Page 43 of Fighting for Valor
Her warmth fades as she retreats to her bedroom, but then she turns and peers out a crack in the door. “I can’t sleep if it’s totally quiet. So I use an app that mixes some low melodies with the sound of waves crashing at the shore. It distracts the part of my brain that wants to over think things…all night long.”
In the next beat, she cocks her head. “I could leave the door open. And…turn the music up. If you’d like.”
This time, the smile feels less foreign. By the look on Cara’s face, it’s also probably less “axe murderer” and more “stand-up guy.”
“That would be… I’d like that.”
The night seems to last forever. Only the music floating from Cara’s bedroom brings me any peace, and even then, it’s short lived.
Her couch isn’t long enough for me to stretch out on, so I move the blanket and pillow to the floor. Outside, the sounds of cars going by, of young kids chatting as they walk home—or wherever—help, and after a few hours, I start to float. Not exactly asleep, but not awake either.
It’s the worst place to be. The place where my nightmares become real.
Images flash through my mind. Bank routing numbers. Stacks of cash. Guns. Missiles. And the worst? Women’s faces. Young girls Faruk sold or consigned to his harem.
But when I jerk up to sitting, clutching the blanket to my chest, everything blurs. I can’t remember any of it. “Dammit.” Slamming the flat of my hand against my forehead, I try to jar the memories loose, but that never works.
How the hell can I ever atone for my sins if I can’t remember them?
Trudging into the small kitchen, I find a glass and run cold water from the sink. But after three sips, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
From the bedroom, I hear a muffled whimper and almost lose my hold on the glass. Cara. Another cry, this one louder, and I’m moving, at the side of her bed, glass still in my hand, before I even register the carpet under my bare feet.
“Cara?” It’s darker in here, but there’s still enough light for me to see her curled into a ball, her hands clenching her blanket, a pained expression marring her features. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Easing my hip onto the bed, I rest my hand on her shoulder, then start to rub gentle circles along her upper arm.
The scream that escapes her lips as she wakes with a violent shudder is full of terror. “No!”
“Cara! It’s me. Ripper.” I grab her hands as she lunges for me, and she struggles, tears filling her eyes as she gasps for air. “Look at me, sunshine. Say my name. Tell me you recognize me.”
“Rip…Ripper.” She’s shaking, gooseflesh covering her arms. My sweatshirt’s folded at the bottom of the bed, and I let her go so I can help her into it. “I didn’t think. I should have warned you. But I haven’t…not this bad…in forever.”
“My shrink would say you shouldn’t apologize for the things your subconscious drags up when you least expect it. But he says a lot of things, and I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit.”
This makes her laugh, and she reaches for a box of tissues on her bedside table, pulls out two of them, and dabs at her eyes. “Did I wake you?”
“No. My nightmare was quieter. This time.” My fingers reflexively clench and unclench on my thighs, and I stare down at my feet. One of the few places the scars aren’t as evident. Rubber hoses to the soles don’t leave marks. Just bone-deep bruises you never forget.
“Where’d you go?” Her fingers are cool on my arm, and as if she can sense how close I am to the edge, she eases herself closer. “Hold onto me.”
I shouldn’t. Fuck. I should leave and never come back. But when she touches me, the constant stream of self-destructive thoughts running inside my head stops, and I don’t feel so broken.
I have my arms around her before I realize I’ve moved. “Nowhere good. I…I don’t know if I can do this, Cara.”
If I can’t manage a single night—hell, even four hours—I can’t take care of Charlie. The idea of abandoning him breaks me, and I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to give myself a headache. It’s either that or start sobbing, and I won’t let myself break in front of Cara.
She rests a hand on my thigh, then makes a soft snorting sound. “No wonder. You’re wearing jeans. Those can’t be comfortable for sleeping. In my bottom dresser drawer, you’ll find a pair of loose shorts,” she says, her lips close to my ear. “They’ll probably fit you. Go put them on, then come lie down with me under the weighted blanket. See if that helps.”
“Cara…” I draw back, unsure if she’s the most empathetic person on the planet, reckless as fuck, or trying to seduce me. “I can’t sleep with you.”
“When we were on the couch, you were relaxed. And then…you weren’t. Trust me, Ripper. I’m not trying to get into your shorts. Just get you into a pair of mine so you don’t have to sleep in your jeans. Then see if we can reclaim some of that calm from earlier.”
As ridiculous as I think her idea is—there isn’t a damn thing that’s going to get me to sleep tonight short of someone knocking me out with a blow to the head—I extricate myself from her arms and go to her dresser.
A few minutes later, once my dick has calmed down and I’m wearing the black basketball shorts over my briefs, my jeans folded under my arm, I emerge from her small bathroom to find she’s scooted to the far side of the bed. Making sure there’s nothing between me and the door.
When I lie down, she pulls the heavy blanket over us, then fits herself to my side. We’re touching shoulder to knee, and damn if it doesn’t feel…like I’m at peace for the first time in more than six years.
