to the clinic for rehab. Lila’s helping a blond guy in a wheelchair navigate the front door when I arrive. She smiles but doesn’t speak. Charlie’s at the front desk on the phone, having refused to take the day off despite Lila’s “assertive encouragement”. She tucks her hair behind her ear as she types on the computer. “I have those records,” she says, glancing up. “I can fax them to you if you’ll send me a signed records release.” I study her when she looks back at the screen. Her face is pale, with deep circles beneath her eyes. As I’m watching, she absently rubs her right temple. I frown. She should have stayed home.
I start toward the entrance to the rehab gym. As I do, something catches my peripheral vision. I look over my shoulder and spot a large black truck pulling into the parking lot.
No.
Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid.
Turns out, he is that stupid. I’m flabbergasted to see Blake hop out and saunter toward the clinic.
Hot anger washes over me as my eyes flash to Charlie. She hasn’t seen him yet. Lila has, though, and she looks worriedly at me. “I’ve got this,” I mutter, pushing past her and hauling myself rapidly across the gravel parking lot. He looks up, his eyes suddenly cautious at my approach. I launch myself through the air when I’m close enough to take him down, flinging my crutches aside. Our bodies connect, and I ride him to the ground. He lands beneath me with a thud, and the air whooshes from his lungs as his startled eyes meet mine. I straddle him as he wrestles, trying to free himself, but I knocked the wind out of him when I tackled him. Fueled by the memory of Charlie’s anguish and self-loathing, I land two solid punches before he gets his hands up to protect his face. My third hit is a body blow that elicits a deep groan from him. I hear Lila yelling behind me, but I don’t stop. I bring both fists down on the hands covering his face, smashing them into his nose. Blood spurts from between his fingers. I pound them again.
Huge arms heave me upright. I struggle, trying to wrench free, but Tom keeps me off balance, dragging me backwards so I can’t get my leg beneath me. When I stop fighting him, he slings me aside, roughly propping me against someone’s car. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
I glare past him. Blake’s gotten to his knees, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. “Ask that fucker what he did yesterday.” Tom whips around to stare at Blake. I glower at him. “Don’t you ever come near Charlie again.”
Tom immediately releases me and hauls Blake to his feet by his bloody shirt. “What did you do to her?” he demands, shaking him.
Lila forces herself between them, her small hands on Tom’s chest, shoving him backwards. “Not here,” she says firmly.
“What did you do?” Tom growls, leaning around her.
Lila shoves him again, pushing him back another step, her expression fierce. “I mean it, Tom. You want to fight, take it somewhere else. We have clients watching, for God's sake.” Then she whirls to face Blake. “And you,” she points, “you’re not a client, and this is private property. Next time, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. Leave.”
Blake throws up his hands. “I came here to talk, and he assaulted me!” He gestures in my direction.
I smirk at his bloody face and rapidly swelling lip and eye. Damn right I did.
“Really?” Her eyes narrow. “Because I just saw a man attack my client at a healthcare clinic for wounded veterans, and the veteran defended himself.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Watch your mouth!” Tom and I bark at the same time.
Blake swipes his arm across his face, smearing blood everywhere. “You’re all insane.”
Lila advances on him. “No. We’re family, and we’re not people you want to fuck with. Now get off my property,” she says icily. The three of us glare as he gets into his truck, spraying gravel everywhere. Tom picks up my crutches and hands them to me.
“Sorry, man. You alright?” He looks me over.
I snort. “Please. The only thing that fucker hit was the ground.” Tom grins broadly.
Lila inspects my hands. “Your knuckles are bleeding.”
“It’s probably his blood.”
She shakes her head. “It looks like you caught his tooth. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Tom puts a hand on my chest. “Wait. Tell me what he did yesterday.”
I drag my phone out and play the voicemail Blake left for Charlie. Tom’s jaw flexes and his eyes blaze. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“That’s enough,” Lila snaps. “You guys beating the shit out of him only draws attention to something Charlie wants to forget. You wanna help her? Quit focusing on that asshole.” Lila’s violet eyes pin each of us sternly.
I shrug. “She told him yesterday not to come back to her place of business, and he did anyway. I’ve clearly expressed my feelings about that to him. As long as he doesn’t upset her again, I’ll behave.” She scowls.
Tom doesn’t answer her, and I can tell by his expression that Blake’s bad day isn’t over yet. I’m pretty sure Lila can tell too, because she shakes her head and stabs his broad chest with her index finger, enunciating each word. “Not. Here.” She turns and stalks into the clinic.
I chuckle at her retreating figure. “Tucker’s got his hands full.”
Tom stares after her. “She looks so dainty, but she shoved me backwards. Twice,” he adds, incredulous. “And poked me with those bony little fingers.” He rubs his chest.
I laugh. “Be glad that’s all she did. I’ve seen her take down bigger men than you.”
It’s a workout day, which means I have a houseful of people after work. Tom catches me in the hall. “I’m really sorry. I feel terrible for telling you I thought he was okay. I’m no better at picking guys than Lila.”
He pulls me into an unexpected hug, but it doesn’t scare me, and that fact makes my bad day significantly better. “It’s not your fault he reacted like he did,” I assure him. When he releases me, I notice his red knuckles. “What’s up with your hands?”
He glances down. “Just a little bare-knuckled boxing.”
I study him, realizing who he’s likely punched, though his face gives nothing away. “Thanks, Tom,” I say quietly. “You didn’t need to do that, though.”
“I told you, I protect my family, bloodborne and chosen.”
I can’t say anything else over the lump in my throat, so I hug him, and he chuckles as he hugs me back. “You’re getting good at these.”
Tom assures me Blake won’t come near the clinic again. He also fired him as his assistant coach. I start to protest, because Tom needs the help, but I drop it at his murderous expression. Tom’s as furious with Blake as Mark is. Apparently, he knows about Blake’s voicemail.
Being surrounded by people is a temporary balm. Lila and I cook a ton of Mexican food for dinner. Maya joins us and catches me up on everything happening in her and Skyler’s lives. Skyler’s mom is seeing a new guy, but Skyler isn’t a fan because, as Maya puts it, “he’s all her mom talks about. Dave this, Dave that, Dave, Dave, Dave.” I learn that Maya loves her new art teacher at summer camp, but dislikes the nature guide because he smells like “the weird people that lurk at the back of the health food store”. I also notice she seems rather fond of a boy named Ben, a fact which makes Tom frown every time she mentions his name – which is often.
It’s only after everyone clears out that my dark mood settles back in. I sit beside Mark on the sofa, staring at the television screen, but I’m a million miles away.
Blake’s voicemail blasting my response to his apology has led to a couple of insights. For starters, I’m not upset with him for finding my scars appalling. After all, I sprung them on him without warning. Theoretically, his honesty was a good thing. Truth beats lies every day of the week, even if it’s painful to hear. How horrible would it have been to keep seeing him if I’d never known how sickened he secretly was by my body? Yes, the way he screamed slurs into my phone was cruel and inappropriate, and it proves he’s an asshole. Still, it doesn’t change the bottom line: he couldn’t cope with my scars, so things couldn’t have worked out between us. His reaction simply accelerated the timeline and saved me from getting in any deeper.
My second related-but-not-entirely-Blake’s-fault epiphany is that I’m done with dating. No more constantly revolving doors of single guys. I’m uncomfortable being alone with men, and aside from a few butterflies with Blake, I’ve not felt anything even remotely close to sexual interest since before my assault. I’ve accepted that in all likelihood, the sexual chapter of my life is over. Without dating, I’m unlikely to build a connection with a man I can trust. Without trust, I can’t engage in a physical relationship without having a panic attack.
The whole point of dating is to develop something deeper with the right person, but for me, an intimate relationship is impossible. I have too many scars, both physical and psychological, for most guys to handle. Frankly, my issues are too much for me to deal with, let alone saddle an innocent bystander with. For all his bullshit, Blake got one thing right.
I’m meant to be alone.
Having said that, I still intend to work toward becoming more comfortable around men, but it won’t be through dating. Tucker hosts a meet-and-greet after-hours at his gym every other month. He sets up a bar, hires a DJ, and people come in to mingle, dance, and network. Tara hosts huge dinner parties most weekends with regional authors, actors, artists, and musicians. Her ridiculously wealthy ex-husband wrote big checks and called himself a patron of the arts, but Tara was the one who got to know them as people, not tax deductions. There are other outlets available to me, too. I might join a local book club or a hiking group or… something. Anything. As long as it’s in a group setting, I’ll be fine. I’ll browse Cedar Ridge’s town website for some local groups and activities.
Days pass, and my internal mood sinks. Abandoning my dream of a happily-ever-after chips away at my spirit, piece by piece. On the outside, though, I plaster on my smile and embrace my role. I’ve had years of practice at pretending I’m fine. I enroll in a kickboxing class at Tucker’s gym and join a book club. I’m cheerful with my clients at work. I chat about mundane things with Tom, Tara, and Lila, join them for lunches outside the office, and bring home-baked goodies to share. I even manage to get caught up with the neverending paperwork.
Outside of work, with Lila, Tucker, Tom, and Maya, I’m able to keep up the façade. When they ask how I’m doing, I give a noncommittal but positive answer and shift the conversation. But when it’s just Mark and me, I don’t pretend. I’ve stopped wearing a fake smile at home because he sees right through it. Depression engulfs me like a heavy San Francisco fog, reminding me of my secret pain at every opportunity.
Happily-ever-after isn’t in the cards for me.
Charlie gradually slips into a darkening mood. She keeps her disposition light and cheery at the clinic, so only Lila and Tom notice. When it’s just us, though, she’s quiet. I let it slide for a while, trying to give her time and space to work through things on her own, but after a couple of weeks, I start to worry.
“Have you seen Willow lately?” I ask one night while we’re doing dishes.
Charlie chuckles sadly. “Why would I? She’s a sex therapist. I’m clearly not in need of one.”
“She’s a relationship specialist. Maybe she could help.”
Charlie intently scrubs a pot. “I’m not in a relationship, nor am I looking for one.”
I stop loading the dishwasher and look over. “So you’re just giving up?”
She sighs heavily. “I’m done with the revolving door of lousy dates with sketchy strangers. I don’t know any decent single guys. And I’m not up to spending weeks getting to trust a new guy just to see if –” she hesitates, blushing “– if I’m able to feel passion.” She stares down at the pot in her hands. “Which, I’m pretty sure, I’m not.”
I ignore her red face, focusing solely on her words. “So you don’t really want a relationship. Not right now, anyway. What you want is a test.”
“What?”
“A test. You want to see if you can both create and experience passion, right?”
She glances over. “I guess that’s one way to look at it. But I can’t fool around with someone I don’t trust, and I’m not interested enough to invest my energy into finding a trustworthy guy.”
She hands me the pot, and I load it in the dishwasher, considering her words.
It all comes down to insecurity.
Charlie’s scars, both psychological and physical, have left her feeling like no man could find her desirable, a belief Blake cemented with his parting shot. Not only that, but the damage those bastards inflicted by using sex as a weapon has left her afraid to trust a man.
Afraid to be vulnerable.
Afraid to let go.
That’s the crux of the issue. Charlie can’t trust a man enough to let go of her fear because she subconsciously believes her fear keeps her safe. What she needs is to experiment with someone she truly trusts.
She trusts me.
An idea starts to simmer in the back of my mind, intriguing, but forbidden.
I know Charlie trusts me implicitly, but this… this is an unspoken boundary we’ve never crossed, a subject we’ve never broached. She and I have never had any non-platonic physical contact, not even once. When I was younger, though, I desperately longed to. It took years to bury those feelings and accept our relationship for what it was – a perfect friendship, with no room for anything outside that boundary.
I look over. “Hand me a dishwasher pod, will you?”
She passes me one from a clear canister and starts wiping down the counters. I bend down and place it in the slot, straighten up, and start the machine, leaning against it to watch her.
Deep breath.
“You trust me,” I comment casually.
“Yes,” she agrees, scrubbing the counters.
I watch her, but she doesn’t make the connection. She moves on to wipe the island.
“I’m a decent single guy. I could be your test subject,” I suggest, keeping my tone light.
Her head snaps up, her mouth falling open. “But — but we’re friends.”
I nod. “Best friends. Closer than most best friends, actually. You know me. You trust me. I’m a man, you’re a woman.”
“What are you saying?” she asks warily, leaning against the island.
I shrug. “I’m just offering myself as your test subject.”
She tilts her head, watching me. “What does that mean, exactly?”
There’s no fear in her expression, merely curiosity, so I ease the conversation forward with a soft smile. “It means you and I kiss, and we see if you feel anything.”
“From one kiss?”
I chuckle. “Well, I’d probably classify it as making out, but yes. Nothing but kissing,” I clarify, “but not just a quick peck, either.”
“But we’re friends,” she repeats.
I nod. “Yeah, we are, and you know I’d never hurt you. You’re safe with me. That leaves you free to try things out without being afraid.”
She looks at me, her expression indecipherable.
I’ve gone too far.
“If you’re not interested, it’s fine. It was just a thought,” I say hastily. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I’m the only guy she’s completely relaxed with.
She searches my eyes. “What if it makes things weird?”
“You mean like, what if we kiss and it’s like kissing a relative?” I shrug. “Then we stop immediately and never speak of it again.” I smile. “Ever.”
“No. No, I mean… what if it makes things weird between us afterwards?”
I reach over and lightly take her hand, touching only her fingertips. “Charlie, you and I have literally been to hell and back together. I don’t know any two people, not friends, not lovers, not even married couples, that have a stronger relationship than we do. I don’t believe a kiss could destroy what’s between us. It’s not possible.”
She nods slowly.
I try to lighten the mood. “I mean, if I really put my back into it -” I grin, “and it does absolutely nothing for you, my pride might be wounded, but that’s all.”
She laughs, but then worry reaches her eyes. “Mark, I really do think I’m too messed up to respond that way now.”
“I’m kidding. My pride will be fine. Besides, it’s just a test. If we kiss and you don’t feel anything, then you’ll know, and if you do, well, you’ll know then, too.”
She hesitates. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper. “What if – what if I do?”
I smile gently. “Then you’ll know you aren’t as broken as you think.”
Long moments pass, and I can see her mind racing as she bites her lip. I let her twist the idea around for a bit before I put her out of her misery.
“The only way to know is to try. I’m offering you a safe option. Just think about it. It’s an open-ended offer.” I push off from the counter and grab my crutches.
“Okay,” she says suddenly. “Okay, let’s try it.”
Yes. Let’s.
A smile spreads slowly across my face. “Okay, then.” I move toward her.
“Wait. Now?” she asks hastily.
I pause in front of her. “Did you have somewhere important to be?” I tease gently. She stares up, her eyes wide. She’s not frightened. She looks… curious.
Good.
I balance my weight on my left leg and prop my crutches against the island. My right hand grips the counter. I’m less than a foot from her.
Her face is upturned as she studies my face. Her breathing has quickened slightly, but she doesn’t look scared. “No,” she answers slowly. “Now is fine.”
“Good.”'
My eyes don't leave hers. Charlie’s a fighter. She wants to know if she can move past her fear of physical touch, or if the bastards have truly broken her beyond repair. I know her, though. She’s much too strong for them to have beaten her. She just needs to find that out for herself.
“My right hand is going to hold the counter so I don’t fall on my ass,” I grin as I point to it with my other hand, “and my left hand won’t wander. If you feel uncomfortable or want to stop, pull back or tell me, and everything stops.”
She nods her agreement. I scrutinize her closely. “You’re sure?”
She nods again, looking slightly nervous, but not afraid.
The smile on my face gradually fades as I gaze into her impossibly deep emerald eyes. Her beauty grips me, beauty I’ve forced myself to ignore for nearly twenty years. “Damn, you’re beautiful, Baby Girl.” My voice is rough as I lift my left hand and brush the pad of my thumb across her cheek. I slide my hand behind her neck, my thumb beneath her jaw, and tilt her face up, slowly lowering my mouth to hers, giving her time to change her mind.
She doesn’t.
My lips skim over hers lightly. She’s tense. To be honest, I’m not sure she’s still breathing.
“Relax,” I whisper, nudging her mouth with my own. I kiss her again, very lightly, and she responds hesitantly, standing up on her tiptoes to meet me.
I pull my mouth away from hers. “Hang on,” I tell her, scooping her up beneath her thighs with my left arm. She gasps and slides her hands up to my shoulders. I deposit her gently onto the island countertop so we’re face to face.
“That’s better,” I murmur, giving her a slow smile before my mouth closes over hers again.
She tentatively returns the kiss, still holding back. “Stop overthinking things,” I mutter against her lips. “Just let go and feel.”
With that, I deepen the kiss, my lips becoming more firm against hers. I move my left hand to the nape of her neck, spearing my fingers through her thick hair, lightly gripping it to tilt her head back. My mouth turns hot, insistent, seeking, and when my tongue gently licks across her lips, she shivers, then parts her lips for me. My tongue sweeps into her mouth. She tastes faintly of vanilla and wine, honey sweet. Over and over, my tongue caresses hers, dancing and circling.
Her anxiety melts away. She leans into me, meeting my tongue stroke for stroke. She slides her hands up to wrap them behind my neck, twisting her fingers into my hair. She tugs at it and pulls my mouth closer, getting lost in the moment, this one perfect moment.
Yes.
Our kisses continue, heated and wet, but I focus on her response. She presses closer to me, pushing her breasts against me. Her nipples tighten against my chest.
Her nipples.
God. I picture them, rosy-brown, pert, straining toward me, desperate for my touch. For my mouth. My teeth.
Hold up. Get a grip.
I can’t afford to get too caught up in the heat of the moment.
I move to the safer territory of her neck, trailing steamy kisses down to her collarbone. I feel her sharp intake of breath as my stubble grazes the curve of her throat. Her head falls back as I suck and nibble my way back up, pausing by her earlobe until she shivers again. I chuckle lightly as she reaches for my face and tugs my mouth back to hers. This time she’s the aggressor, igniting me with her feverish kisses, demanding more, and I willingly oblige. My left hand drops to tightly grip her hip, sliding her forward against me. My body tightens immediately in response to her closeness. Without hesitation, she takes my left hand and moves it to her right breast, and I groan deep in my throat.
A fiery heat explodes through both of us. Our kisses become more intense, lips and teeth and tongues devouring each other, and when I squeeze her taut nipple, her hands grab my waist, pulling me in as she wraps her legs around my hips. My hardness presses solidly against her inner thigh, and she arches her hips against me.
God, she feels good.
So fucking good.
My hand squeezes her breast as I stroke her nipple. She whimpers before grinding against me again. A growl escapes from somewhere deep in my chest.
She wants this.
We both do.
Shit. No.
You have to stop this.
Now!
I snap back to my senses first. Shocked by the passion blazing between us, I tear my lips away from hers. “Damn, Baby Girl,” I say, my voice hoarse. My breathing is ragged as my eyes fix on Charlie. She’s the perfect picture of arousal. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen, her pupils dilated. I pull her against my chest, my lips pressed to her forehead, willing my body to calm down. I feel her panting, her chest heaving against mine.
After long moments, I get a handle on myself. I look down. Charlie stares at me with huge green eyes, her lips parted, still breathing hard.
I gently disentangle her legs from around my waist and take her hand. She watches, speechless, as I press it over my heart. It hammers wildly against her palm. “Do you feel this?”
She nods silently.
I move her hand to press it over her own heart. I can tell by the pulse pounding along her throat that it’s beating as hard as my own. “Do you feel that?”
She nods again.
“You’re not broken, Baby Girl,” I murmur, lifting her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles. “Not by a long shot.”
She looks stunned.
I see the instant her emotions change.
Her expression turns to one of mortification. She flushes deep crimson and jerks her hand free, pulling back physically and emotionally.
“No,” I say firmly, “don’t do this, Charlie. Don’t you dare be embarrassed.” I shift to make her look directly into my eyes. “That was the sexiest kiss I’ve had in my entire damn life, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re you, and I’m me. It was a test, an agreed-upon, predetermined test. You wanted to see if you could fully engage in a passionate moment, and you did. You wanted to see if you could make a man respond passionately, and you did. Stop second-guessing and kicking yourself. It was a test, nothing more.”
She’s silent for a long moment. “It was just a test,” she finally repeats.
I’m not sure she believes her own words.
I nod. “Just a test. It doesn’t change anything between us. Do you still trust me?”
“Of course,” she says immediately, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
I suppress my smile. She’s back.
“Then we’re good. Nothing has changed. We’re the same two people we were fifteen minutes ago. We’re just two people who answered a question.”
I grip the counter tightly with my right hand, leaning over to pick up my crutches. At some point, they clattered unnoticed to the floor.
I help Charlie slide off the counter before tucking my crutches under my arms. “I’m going to go to the weight room for a few minutes and burn off some energy.” God knows I need to. “Want to meet back in half an hour or so for a movie?”
She smiles uncertainly. “I’ll pop the popcorn.”
I head down the hall, completely unaware that we’ve permanently altered our previously rock-solid relationship.