Fighting For Valor Page 13

  “Fruit. Anything fruit is fine.” I scrub my hands over my face, equal measures ashamed and curious about this woman who knows exactly what happened and why.

  Two seconds later, she’s at my side with a paper packet of tea. “Smell this one and tell me if it’s okay.” She rests her palm against the back of my neck, and I don’t pull away as I inhale. Scents of peach and honey reach me, along with whatever she uses in her shampoo, and my heart stops trying to punch through my chest.

  “Fine.” As I meet her gaze, I find glassy, tear-filled eyes, and the knowledge that I hurt her—even a little—kills me inside. “Fuck, Cara. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t. You can’t control your triggers. I should know.” Before I can ask her to explain, her warmth fades, and she’s back in the kitchen, peach tea brewing as she rummages around in her fridge. “I have fruit, English muffins, and the lasagna I brought you. Do you want anything?”

  “No.” After a pause, I shake my head. I can feel the hunger, even if I don’t recognize it as a desire I’m allowed to have. “I haven’t…uh…eaten since breakfast.”

  “Lasagna then.” She slides the box into the microwave, pours the tea into mismatched mugs, and sets them on the small dining room table. “Sit.”

  This isn’t a good idea. I was about to wrestle her to the ground and beat the shit out of her. My nightmares are violent, and more than once I’ve woken up with a new tear in my sleeping bag or my pocket knife in my hand, ready to kill anyone who approached me.

  But I sink down onto one of the chairs and wrap my fingers around the mug of peach tea. It’s warm, and I’m still shivering.

  Get your shit together, Richards. Now. You need to hoof it back to your apartment and stay there the whole fucking night. No matter what. Sleep like a normal person. Act like a normal person. And don’t ever see Cara again.

  The microwave beeps, and then Cara joins me with plates, silverware, and napkins. Her movements are precise, careful, calculated. As if she’s done this a thousand times in exactly this order. Two white pills next to her dish. A paper napkin spread across her lap.

  “Cara?”

  “Just a minute.” The pills disappear one at a time, and she glances at her watch, nods, and then picks up her fork. “Sorry. I…get a little OCD about taking my meds. This late at night, I forget things if I’m not super careful.”

  “I just had a flashback from the scent of cardamom, of all things, almost threw you across the room, and your response is to make me tea, reheat lasagna, and tell me you’re OCD about taking your meds? I thought I was a little off my rocker.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I’m a mess, Ripper. And my meds keep me alive. Dig in. Because while my life might be two steps away from falling apart, there’s one thing I know how to do.” She digs her fork into the cheesy pasta and meets my gaze. “I’m a great cook.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cara

  Ripper stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. And when I take a bite of lasagna like it’s the most natural thing in the world to eat after the events of the past hour, he braces his hands on the table. “Cara, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “And you don’t know anything about me.” After another sip of tea, I can feel my meds start to kick in, and the world seems a little less intense as my heart rate normalizes.

  Across the table, the former Special Forces soldier grasps his fork like he’s never seen one before, then digs into the pasta. Neither of us say a word as we eat, but his shoulders tense a little more every few minutes, and he keeps darting glances at the closed drapes, the door, and me.

  “The window in the kitchen opens,” I say as I set my fork down.

  He lurches to his feet and practically runs for the small window. After a couple of deep breaths, he clears his throat. “I thought…I could do this. Be inside. But…fuck. I was wrong.”

  His voice cracks, his cheeks tinge red, and he continues to lean close to the window, breathing heavily. I think he’d stick his whole head out there if the sink weren’t in the way.

  “Ripper, look at me.” The haunted look in his eyes confirms I’m right. He’s about two seconds away from losing it again. “Go sit on the couch. Open the drapes and the window. Right now.”

  I’m surprised when he obeys, and I limp over to sit next to him. “I get the idea you don’t like people touching you. Am I right?”

  After a jerky nod, he clears his throat. “Only been back in the States two months. Before…I was somewhere else. Somewhere…not good.”

  “Will you try something for me? One word, and we stop.”

  His brows shoot up, and he angles his head towards my bedroom. “You’re not suggesting we—”

  “No!” Now it’s my turn to blush. He’s ridiculously handsome, and as he was holding me earlier, all those defined, sculpted muscles were definitely not affecting me. Nope. Not at all.

  I rest my elbows on my knees and lean forward, peering up at him through the corners of my eyes. “When I was a teenager, no one knew what was wrong with me. They just knew I’d get overwhelmed and end up in a meltdown. My best friend at the time, Grace, finally figured out how to bring me back when I was in so deep, I couldn’t see past the panic.”

  “How?” His voice is rough, strained, and his hands clench on his thighs.

  “By holding me.”

  Ripper stiffens and starts to inch away. “I can’t…”

  “Will you let me try?” Slowly, I reach up and cup the back of his neck like I did before, and his entire body goes rigid. “Look at me, Ripper. You’re safe. No one’s hurting you.”

  His chest stutters, and I put my other hand over his heart. “Keep your eyes on me. You’re in Seattle. In my apartment. And you can leave at any time.”

  “Cara.” The way he says my name…I want to do whatever I can to keep him safe. I ease myself closer until I have my arms around him and my head resting on his shoulder.

  “Sometimes, we all need to be held,” I say quietly. “When I was finally diagnosed with ADHD and anxiety a few years ago, my therapist suggested I buy a weighted blanket.”

  Ripper relaxes by degrees. Each breath a little easier. “A what?” His voice is calmer now too. Deeper. Smoother.

  “A weighted blanket. It’s supposed to make you feel like you’re being hugged.” I chuckle a little. “It’s not the same thing. Nothing can replace someone else’s arms around you. But it does help.”

  Even though I started this exercise for him, to help him calm down, it’s helping me more than I want to admit. I’ve been alone for so long. I didn’t realize how much I missed…being touched.

  When he sighs and we relax against the cushions, I close my eyes, and his voice rumbles against my ear. “I haven’t spent this long inside at night since I got back.”

  “That’s good, right?” I stifle my yawn against his shoulder. “What changed? Why did you decide to try to sleep at home tonight?” If I stay upright much longer, I’ll start to ramble. And this damaged, handsome, protective man will see me for what I am. A woman who’ll put him in danger and probably get him killed. But I get the sense Ripper doesn’t open up often. Maybe not at all.

  The corners of his lips twitch. “There’s this dog…”

  Ten minutes later, I’m practically in tears. I still don’t know what happened to him before he came back, but since…trying to find his place, wanting to be…better. I understand all of it.

  We’re still intertwined, and his muscles feel relaxed, loose and warm, but definitely still…strong. “Do you feel safe here?” he asks.

  “I don’t feel safe anywhere.” The words escape before I have a chance to think them through, and I turn my face into his neck, breathing in the light scents of bergamot and sandalwood as my brain scrambles to find something else to say that won’t make me sound like an idiot. “I mean…I’ll be okay.”

  He shifts slightly so his cheek rests on the top of my head. “Cara, you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I don
’t like the idea of you being here alone. No one around. The unit next to you is empty.”

  Whoa. That’s…borderline creepy. “It wasn’t… But I haven’t seen the kid in forever. Are you sure?”

  Ripper shrugs. “There’s an impressive spiderweb across the top of the door. And the knob’s dusty. No one’s gone in or out for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe a month.”

  “That c-could just be…a really industrious spider.” I don’t want to think about being the only person on this floor. Not that I ever expected the young man living next to me to be my savior—he was all of twenty-two. But maybe he would have called the cops. And now, I’m kicking myself for not realizing he moved out.

  “Do you have any friends you could stay with? Or go to a hotel? I don’t know what had you so scared tonight—and I’m not asking you to tell me. We all have our secrets. But I know terror when I see it.” Shame softens his tone.

  “I can’t afford a hotel.” My own reply is barely a whisper, and I huddle closer to him. His sweatshirt is warm and soft, and I should give it back, but then my thoughts zing back to the question he asked me. “And I can’t really go to a friend’s. I’ll be fine here. I have a baseball bat in the bedroom.”

  Too bad I don’t believe my own words. A baseball bat isn’t going to protect me from Jessup and Parr. And while Leland’s second call, where he apologized for driving through a tunnel and then said he just wanted to let me know he was going to find a way to send me an additional ten thousand dollars to help me stay afloat for the next few months reassured me, it also reminded me just how precarious my situation is.

  Ripper shakes his head. “I still don’t like it.”

  Warning bells go off in my head, so loud, I wonder if he can hear them. But I can’t stop myself. The words escape before I can even think them through. “If you’re that worried, stay. Here.”

  “Wh-what?” He jerks out of my embrace. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “No. It’s a brilliant idea.” I stay as still as I can, not wanting to spook him any further. “Hear me out. You want to sleep inside and you don’t think you can. I don’t want to be in this apartment alone tonight—and you don’t want that either. So…two birds. One couch. You won’t be home. So maybe it’ll be easier on you. And I won’t be alone, either.”

  I hobble over to the hall closet and withdraw a blanket and a pillow. Is he about to tell me I’m insane? His wary gaze tracks my movements, and when I’m standing in front of him again, he accepts my offerings and clutches them to his chest.

  “Can I…keep the drapes and window open?” The shame and desperation in his voice break my heart, and I sink back down next to him.

  “Of course.” Turning my hand palm up on my thigh, I wait to see if he responds. “Tomorrow, I’ll be okay. You can go back to your life, and I’ll figure out a way to handle mine.”

  Ripper covers my fingers with his, and with his free hand, reaches out and brushes a lock of my hair off my forehead, exposing the long scar down my temple from Jessup’s attack almost eighteen months ago. I turn my head, but he stops me by skating the backs of his knuckles along my jaw. “You’re a mystery, Cara. Thank you…” he swallows hard, “for taking a chance on me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ripper

  The bedroom door shuts softly as Cara disappears inside. I should go. Back to my apartment with the floor-to-ceiling windows, one of which opens out onto the balcony so I can get fresh air. I could sleep out on that balcony. It’s small, but it would be…better than this.

  Or maybe not. Because I can still smell her. I’m warm from the time she spent holding me. I didn’t think I could let anyone hold me ever again. As weak and messed up as I was when Ry pulled me out of that well, I didn’t have a choice for a few days. Every time I wanted to move, to change clothes, to bathe, to piss, one of them had to help me. And every time, it sent me into a panic.

  Cara calmed me down with just her voice and her touch. And now? I’d give about anything to feel her arms around me again.

  There’s a soft melody coming from her bedroom, and I push off the couch and creep silently towards her door. It’s some sort of white noise. Peaceful. The door’s so thin, I can hear her moving around, talking to herself.

  “Shirt, panties, bra, socks. Check. Meds ready to go. Check. Tablet and phone charging. Check. Crap. My box.”

  The bed creaks, and I rush back to the couch—all of five steps away—sinking down as she opens the bedroom door. Holy shit. She’s wearing a dark tank and a pair of loose, flowing pants that highlight her curves. Her nipples tighten as the chill in the living room reaches her, and she hugs herself tightly. “Sorry,” she says. “I just needed to get…um…” Darting towards me, she snatches a gray canvas box from the small end table and tucks it under her arm.

  “Don’t apologize, sunshine. This is your place.”

  Her cheeks pink, and she backs towards her room. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “That would require me to sleep. Pretty slim chance of that.” The look on her face makes me regret my words almost immediately. “Doesn’t matter where I lay my head, Cara. Haven’t slept well in six years. Probably won’t start tonight. And it doesn’t matter. If I can make it until sunrise indoors, that’ll be enough.”

  “I have melatonin,” she offers.

  “Doesn’t do shit for me. I’ve tried sleeping pills, alcohol, meditation, and pushing my body to its physical limits. There’s nothing that can calm me down when it gets dark and I’m alone. I’ll be okay. Get some rest.” Patting the pillow, I try for a smile. The motion feels strange and unfamiliar, but also good. I don’t remember the last time I smiled without forcing it for someone else’s benefit.

  “Okay. If you need anything…” She takes another step, and I can’t decide if I need her to stay or go. I don’t want to be alone, but nor do I want to try to face my demons with her in the next room.

  At the last second, I ask, “What’s the music you have on in there?”

  “You can hear that? Crap. I’m sorry. I’ll turn it down.”

  “Don’t.” Jerking up too quickly, my head spins, and I grab onto the arm of the couch so I don’t stumble. Cara’s at my side before I can right myself, her warm fingers on my arm. There’s no urge to pull away. No need to hide myself, even though her hand is just above my wrist, over the thick scars I’ll never be rid of.

  “My God,” she whispers as she notices the raised, smooth skin. “What—?”

  “Not the kind of story you want to hear before bed, sunshine. Or at all. And I’m okay. Just stood up too fast.”

  “Are…are you sure?” She’s only a breath away, and her scent is intoxicating. My jeans, tight before, now feel like they’re strangling my dick, and I force myself to nod.

  “Yeah. I’m sure.” The words scrape over the lump in my throat, and I wish I could hold onto her. I think she’d keep me tethered to reality, and that’s all I’ve wanted for six years.

  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.”