmur.

Wide eyes flicker to mine. “You’d do that?”

I grin. “I’m a man of many talents, Charlie, and believe it or not, I can operate a blow dryer.”

She clambers to her feet and offers me a hand. I hesitate, and she rolls her eyes. I scowl and accept her help, balancing on my left leg until she passes me my crutches. I turn off the shower and follow her, watching the sway of her perfect ass.

Not now. You’ve done more than enough tonight.

She glances at me. “I got your shorts all wet crawling onto your lap. You might as well pull them off.” Then she reaches for a wide-tooth comb and bends at the waist, her luscious ass in the air as she combs the tangles from her hair.

Naked.

I swallow hard as my cock comes to life.

Not now, asshole. You’ve done more than enough.

Instead, I toss the blow dryer onto the bed. I yank off my wet shorts and detach my shower leg before plugging in the blow dryer and surreptitiously covering my erection with a pillow. She straightens up, and I pat the bed in front of me.

“Come here, Baby Girl.”

She sits in front of me, her wet hair falling onto her back, making her shiver. I turn on the dryer and go to work, running my fingers through her hair as I dry her thick tresses. The light from the lamp illuminates the red and gold strands in her light brown hair. I slide my fingers higher, massaging her scalp, and she leans into my touch.

I keep going, long after her hair is dry, just because I like the feel of her silky hair, and because she’s melting against me from the warmth and white noise of the dryer. When I finally turn it off, she groans.

“I like you rubbing my head.”

“I can do it with both hands if I’m not using the dryer,” I point out.

“Less yapping, more rubbing.”

She seems like herself again, so I chuckle and do as requested, my long fingers working from the base of her neck all over her scalp. She moans, tipping her head back, and before I can stop myself, I fasten my lips on her throat.

When I realize what I’m doing, I pull away, returning my attention to her massaging her head.

She angles toward me, her eyes questioning. “Why did you stop?”

“What?”

“Kissing me. Why did you stop?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m pretty sure I’ve done enough tonight.”

She frowns. “Because I had a flashback?”

“Because I caused your flashback,” I correct her.

Her eyes narrow. “No, those assholes caused my flashback.”

My emotions erupt out of nowhere, words and feelings I’ve buried for years boiling out of me like molten lava. “No, Charlie, I did. It’s my fault. Every single bit of it, everything you went through, it’s my fault. Don’t you get it? I made the call for you guys to go help those villagers. I sent you into a trap. Six men died and two women’s lives were destroyed because of me. Me, Charlie. Everything that happened to you is my fault, and I’ll never forgive myself. Never.”

She stares at me, her mouth agape. “You can’t really believe that.”

I’m silent.

She kneels in front of me, cupping my face in her hands. “Mark, what happened wasn’t your fault. You’d never have sent us in if you’d thought anything like that would happen. Leave the blame where it belongs – on the cruel bastards that committed those atrocities. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you. You saved my life, and Lila’s, too.”

Her mouth closes over mine, and though I kiss her back, when she tries to deepen it, I take her upper arms and gently ease her back.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because thirty minutes ago you were catatonic in the shower.”

Her gaze sharpens. “So you don’t want to kiss me anymore because I had a flashback?”

I frown. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Then kiss me, dammit.”

“Charlie,” I begin, but before I can say another word, she pushes me back. She stretches out over me, her breasts pressing into my chest, one exquisite leg sliding between my thighs. My cock surges, and she smiles before bringing her lips to mine, stopping just before she touches them.

“Kiss me, Mark. Please?”

The uncertainty in her plea is my undoing. All of my restraint dissipates as my hand slides into her hair, cradling her head as I pull her lips to mine. It’s like always – instant fire, immediate passion. Her tongue chases mine. Her hips arch against me. My hands skim lightly over her body until she groans in frustration. “Touch me, Mark. I’m not breakable. I need to feel you.”

I roll, taking her with me, positioning myself above her, giving her what she wants, my hands all over her, my lips and teeth and tongue everywhere. She writhes beneath me, her arousal coating both our thighs as she moans and wraps her legs around my waist.

She opens her eyes then, staring into mine. “Take me from behind.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to let them win.”

“I – I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, licking my lips.

“Why not?”

“Because it didn’t go well earlier.”

“Please,” she pleads. “I need this, Mark.”

My mind flips through possibilities at light speed. “Fine, but you take me. That way, you’re in charge.”

She gives me a quizzical glance. “How?”

I roll off her and slide to the far edge of the bed before standing and taking two hops to the chaise. “Come here.” I lean back in the arched chaise, my upper body angled, my hips low, and my knees slightly elevated from the S-curve of its design. Charlie crosses the room without hesitation. “Tell me your safe word, Charlie.”

“Daffodil,” she says immediately, and I nod.

“Sit on my lap and lean back against me.”

She follows my instructions, her legs on either side of me, her body perfectly sandwiching my cock, and I groan in appreciation. I reach for her ankles, bending her legs beneath her to provide leverage. “Put my hands where you want them so I can help you move.” No way am I grabbing her hips like I would if she were facing me. This is already against my better judgment.

She turns her face to mine. “You talk too much,” she murmurs, leaning close and licking across my lips before sliding her tongue inside my mouth. Her kiss ignites a fire that burns straight to my cock, and I grind against her, making her gasp. I palm her full breasts, plucking her nipples, and she arches into my hands.

She lifts her hips, slowly sinking down onto my cock, taking me fully inside her. “Oh, God,” she moans. She reaches back, gripping my arms, using them for balance and support. She moves above me, gently at first, gradually going deeper. Harder.

She reaches for my hands, lacing her fingers with mine before guiding them to her hips.

I remember Tucker’s advice about making sure she’s fully present. “Say my name,” I murmur. “I need to know you’re with me.”

“Please, Mark. Please.” Her voice is ragged.

I lift her then, sliding our linked hands beneath her thighs, helping her rise and fall, slowly at first, then faster.

“Fuck, Baby Girl, it’s so deep like this,” I bite out, trying to slow my raging body. She bows back against my chest, moaning my name over and over. As I help her move, I shift her to a more back-and-forth rhythm, swirling my hips up each time I lower her, feeling her body pulsing right on the edge.

“That’s right, Baby Girl. You’re so close, so fucking close. I can feel it. Take what you need.” She moans, and her pussy throbs. She likes it when I talk dirty.

I sit up, changing the angle, and from this position, it’s easier for her to lift and lower herself. She gasps at the fullness. “Oh, Mark,” she moans, her words drawn out, her movements becoming more frantic.

“That’s right, Baby Girl. Take me. Feel me,” I growl, my lips just beneath her ear. She shivers, then grabs my hands and plants them on her hips.

“Faster,” she begs, and I oblige, helping her move, rocking with her, feeling the tension within her rising higher and higher. The familiar pressure builds low in my pelvis, and I’m right on the edge, but I have to make this good for her first. I have to.

“Fuck, Baby Girl,” I hiss as she grinds down into me. She lifts herself one more time, and as she comes down, I hold her in place and roll my hips as I sink my teeth into her collarbone.

Charlie wails my name as she detonates around me. Her inner walls clench and grip my cock, and I explode inside her. My body pulses, and my vision goes dark for a moment.

We’re both breathing hard, damp with sweat and thoroughly sated. I kiss the place where I bit her and feel her chuckle.

“Mmh?”

“The biting. I love it when you do that.”

“I know. It tips you over the edge.”

“Does it do that to all the women you’ve been with?”

I frown, not liking this turn in conversation. “I’ve never done that with anyone else.”

“It’s very primal,” she murmurs. “Like you’re a wolf. Like you’re claiming me.”

I claimed you long ago. You’re mine, Charlie, always. Only mine.

“Maybe I’m secretly a vampire.”

“Then you’re not a very good one,” she teases, “because I haven’t bled once.”

“Clearly, I need more practice,” I say, nipping her lightly.

“Practice to your heart’s content,” she purrs, arching into me.

We’ve driven a little more darkness out of Charlie’s soul tonight.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure my soul absorbed it, because when she sleeps, all I can think about is how much it’s going to destroy me to let her go.

Despite moments of closeness, like after my flashback in the shower, the distance between us continues to grow. Mark seems okay when Lila and Tucker are here, but noticeably less so when Tom visits. He’s not rude – he’s just more withdrawn. In fact, lately he seems to leave me alone with Tom at every opportunity, and afterwards, he’s always silent.

When it’s just the two of us, the silence yawns between us, a gaping hole that small talk can’t fill. And deeper talks? Meaningful talks? Those are a thing of the past. Oh, he’s willing to listen if I want to talk, as long as it’s not about us or him, but he won’t discuss anything about himself, his leg, his thoughts, or his feelings. Conversation is limited to light-and-fluffy, inconsequential topics, like what movie to watch or what’s for dinner. The tension inside me builds, because I can feel the distance between us expanding, and I don’t know how to fix it. My unease is unrelenting. The more I reach for him, the further he retreats.

The only time I feel anything from him is in bed. He pointedly resists emotional closeness, something we had long before any physical relationship. The loss of our bond guts me. Still, in bed, his need for me overpowers his intentional distance. He can avoid connecting with me during the day, but at night, his body betrays him. His heart and mind may not want me, but his body does, and I use that to my advantage, even knowing it will be more painful for me in the long run. The weighty emotion in his touch every night leaves me feeling like he’s preparing to say goodbye, and I have no idea how to get him to love me the way I love him.

The only bright spot in our lives is Lila’s positive pregnancy test. She and Tucker kept it quiet for a little while, just to be sure. She was afraid I’d be upset when she told me, but I was ecstatic. I screamed and hugged her, and we both cried happy tears. If anyone deserves a baby, it’s Lila.

The rest of my life feels like complete and utter shit. Mark’s disgust for his changed body is discoloring everything in his world, and by extension, our relationship. He keeps pulling further and further away, and I keep striving to draw him back in.

But I’m fighting a losing battle, and deep down, I know it.

I cry when I’m alone because I don’t see a path forward for us. Nothing I say to him changes how he sees himself. Lila keeps reminding me that the only person who can change Mark’s opinion of himself is Mark, and he’s not interested. Stubbs encourages me to stay the course, though he’s frustrated as well, because Mark still won’t respond to his calls and texts.

My fear and despondency flourish unchecked, and I can’t even talk to Mark about it, because the topic is off-limits. It’s not “light and fluffy”. I’m constantly on the verge of tears, headachy and tense, barely sleeping, barely eating, feeling the sword of Damocles dangling over my head.

The following Wednesday is exceptionally challenging. I end up at the VA in Pueblo, courtesy of Dr. Martinez’s invitation when he dropped by to see me and met Stubbs. I spend my morning in a boardroom full of doctors, detailing the services our clinic currently offers and gleaning input on options they’d like to see while (shamelessly) drumming up business. They’re intrigued when Dr. Martinez discusses offering Stubbs a position as a counselor based out of our clinic. He describes Stubbs’ history and his resume, and their feedback is overwhelmingly positive.

The morning goes smoothly, even though I abhor schmoozing. This is Lila’s area of expertise, but she coerced me by promising to cook tonight. She caught me when I was distracted, or I’d never have fallen for it, because it’s Wednesday – a group workout/ dinner day – and she’d likely have been cooking anyway.

I’m dressed like an actual professional for once, wearing a dark red skirt and blazer with an army green silk camisole beneath. The camisole is high enough in front to conceal my scars, but dips almost to my waist in the back. It doesn’t matter, because the blazer covers my back. I’ve climbed out of my SUV in my entirely-too-high-for-a-gravel-parking-lot heels and grabbed my rarely-used briefcase when I glance at the white van parked next to me. It’s disability-friendly, operating entirely via hand controls. Kip’s mother’s church bought it for him when he got home from Walter Reed. Kip sits inside the van, his head down on the steering wheel.

I pause for a second before circling the vehicle to knock on the driver’s side window. Kip raises his head, and I’m startled to see tears running down his face. Without even asking, I pull open the door and touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, unable to speak, and I react automatically. “You. Me. My office. Now.”

Sometimes dealing with soldiers is more effective when you adopt the tone of a commanding officer. There’s a certain bark that often instinctively makes them comply. Lila and I mastered the technique as medics. It almost always worked, even with wounded officers who outranked us. Tom already possesses a natural air of authority. This approach serves us well when we’re trying to get a client to keep pushing, or in this case, tell me what’s troubling him.

My assertiveness has the desired effect on Kip, who raises his eyes, mumbles, “Yes, ma’am,” and follows me into the building. I march around the front desk past Tara’s raised eyebrows and down the hall to my office, Kip trailing behind.

“Have a seat,” I tell him, pointing to the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

I stop by the desk, tell a curious Tara I’ll be indisposed for a bit, let Tom know Kip will be late, and grab two bottles of water. I return to find Kip glancing around my office. When he looks at me, his eyebrows pull together in surprise.

“You’re dressed up.”

“I had a business meeting with several physicians at the VA. I usually make Lila go, but she connived me into handling it today.”

“You look nice,” he says. “I’ve never seen you in real clothes before.”

I hide a smile. “Thanks, Kip.” I tilt my head. “How about you tell me what’s going on? What’s got you so upset?”

He sighs heavily. “I saw her last night. Jennifer. She was with a guy, and they were pretty cozy. It’s only been a couple of weeks. When she saw me, she turned and walked away. Didn’t even say hello. She acted like she didn’t know me and kept going.” He pauses. “I was sure we’d get back together, but she’s already moved on.” Hurt flares in his blue-green eyes.

I open a bottle of water and pass it to him, then open mine and take a long drink, gathering my thoughts. “So you were together about a year and a half, right?”

“A little less. Almost two months before I shipped out, then eleven months over there and two in the hospital, and I’ve been home six weeks.”

“Did she visit you at Walter Reed?” He shakes his head. “So you two were only in the same location for the first two months?”

He frowns. “So because she’s creeped out by hospitals, you think she didn’t care?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to understand the timeline in my head. Did she keep in touch with you while you were deployed?”

He nods, then hesitates. “Well, at first. Emails and packages. But they kind of dropped off. She’s busy, though. She works for a sales company and she travels a lot.”

I can see it, even if he can’t, or more likely, won’t. He and Jennifer dated briefly. She may have said she loved him before he shipped out to give him something to hold on to when things got rough. Or maybe she never said it, and he just assumed she shared his feelings. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count. Soldiers in stressful situations sometimes cope by clinging to memories of people they care for. Occasionally, they build a casual relationship into something monumental in their mind. It doesn’t matter if it was barely a relationship when they deployed, or if they likely wouldn’t be together now if they hadn’t shipped out. The old saying about absence making the heart grow fonder is often true for servicemen and women.

I keep all that to myself. Whether their relationship was solid or not, Kip’s reeling from its loss. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted them to.”

Even if he’s clearly better off without her.

Kip explodes without warning. “This goddamn leg ruined everything!” As he speaks, he hurls his crutches. One knocks the lamp off an end table, and it falls to the floor with a crash. The other crutch smacks the front of my desk before clattering to the floor.

Footsteps rush down the hall just before Tom bursts in. “Charlie?” His eyes scan the room, landing on the broken lamp and scattered crutches.

“We’re fine, Tom,” I assure him.

He gives Kip a stern look. “Are we good here?”

Kip is immediately remorseful. “Yessir. I’m sorry.”

As soon as Tom leaves – and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s left my office door slightly ajar – Kip turns to me apologetically, but I shake my head. “I don’t care about the damn lamp. I’m worried about you.”

He shakes his head, his practiced mask slipping back into place. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I just let shit get to me for a minute, that’s all.”

I’m not fooled for a second. “Your life’s not ruined, Kip, I promise you. It sucks right now, but your life’s not over.”

He snorts. “No woman wants someone like this.” He gestures down his body the same way he did a couple of weeks ago when he said Jennifer dumped him because of his injuries.

“That’s not true. The right person won’t care about superficial stuff. We’re all damaged, Kip. Some people just hide it better than others.”

He scoffs at me. “You don’t understand. You have no idea what it’s like.”

I study his face. “I may not be missing a limb, but I understand more than you might think.”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “Don’t insult my intelligence.” He flips his hand in a sweeping motion from my loosely curled hair to my skyscraper heels. “You could never understand what it’s like to feel less than. To not be good enough.”

I tilt my head, waiting for him to meet my eyes. “Do you know why I left the military?” It’s rhetorical – of course he doesn’t. “I spent some time at Walter Reed myself. My team was on a medical assistance mission in Afghanistan when we were attacked by insurgents. I was captured. They took turns torturing me until my unit located me eleven days later.” His horrified expression means he’s got some idea of what I endured. It's no secret that prisoners aren’t treated particularly well in that part of the world.

There’s a short pause before his eyes harden. “At least your injuries aren’t visible.”

I bristle at his intimation that unseen damages are less painful, but suppress my feelings, instead removing my stacked bracelets. Thick pink scars encircle both of my wrists, and I hold them out toward him, staring at them. “They wrapped barbed wire around my wrists and hung me by my arms over an exposed pipe in the ceiling of my cell. The wire chewed all the way into my bones. They beat me. Broke my nose, my cheek, a bunch of ribs, and my tailbone. They kicked me with steel-toed boots hard enough to injure my liver and spleen.”

I stand up from my couch and move to sit beside him, giving him my back. I take a deep breath before slipping off my blazer, knowing the low-backed camisole exposes the wide purple rope-like scars mingled with the thin lavender ones, all criss-crossing the flat white swoops and curls that spread from one side of my back to the other. “They used a homemade whip made of leather straps and razor wire. The flat white scar is from a brand they used. It says 'stupid cunt whore'. And they mutilated my chest and –” I falter – “and my internal areas with a rusty knife.” I swallow hard, then pull my blazer back in place and return to the opposite couch, not looking up until after I’ve put my bracelets back on, concealing my scars once more. “You’re right. I keep my scars hidden so most people can’t see them. But we’re all damaged, every one of us,” I repeat. “You just have to find the person whose brokenness fits yours.”

Blue-green eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t know.”

I smile. “You’re in a very elite group. Only my four best friends have seen them, plus one asshole that I dated briefly. We broke up because he saw my scars and freaked out. He said someone with scars like mine belonged in a horror movie.” I purse my lips. “So when I tell you someone who can’t handle your injuries isn’t worth your time and energy, you should listen.”

“If you don’t show people, why did you show me?”

“Because you needed to know that even people who don’t look like it are still broken.”

He pauses. “Jennifer’s not broken.”

I snort. “Bullshit. She’s more broken than either of us.”

His eyes flicker with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. What kind of person breaks up with someone because they’re wounded? She’s superficial and shallow. She’s after arm candy, someone who’ll shower her with gifts and compliments. She might be pretty on the outside, but on the inside, she’s a swamp beast. She’ll never have an honest, meaningful, deep relationship as long as she’s only focused on what people can do for her. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that when she’s all alone, she’s not happy.”

He sits quietly, considering my words. “No, she’s not. She’s never satisfied, always wanting more. A newer car, a bigger apartment, better clothes.” He purses his lips. “It’s how she tries to feel better about herself, isn’t it?”

I nod. “Exactly. And you deserve better.”

I can’t say I’ve convinced him, but at least he looks more thoughtful than when he came in. He looks down at the floor. “I’ll replace your lamp,” he says.

“I told you, I’m not worried about the lamp.”

But he shakes his head. “I like making stuff. I have something in mind. I want to do this for you.” Then his expression turns sheepish. “Will you hand me my crutches? Tom’s gonna chew my ass as it is. I don’t want to be any later.”

I chuckle and retrieve them. “C’mon. He won’t yell at you in front of me.”

“Thanks, Charlie. What you said – what you did – it means a lot.”

I simply nod. “Anytime, Kip. We’re here to help you however we can.”

I have an appointment with Linda after work, my first one in a while. Linda spent a month vacationing in Japan, and when she returned, I was leaving for Aurora to take Mark for his surgery. Between work and his recovery and – I admit, my reticence at discussing what’s going on between me and Mark – time’s gotten away from me.

I’m not ready to talk to Linda about my relationship with Mark yet. Last time she and I talked, he and I were still firmly in the friendship-only camp. Now we’re – I don’t know what we are. I only know that everything between us is too raw and painful to talk through with Linda today. I do plan to talk about Mark, though. Him and Kip.

I settle into Linda’s overstuffed couch. I’m almost always her last appointment of the day, partially because of my work schedule and partially because I’m more forthcoming when I don’t feel pressured to hurry and wrap things up so she can move on to her next client.

“I love the business attire,” she says. “Those are fantastic colors on you. Interesting, too. A military medic wearing a blood-red suit with an army green camisole.” Linda, a fashion maven in her own right, is wearing a body-skimming black one-piece jumpsuit with a deep neckline and her trademark stilettos.

I grin. “It’s a coincidence. I’m an autumn. These are my colors. Ask Lila. She spent hours discussing it while she dragged me all over Pueblo to find appropriately-colored clothing.”

Linda smiles. She knows about my reluctant participation in Lila’s marathon shopping trips, aka her Acquisition Expeditions. “What would you like to talk about today, Charlie?”

“Your Japanese kintsugi saucer. The black and gold one.”

She stands and retrieves the saucer from her bookcase, passing it to me. Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art form. The saucer is a glossy, inky black, with lines of rich gold highlighting where the piece was shattered and repaired. Rather than concealing the damage, the Japanese choose to accentuate the flaws, turning a simple saucer into a stunning masterpiece.

I examine the piece, turning it over in my hands. “I have a new client,” I tell her. “He’s young, barely old enough to walk into a bar. A huge, muscular kid who lost his leg. His girlfriend dumped him because of his injuries, and all he can see is that he’s ruined, that his life is over. And Mark –” My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat. “Mark had his osseointegration surgery, and he was convinced it would make him ‘normal’.” I make air quotes with my fingers at the word “normal”. “But as soon as he woke up from surgery and saw the metal rod sticking out of his residual limb, he went right back to loathing his body.”

“Was there a time after the explosion when Mark didn’t loathe himself?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I thought he’d seemed better, but he kept making comments about being normal again, so maybe not.”

“And you think the kintsugi analogy might help the two of them to see things differently?”

I sigh. “Mark’s stubborn as hell. I’ve been saying the same things for months, and I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall with him. But I might be able to get through to Kip.” I meet her gaze and hold it. “I showed Kip my scars. I told him we’re all broken to some degree.”

Linda smiles. “I’m proud of you. How do you feel about that?”

I consider it. “I’m okay with it. I chose to do it to reach out, to support him.” I grin, remembering what she’d told me before. “I chose intentional vulnerability. And it went a lot better with him than it did with Blake.” I frown. “Asshole,” I mutter.

“Blake’s drunken rant wasn’t about you or your scars. It was because he saw a side of himself he didn’t like.” I cock my head at her in surprise. “Blake reacted poorly when you revealed your scars. He knew it was hard for you to show him, and he knew he’d responded badly and felt guilty. He didn’t like that feeling, so he sat outside your house all night to prove to you and to himself that he was a good person. When you chose not to continue seeing him because of his reaction and his statements, he saw himself through your eyes, and he didn’t like it. He responded by lashing out at you.”

I stare at her. “You came up with that right off the cuff?”

She smiles. “No. We just haven’t had a chance to talk for a while. And the fact that you shared your scars with Tucker and now Kip following such a negative reaction is something to celebrate. You’re breaking free from the urge to hide them.”

“I’ve been wearing tank tops and camisoles lately,” I admit. “Only around the house and with my friends, but I’ve been leaving my back exposed more.”

Linda beams. “You’ve come a long way, Charlie.”

“I want to help Kip and Mark accept themselves, too.”

“You can lead a horse to water…” she says, raising one perfectly arched brow meaningfully.

I sigh. “I know, I know. You told me the same things for years, but I had to accept them for myself. I just wish there was a way I could – I don’t know, fast track their progress.”

Linda chuckles. “If you only knew how many times I’ve wished that for my clients.”

“So no suggestions?”

“You keep beating the dead horse,” she says promptly. “It will keep rattling around in their subconscious until hopefully, it takes root. Keep planting the seeds.”

My words may have gotten through to Kip, but I’m still beating the dead horse, per Linda’s directions, with Mark. At bedtime, Mark insists on wearing his prosthetic to bed under the pretense of “getting used to it”.

I almost tell him how full of shit he is. Getting used to it, my ass. We both know he’s doing it because he hates seeing the metal abutment extending from his residual limb. Instead, I count to ten in my head and strive for a calm, reasoned tone.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? It might get caught in the blanket.”

“It’ll be fine,” he says dismissively.

I don’t argue with him because my head is pounding. It’s throbbed like a toothache ever since I got home, and neither aspirin nor ibuprofen have helped. I wasn’t planning to seduce him tonight, but it’s irrelevant. Wearing his prosthetic boosts his confidence, and he pulls me against his chest and closes his mouth over mine. My headache pales in comparison to the passion between us. Mark hasn’t initiated sex with me since I had my flashback in the shower – though he hasn’t turned me down when I do – and my need to bond with him is too strong to decline because of a headache. I’m addicted to him, and for one brief moment, it feels like he’s addicted to me, too. We lay in each others’ arms afterwards, my head on his chest and a leg slung over his waist. I fall asleep to the gentle stroke of long fingers down my spine.

He sits up first when my alarm goes off in the morning. I’m still rubbing my eyes and stretching when he climbs out of bed.

I watch it happen in slow motion, like an impending car accident.

Mark doesn’t notice his prosthetic foot tangled in the comforter. He stands and takes a single step, reaching for his crutches. The prosthetic twists, and he tumbles forward, landing hard on the floor. I gasp and scramble across the mattress, kneeling next to him.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

His face flushes a dull red. “I’m fine.” He pushes me away with one arm, but I ignore him.

“Is the abutment okay? Did you hurt your –” I catch myself before I blurt the word “stump” – “yourself?”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

I reach for the comforter, unwrapping it from his prosthesis, running my hands up the smooth carbon-fiber prosthetic to his warm flesh. “Does anything hurt?”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie, I said I’m fine! Leave me the fuck alone.”

I freeze at the anger in his voice, abruptly reminded of his icy rage in San Antonio. I drop my hands, unable to meet his eyes, and exit the room without a word, my stomach knotting.

No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I can’t get through to Mark.

I refuse to be in that same position with Kip.

When I get to the office, Tara, Tom, and Lila are already there, even though we don’t open for another half hour. “Group meeting in my office,” I announce, holding up a bakery bag and a tray of coffees. “Raspberry-filled mini-doughnuts and coffee for four.”

Tom takes the tray of coffee cups from me and passes them out, and the four of us settle on the plush furniture in my office. “What’s up?” he asks.

“We need to talk about Kip,” I reply, and I fill them in on what happened yesterday, from finding him in the van to his outburst to our discussion of brokenness. Tara glances at me when I mention showing him my scars, but doesn’t ask about them.

Tara’s eyes turn sad immediately. “That poor child,” she murmurs. Then she dips her head, her auburn hair falling in front of her shoulders. “I mean, I know he’s not a child. He’s a foot taller than I am. But my kids aren't much older than he is. I could be his mother.”

“I’d like to give that shallow bitch a piece of my mind,” Lila mutters.

I cock an eyebrow at her. “What happened to avoiding profanity?”

She purses her lips. "That’s only in front of clients.”

I shrug. “I don’t usually curse in front of clients, but she’d made Kip feel like he wasn’t good enough for her because of his injuries. I did it intentionally to shock him into listening.”

“He told me what you did for him yesterday,” Tom says. “He said you helped him see things more clearly.”

“For the moment, maybe. But I don’t know if it will make a difference long-term.” Hell, I’ve been beating the self-worth drum with Mark for months, and I’ve gotten nowhere. Hopefully, Kip’s not as stubborn as Mark.

Lila turns to me. “I got the name of a local psychiatrist that specializes in wounded veterans with body image issues.”

“You did?”

She nods. “After you and I talked, I asked some of our clients. Three of them recommended this guy.” She doesn’t mention that she was researching it for Mark.

“I can call his office and see if he has an opening,” Tara offers. “Do you think Kip would go?”

“I’ll go with him, if he’ll agree. Not into the actual appointment,” I add hastily, “but I’ll gladly drive him. Two birds with one stone, you know? Being supportive while making sure he gets the help he needs.”

“I think he might do it for you,” Tom says, eying me thoughtfully. “You’ve made quite an impression on the kid.”

“I think we should contact his primary care physician, too,” Lila adds. “An antidepressant might help. He didn’t have one on his medication list when he transferred here.”

“Kip’s pretty cheerful,” Tara said. “On the outside, anyway. I’m guessing he doesn’t let his mask slip around the VA docs.”

“I’m worried,” I admit. “He was already dealing with losing his leg and all the body image issues that go along with that. That superficial bitch made things a thousand times worse.”

“I’ll call his doctor this morning,” Lila promises, “and Tara will see if we can get him in with the psychiatrist.”

Tom squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll talk to him this afternoon and see how he’s feeling.”

I nod. “I’ll try to swing by PT when he’s there this afternoon.”

Despite my best intentions, Tara ends up leaving with the stomach flu shortly after making Kip’s appointment, and I end up covering her afternoon massages. I’m busy until long after Kip is gone. After work, I go home to a silent house. Mark hasn’t spoken to me since he yelled at me after his fall this morning, not even to offer a half-assed apology for yelling. He ignores me for the rest of the day and most of the next as well. I’m miserable.

I never knew I could feel so alone with someone I love right beside me.

When he does speak to me Friday night, it’s to flatly refuse to go to dinner at Tom’s house. Maya invited us Monday night after Lila and Tucker announced they were having date night on Friday. Maya and Skyler are making pasta (naturally) and we’re bringing the salad and wine.

“I’m not going,” he says when I poke my head in his room to see if he’s dressed. He doesn’t bother looking up from his tablet.

“What do you mean, you’re not going? Maya invited you. You told her you’d come.”

He turns and stares, sending chills down my spine. “I said I’m not going.”

I put my purse down and turn toward the kitchen to put the salad in the refrigerator. “Fine. I’ll call and cancel.”

“You can’t cancel this late. It would be rude.”

It takes every drop of my self-control not to point out that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Besides, I’d rather be alone. I need a break,” he continues.

My throat tightens. I leave the house without another word.

I make it through dinner without letting Maya or Skyler see my mood, but Tom can tell. I’m helping him clean up when he stops in front of me and takes the lasagna pan from my hands.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, his brown eyes soft.

A lump forms in my throat, and I shake my head.

“Would a hug help?”

I shake my head again. “I’ll cry if you hug me.”

He lifts a bear paw-sized hand to my cheek. “I’ll dry.”

I hug him then, and he pulls me against his chest and rubs my back while I try not to cry and fail miserably. I lose track of how long I stand in his kitchen bawling all over him, but when I pull away, the left shoulder and chest of his gray tee shirt are wet with my tears.

“I’ve got a spare room if you need a place to stay,” he offers quietly.

I shake my head. “Going home may not fix things, but not going home will make them worse.”

Then again, maybe not. Mark did say he’d rather be alone and that he needed a break.

After I leave Tom’s, I find an empty parking lot and cry for two hours. When I go home, Mark’s sitting in the living room. The TV is on, but the volume is turned down.

I strip off my jeans and crawl into his bed in my panties and the same shirt I wore to dinner, lasagna smudges and all. I study the framed photo of us on my bedside table. It’s one Tucker took on our group camping trip, when Mark and I were sitting on the log together. I’m holding his shirt front, and he’s cupping my face in his hands. It’s beautiful and loving and tender, and it’s so far from where we are right now that it makes me cry again. When I feel Mark come to bed much later, I curl against him. He tries to push me away, but this is the only place I can make any headway with him. His head and heart may reject me, but his body overrides his emotions. We end up tangling together, but even then, our passion is fraught with silent anguish.

Something’s got to give, and soon, because we can’t keep going like this. I just pray I’m able to get through to him, because I’ll never survive losing him.

My mood has grown steadily worse over the past few weeks, though I try desperately to keep it from Charlie. I need her more than life itself, but I keep trying to put distance between us. Just yesterday, she watched me fall on my ass getting out of the damn bed. She deserves someone who can pick her up when she falls, not the other way around. I’ve got to let her go, let her find someone who can be everything she needs.

My foul mood bleeds into every corner of my soul. Friday, Tom leaves work midday for Parents’ Day at Maya’s school. Charlie and I are supposed to have dinner at his house later, but I’d rather endure a root canal. I like Tom and Maya, but I just can’t. Not today.

My oily darkness leaches out of me while I’m working beside Kip. He’s having a rough time lately, and because I’m not exactly the most cheery person to be around, I’ve avoided engaging with him. Tom’s usually here to talk with Kip and encourage him.

But Tom’s not here today.

Kip’s unusually excited today. The reason becomes clear when he starts blathering.

“Doc’s setting me up to go to the VA next month. I’m going to get that osseointegration surgery, too, if my bones look strong enough to support it.”

I give a noncommittal grunt.

“That’ll show Jennifer.” He glances over, his bluish-green eyes shining. Sweat beads his blond hair as he works his quads. “My ex, you know? She dumped me because of my leg. Well, she said it was because her feelings for me changed while I was gone, but she told her friend Taylor the thought of having sex with a guy with a stump made her want to puke.”

I grunt again.

“Of course, Taylor told me that when she came over and hit on me, so it might not be true.” He bares his teeth, fiercely pushing through his last few reps before flopping back on the mat and turning his head toward me. “I think she’s telling the truth, though. But I’ll show Jennifer.”

“Really?” I mutter as if I care.

“Hell, yeah,” he boasts. “Get that surgery and get my prosthesis and show her who’s fuckable and who’s not. I’ll be on top of the world then.”

I shoot him a look. “You think so?”

He nods excitedly. “Pull on some jeans and nobody’ll know. All they’ll see are muscles and ink.” Kip’s upper body strength is impressive. He’s powerful and broad-chested, with military tattoos decorating his entire upper body. One arm lists the names of friends who didn’t survive their deployment. The list runs from his shoulder to his elbow.

I don’t have enough space on my body to list the names of all the people I’ve lost.

And the one I regret losing most, as selfish as it is, is me.

Those cowards on the side of a road stole everything from me, everything. My team. My career. My leg. My future with Charlie.

And no fucking prosthetic on the planet can restore what I’ve lost.

I glare at Kip, my words coming out in a low snarl. “Nobody’ll know, huh? What happens when you get her alone? What then? Gonna fuck her with your clothes on, kid? Sooner or later, your jeans come off, and you still won’t have a leg.” I sit up, whirling toward him and gesturing to my abutment. “Take a good look, because this shit turned me into a goddamn freak. If you’re counting on that surgery to get your life back, you’re in for a real disappointment.” I grab my crutches, leaving him staring open-mouthed as I storm out.

I refuse to go to dinner at Tom’s that night. It pisses Charlie off when I cancel at the last minute, but she has to go anyway, because it’s too late for both of us to bail without being rude.

That’s okay. I’m fine with being rude.

I can’t spend my night watching Charlie with Tom and Maya. Not tonight. My emotions are too raw. Watching them together rips me apart, because Tom is exactly the man she needs. Kind. Dependable. Strong. Handsome. Trustworthy. Loyal. He’s a genuinely good person, and those are rare. He and Charlie already care for each other. Plus, Maya absolutely worships her. Tom is perfect for Charlie, and she could be a mom to Maya. Her ready-made family is right there. All she has to do is reach out and take it.

Charlie’s been sensing the changes in me the more I try to pull away. She’s always been able to read me like a book. Not this time, though. She thinks I’m upset with her.

But I could never be upset with Charlie. Not for this.

I’m upset with myself, for letting myself hope. Letting myself dream.

The only one who fucked up my life this time is me.

And the only way to make Charlie happy, truly happy, is to let her go.