Chapter 10
TUCKER
“WHAT ABOUT the nightmares?”
She tilts her head to the side, like my answer is going to be the most interesting thing she’s heard all day. I’ve been seeing this head shrink since right after I almost lost my leg, even though I know she means well, her questions get on my nerves more than the fact they are making me see her.
She asks the same questions most of the time, sometimes in different ways. I tolerate the therapy only for the barest sliver that I could be reinstated someday. I know chances are slim, but if this has to be on my record for consideration, I’ll do it.
Once a month, on the same day I have physical therapy, it’s mandatory that I stop in and see the resident therapist to make sure I’m not a danger to myself or the rest of the world.
The whole fucking thing is a waste of time, but saying that doesn’t get me out of seeing her. I know because I already tried.
The giant fluffy chair she sits in every time I’m here makes her look even smaller than she is.
She reminds me of Gray’s wife, Elly. About five-foot tall, small body, and wild curly hair.
Every time I’m here, she curls her feet up under her in the chair and rests her legal pad on her leg to take notes.
“Same.”
“Are you losing sleep?” Her voice is assertive and soft, not condescending, but kind.
Doesn’t mean I like her, it still pisses me off that I have to see her.
“Sometimes.”
It doesn’t matter how curt I am with her, she never loses her patience, and I’ve been unable to fluster her. I’ve tried. Just to see if I can shorten the visit. For such a small woman, she has nerves of steel and the composure of a saint. Especially if she deals with men like me every day.
The dark cloud cover and light mist outside the windows of her office make me think of the night we pulled over and helped the redhead on the side of the road. Nora. There’s no way I could forget her name now, not since Kinley went on and on about their breakfast this morning and how nice Nora is.
She said her name twenty-five times during the drive here.
I’ve always been close to my sister. Our mom died when I was seven and she was eight from an infection after childbirth.
Our little sister, Breanna, was a surprise baby, and after four other pregnancies, our mom didn’t think twice about her symptoms during the week after she came home from the hospital.
According to my sister, Marley, she expected aches and pains and tiredness after childbirth. It was when she got a fever and started taking over-the-counter medicine for cramping that she questioned her symptoms.
By the time they realized something was wrong, it was too late, the infection had quickly moved to her organs.
So, our oldest siblings, Gray, Mason, and Marley, were busy taking care of a newborn, our grieving father, and the ranch.
Too young to be helpful, Kinley and I took care of each other. We’ve been close ever since.
Our interactions used to be easy and full of jokes and laughter, but since I’ve been back after being discharged, I’ve been anything but easy.
So, when she rattles on about whatever crosses her mind, to fill the silence during our long drives to the Veterans Affairs Hospital in Tulsa, the guilt picks at the fucking scab of my life, making me feel even worse.
I didn’t even ask her to drive me, she happened to be at the ranch when I came home one day after PT and saw how much pain I was in. Since my injured leg is my right leg, she admonished me for not saying anything and insisted she be my driver.
Unlike my other siblings, who took no for an answer, Kinley told me to “shove my ego up my ass” and comes to the ranch every week to ride with me to my appointment and drive me back. She’s always been fucking stubborn and doesn’t accept the word ‘no’ very well.
Pausing to scribble something on her legal pad, the therapist doesn’t lift her head as she asks, “Anything new since I saw you last?”
A certain redhead, who has been an annoying niggle in my brain for the past two weeks, pops into my head, and I keep my face shuttered. Thoughts of her appear unbidden at odd times through the day, pissing me off for making me feel things I shouldn’t feel.
And because of her, I can’t go to my usual place to get away from everyone. My head and neck heat in frustration as I push her from my mind.
“No.”
“You hesitated.” She leans back in her chair, her pen hovering over her pad. Her soft brown eyes lock on mine like a shark smelling blood, and she tilts her head to the side again.
“No, I didn’t.”
Her lips twitch and press into a line, the smile she is suppressing reaches her eyes. She cocks a brow when she says, “Yes, you did. I would like to talk about it.”
The heat turns to anger, and the muscles across my shoulders tighten. This isn’t the first time she’s pushed back, she does it often. She may be small, but she definitely has a backbone.
There’s no fucking way I’m telling her that a woman I’ve seen twice keeps slipping into my thoughts.
Both times, I acted like an asshole. It doesn’t matter how I acted, I have no business thinking about her, anyway.
I don’t have anything to offer a woman, especially the type of safety a man is supposed to offer his woman.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Tapping her pen against her lips, she watches me, planning her next move. I can feel a trap incoming, she’s good at weaving questions in a little dance that tries to hook me like a fish at the end of a fishing line.
“Okay, that’s fair. So, how are things at the ranch?”
I huff a frustrated breath, another question she’s asked me ten times. “The ranch is fine. There’s not much deviation from horseshit, hay, and long days.”
She nods her head as she writes something down. “You still going to the pub a few times a week to get away?”
Flicking my gaze over her head at the framed diplomas on the wall behind her desk, I push away the question that’s been a broken record in my head - you’re not very nice, are you?
Nora’s cheeks were flushed when she said it, with anger or embarrassment, I’m not sure.
She was twisting a small ring on her finger, I wonder if I make her nervous.
“Most weeks.”
“This week?”
I stare at her, and she stares at me. Either I bite or we keep dancing for the next, I look at the clock by the door, forty minutes. Maybe expressing interest in a woman will speed up this farce called therapy, make me look more normal.
“There’s a new waitress at the pub. I haven’t been this week.”
I expect her to write that down, but she only tilts her head again. “Why are you avoiding the waitress?”
“I’m not avoiding her.” Liar. “She thinks I’m an asshole, no need in making it worse.”
I word it like I’m doing her a favor by keeping my grumpy ass away, but I know it sounds lame.
For the first time in a long time, she clips her pen to her legal pad and sets them aside on the little table next to her chair. “You don’t care what anyone thinks. What makes her different?”
Fuck.
Now that I’ve said it, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about it.
Flicking my eyes back to the diplomas over her head, I press my lips together. I don’t want to talk about how damaged I am, and I sure as fuck don’t want to talk about the fact that I could never sleep with another person in my bed again. No woman wants that.
She links her fingers together in front of her and sets her elbows on the chair arms. “Come on, Tucker, why is she different?”
The tips of my fingers are digging into the leather of the chair arms I’m sitting in. I fucking hate this. It’s like being under a microscope while someone picks apart every word, sometimes twisting it into something it’s not.
The silence stretches as I stare at the wall, and I can feel her eyes on me like a goddamn guard dog ready to pounce.
Taking a deep breath, I lower my eyes to meet hers, my jaw clenched so hard I could crack my molars.
“You know why.” The statement comes out low between clenched teeth, and I narrow my eyes at her.
I don’t like being pulled to the fucking water by a lead.
If she thinks I don’t know I’m just another fucked-up soldier with the same fucked-up issues as all the other fucked-up soldiers that sit in this chair every fucking day, then she shouldn’t be in this position. Anger is heating my neck and head.
All humor has left her face, her eyes calmly locked on mine, and she leans forward. “Tucker, the person you were before your accident and the person you are now both live inside of you. I know you are having a hard time accepting the life you have now, but you are still a good man.”
My breaths are coming fast through my nose as I stare at her, my anger barely contained. “Not good enough.”
She barely smiles, her eyes warm. “Now we’re getting somewhere. That feeling, however valid, is a symptom of your PTSD, it’s not a reflection of your true character. Have you considered what would happen if you gave her the chance to decide if she thinks you’re good enough?”
Fuck this.
I’m not a good man. If I were a good man, my teammate would still be alive. I would have gone in first.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Standing abruptly, my hands fisted at my sides, she looks up at me and for a split second I see uncertainty in her eyes before the warmth comes back. This is the first time I’ve seen anything like that in a woman’s eyes when looking at me, and my old friend guilt washes over me.
I would never hurt a woman.
Flexing my hands at my sides, I take a deep breath. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just feel like I need to leave now.”
She smiles the same smile she always does and stands from her chair. “It’s okay, Tucker, I think we had a good talk. Let’s call it an early day this time. But I want you to think about what I said, okay?”
Looking away, my lips pressed together in a tight line, I give a quick nod and walk to the door.
That evening, as soon as Kinley gets out of my truck and tosses me the keys, I slide behind the steering wheel and head to the pub. I don’t care what Nora thinks of me. Liar. I need to be away from those I love right now. I do care what they think of me.
Kinley tried to make small talk on the way home, but I kept my attention out the window on the trees moving past while she chattered about some stuff she read online about the pros and cons of breastfeeding versus formula before moving on to how eager her husband is to be a father.
I didn’t meet Rhys until their wedding day. He’s some kind of higher-up at the Tulsa branch of the FBI. He makes my sister happy, is protective of her, and takes her shit like a champ. It took a minute to get a good feel for him, but I like him.
The comforting smell of dinner combined with beer and old wood wraps around me as I walk through Stony’s front door. Drizzle from earlier today has turned into light rain, and I pull my ball cap off my head and slap it against my leg to get the excess water off.
The familiarity of the place I like to use as my home away from home helps to dull some of the rough edges that have been scraping under my skin since earlier today. Following my usual path across the front of the bar to the table in the back corner, I hear Stony behind the bar.
“You want your usual, Tuck?”
Giving him a wave as I nod, I glance around the room but don’t see the head of red hair anywhere. A small pinch of disappointment sparks in my chest, and I focus on the small table for two in the back corner that faces the door.
The physical therapist focused on resistance and weight training on my leg today, and every fucking muscle in my leg is screaming at me. I couldn’t stop the limp if my life depended on it.
As I sit down, I straighten my leg under the table and toss my cap onto the small square surface and scrub my hands over my face.
What a fucking day. As I lean back in my chair, a small, pale hand with a silver band on the middle finger that looks like vines twining over one another sets a mug of beer in front of me.
My eyes travel up the arm to a pair of green eyes set in smooth, milky white skin. Her jaw is set like she’s expecting me to snap at her, but all I can manage is a small sigh of relief that only I can hear.
For the first time in a long time, the muscles across my shoulders relax a little.