“Shit.” Aaron’s phone woke him Wednesday morning. “What the fuck?”
He sat up with a groan, and then realized it wasn’t his phone. He’d been dreaming about a phone ringing. It was his doorbell. He glanced at his cell phone. Six a.m. Who the hell would come to his door at this time of the morning?
He rolled out of his king-size bed and pulled on his jeans. The doorbell rang again. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your pantyhose on.”
He strolled out of the bedroom and wandered down the hall. He looked through the peephole. “Shit.”
Judy Peeples. Not who he wanted to see this morning. From the looks of her, she’d been up all night. Her somewhat kinky brown hair lay around her shoulders in a hot mess, and her brown eyes had a haunted look. Shit, one of these days he’d learn to stop thinking with his dick. Hooking up with Judy had been an A-number-one mistake. Okay, so technically he hadn’t hooked up with her in a physical sense. They’d met at a bar last week, they’d had one dinner, and he’d invited her over to his apartment. That had been a friggin’ mistake. Getting her out of the apartment had been difficult, and he’d tried being polite. She’d practically jumped him when he was urging her to the front door, throwing her arms around him and planting a lip lock on him. He’d peeled her off. She’d called him twice. Both times he’d ignored her calls. That wasn’t cool, and now he was paying for it. Time to face the proverbial music.
He groaned and unlocked the door, preparing for the onslaught.
“Hey, Judy,” he said as he opened the door.
Judy smiled, her pale face still beautiful despite her peeved expression. Her gaze wandered up and down his bare chest, and she licked her lips. Okay, so she liked what she saw. He wasn’t even flattered.
“Hey. You didn’t answer my calls,” she said.
He tried for a contrite face, and he really was. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool. I apologize.”
She tossed a strand of long hair over her shoulder so it exposed her generous breasts. Breasts encased in a black stretch, short-sleeved shirt. She wore a matching long skirt that reached to just above her ankles and ended with black, fuck-me sandals. When he’d first met her at the bar and taken her phone number, he thought she was at least thirty. When he’d found out she was twenty-two, that added to his conviction he wanted nothing to do with her. He didn’t hook up with women young enough to be his kid.
She shifted her large purse on her shoulder. “Okay. I can forgive that.”
Damn. “This isn’t going to work, Judy. I don’t date women as young as you. I’m thirty-eight.”
“I don’t care. I don’t understand why you should, either. If you really like someone, it shouldn’t matter. I thought I’d…I need to talk to someone.”
He tilted his head to the side. “That someone can’t be me. I’m not up for a relationship right now.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, you’re too young for me. We went out and after we talked, it’s obvious to me that we don’t have anything in common.”
She stepped forward, emphasizing her breasts again with the way she stood. “There’s nothing saying we can’t just have fun.”
“Judy, it’s not…” He scrubbed one hand over his chin. Christ, he needed to shave. “I just woke up, and I’m dead on my feet.”
A hopeful look crossed her face. “I could make you coffee and eggs.”
“All out of coffee and eggs. I need to shop.” He wasn’t lying, but she put on a doubtful face.
“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. A pout formed on her lips. “Need company to shop?”
Great. How was he going to do this? He’d tried twenty ways to Sunday to let her out of their non-existent relationship.
“Judy, I’m not up for a relationship right now. I need to get my life together.”
Thank God he hadn’t slept with her, even if he’d been tempted, and even though she’d thrown it in his face repeatedly.
“Maybe you should stay out of bars, then,” she said with full venom.
“I was there for a friend’s birthday. Not to pick up women.”
“Well, you picked me up.”
“I danced with you. We went out to a movie and you came over here. That’s it.”
“You kissed me.”
Anger slid through him. “You kissed me, Judy, not the other way around.” Some of the venom he’d held back last week leaked out. “We didn’t sleep together. Nada.”
Anger filled her eyes. “You’re screwed up. You shouldn’t lead women on like that.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t.” He held up one hand and said with sarcasm. “I, Aaron MacPherson, royal dickhead, do promise not to go to bars or talk to women in case they think I’m trying to pick them up.”
Judy didn’t look pacified, one hand now on her hip in a pose that said, you-should-have-fucked-this-you-bastard-while-you-had-the-chance. He was still glad he hadn’t.
“You were looking pretty chatty with that woman last night,” she said.
Puzzled, he said, “What?”
“At that place you were at last night. That medical building. You were talking to that woman. Are you dating her?”
Jesus. Time to make sure she didn’t go Fatal Attraction on him. “You followed me?”
“Yeah. I wanted to see why you were blowing me off.”
Holy crap. See if he ever went to a fuckin’ bar again and danced with a woman for the rest of his life.
“No, I’m not dating her.” He was suddenly inspired. Tell her the truth and see if that scared her off. “I’m in a group therapy for people with PTSD.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Is that a disease?”
Seriously?
“On some days I think it is. No, it’s a disorder. You know…a lot of military people have a problem with it these days. I punched a guy and going to group therapy is keeping me out of spending time in jail.”
Her eyes widened, and she stepped back. She held both hands up. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, I shouldn’t have followed you, okay? I’m outta here.”
She walked down the hall. Relieved, he closed the door and locked it. As he walked back to his bedroom, he smiled. If he’d known that saying he was a criminal would get her out of his life sooner, he would’ve already told her. She probably thought if she said the wrong thing, he’d pop her in the face or worse. His stomach turned.
The thought that a woman would be afraid of him made him sick. He was a protector, Goddamn it. He shook off the thought of harming a woman, and another thought hit him squarely in the gut. What if his so-called PTSD made him violent again? Hell no. Ain’t going to happen. He’d fucked up hitting that man, even if the asshole deserved it.
As for Judy, all he needed was a stalker. Not that he was afraid of her, but hell…He shook his head as he peeled out of his jeans and dropped them on the floor. He put on shorts, T-shirt, athletic socks, and shoes and prepared for his run. He usually started the day before now. It would be hotter than he liked outside. He pocketed his keys and headed out the door.
He found the running and cycling path outside his apartment complex on the west side of town and took off at a good clip. Quickly his jog turned into a pace closer to a run. Within a few moments, he went into a flow where his mind cleared and the high from running worked its way through his muscles. This time, though, it didn’t work through his thoughts. Instead a more insidious thought invaded. The usual one.
He was a fucking failure.
He’d screwed up in a big way. Not with Judy. Well, okay. With Judy. More than that, he couldn’t believe what a wuss he’d become overall. Here he was, out of the marines for months, and he hadn’t engaged with the world the right way.
Come on, MacPherson. Force Recon Marines didn’t fail. They didn’t quit. They jumped into the big suck and came out on top or died trying.
In twenty years of service he hadn’t failed or quit. Ever.
Until now.
He heard the Force Recon instructor’s voice in his head, calling to him from many years ago when he’d first entered the Basic Recon Course to discover if he could even become Force Recon. Most failed. He wouldn’t.
This is going to suck, marine. But we like it when it sucks!
Every marine going into Force Recon qualification hoped he could accomplish the significant task of being worthy. Few of them were. The belief inside him had proved strong enough to become Force Recon. So where the hell had all that ability gone? Straight to the crapper.
Doubts he’d rarely had before he retired wore him down, and he hated it. Every morning the weariness came before he could exercise, but he’d taken a physical that said he was in damned good shape on every level. It wasn’t physical. Something mental exhausted him each day and threatened to make him a fat couch potato. Fuck that. He jogged harder, faster, feeling his heart bang in his chest and his pulse race. So what if he couldn’t get off the couch the rest of the day. He could keep his body in shape even if his mind went to pot.
As the sun beat down on him, he was glad for the sunglasses on his face. He turned into an area with leafy aspens and tall pines shading the path. Finally, after mile two, his mind started to clear and relax.
A vision of Lana Burns popped into his mind. Shit, that woman…now she was something. A rounded-in-all-the-right places woman. She wasn’t skinny, and yet he’d never call her overweight. He towered over her, but she was tall. Hair fell around her shoulders in a mess of curls and waves, thick and a pretty red that made him want to sink his fingers into it. Her eyes, a piercing, knowing brown, made him feel as if she could read his mind. She was different than any woman he’d met, but if asked, he wouldn’t know how to define what was different. When they’d stood outside the medical center Tuesday night, she’d seemed afraid of him and yet unwilling to give into the fear. She’d stood up straighter and schooled her face into a cross between don’t-mess-with-me and a vulnerability. Still, she’d met his conversation head-on with little hesitation, and she’d seemed like a nice enough person. He wasn’t joking when he’d told her wanted to ask her out. He had wanted to, but he knew better.
Still…something about her made him want to protect her at all costs.
That scared the ever livin’ shit outta him.
He’d hated that she’d been left outside Tuesday alone—that her friend hadn’t been there on time to pick her up. He’d envied her PTSD a little. It was defined. She had it because she’d been kidnapped and held hostage and who the fuck knew what else had happened during her captivity.
No one understood his mental problems, but they still said he had them. Frustration mounted. If he couldn’t figure out what the hell had turned him into a poster boy for PTSD after twenty freaking years in the marines, then what the hell would he do in the future?
Still, he didn’t need the complications that came with a relationship, just as he’d told Judy. Even if his head had been screwed on straight, he wouldn’t want a relationship with Judy. At the end of the day, he probably shouldn’t want a relationship with any woman, even if it was just to party, until he learned which way was up.
He almost gritted his teeth. Going to this group therapy about killed him. He hated it, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d do it and that would be that. The court had ordered him, and considering the trouble he could be in with the law, he had to count his blessings he wasn’t sitting in an orange jumpsuit in a cell fighting off some asshole who wanted to make him his bitch.
He ran faster, determined to banish thoughts of Lana Burns, PTSD and anything else that burned his hide. As he ran, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be there Thursday night, and found himself looking forward to seeing her.
* * * *
Lana stared out the window of her apartment. A thunderstorm rumbled overhead, but she couldn’t put off grocery shopping any longer. She’d blown off Jillie’s offer to take her grocery shopping this weekend. Now she was paying the piper because if she’d done as Jillie suggested, she’d have enough food for the week. Self-loathing spiked inside her.
Push through this. You were always independent and capable.
Were. Yeah, that was the operative word. Once she’d been independent, and now it chapped her hide no end to think she’d abandoned her independence.
She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. Early in the day for a storm, but one never argued with Mother Nature. She took a deep breath and lifted her purse a little higher over her shoulder. It had taken her a half hour to gather the courage to walk to the front door of her apartment.
Her left hand clutched her keys while her right reached for the security locks. She undid the locks, leaving the deadbolt for last. She opened the door. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get this far on a daily basis. Sometimes Jillie would come to the door and they’d leave together that way. But she’d needed to go to the mailboxes herself, take out the trash, all those things, and she’d accomplished those things without much problem. Something about this was different. Well, okay. She knew why. The fact she’d already psyched herself out thinking about what came after she reached the car. Driving. Down the road, down I-25 to the grocery store. She took another deep breath. Thinking about what might happen was at least eighty percent of the problem. Thinking too much led to the shakes, the shortness of breath, the dread that told her she was about to die.
One step at a time.
She locked her apartment and took the stairs down from the second floor. Her apartment building had all private entrances. She ignored thinking about Costa Rica and continued down the sidewalk. Everything felt good, felt possible in that moment as her steps gained momentum. She could do this. Yes. Her blue Subaru Forester sat under its covered parking space, and it wasn’t too far away.
Suddenly her body rebelled.
Distress overwhelmed her and she stopped dead, just steps away from her car. She drew in a deep breath, but it wouldn’t stop the way her heart slammed in her chest. Fear prickled along her skin, traveling with spider legs. Shallow breaths sucked between her lips. She shook from the inside out with an apprehension she couldn’t name.
A horn honked behind her, and she whirled swiftly and moved to the side. She leaned against her car for only a second as a tall white truck whizzed by. She couldn’t see the person behind the windshield, but for a few seconds she wanted to shake her fist at them. She knew she shouldn’t stand in the middle of the parking lot, frozen like an iceberg. Her heart continued to bang, bang in her chest as she broke from her stupor and stumbled into a run.
Back to the apartment. Now. Now. Now.
Fear so raw she could taste it in her throat propelled her down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and to her door. At the door, she fumbled with the lock. Dropped her keys and bent to grab them. Gasping for breath, she jammed the key in the deadbolt and then the door knob. Once inside, she slammed the door and locked it against the world. Trembling, she dropped her purse. She collapsed on the couch on the center cushion, her heart slowing as she absorbed the fact she was in the apartment. Safe for now. For this moment if for no other. Self-loathing rolled up and blindsided her. She’d had this experience too many times, and she’d been so sure she could do his alone.
“Stupid. Stupid,” she whispered to the air. “You are so stupid.”
As soon as the words were out, she knew what her therapist would say.
Lana, you aren’t stupid. You’re having a PTSD response. Your brain has been wired and trained to respond this way based on the horrible situation you encountered in Costa Rica. Give yourself time. It takes a while to rewire this stuff.
No. She’d had months to get this all right in her head. Months to understand that she wasn’t in Costa Rica anymore and there wasn’t a bogie man around every corner.
“Why can’t I bust out of this this?” she asked.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she reached for the phone. She’d have to call Jillie whether she wanted to or not.
* * * *
Lana jerked from sleep with a gasp Thursday around four in the morning. Her heart hammered in her ears, her breath coming fast. Sweat broke out on her skin, a fever of fear. She rolled to the side of the bed and fumbled for the light switch. Illumination spilled gently over the room, muted by the burnished gold lampshade. She flopped back on her pillows, her breath catching in her throat. She rubbed one hand over her face. Without taking time to think, she pushed the covers off, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her journal on the nearby table. She also gathered up the box that held dozens of colored pens, pencils, and markers, and settled against the pillows once more.
She needed to write. Doodle. Draw. Anything that would steady her heart, which stuttered along with an uncertainty that promised a panic attack. She'd had her share of that yesterday trying to drive her own car. Damn, she hadn’t even made it into her car before her wussy courage had broken down.
And now Jillie’s patience had worn thin. She’d heard it in her friend’s tone when she’d called her to ask for transportation to get groceries. Lana had apologized profusely for the inconvenience.
It sucked big time. But then so did waking up with no friggin' idea what had scared her, what she'd dreamed.
Eager for relief, she opened the purple paisley journal, its creamy white acid-free, narrow-lined paper guaranteeing she'd have a memory forever. Short of burning the damn journal or ripping out the pages, she could read about her PTSD adventures years from now if she wanted.
Your PTSD isn't like anyone else's.
Yeah. Right.
Monica Helmet, a PTSD sufferer she’d met online in a group for PTSD, made Lana crazy. Okay, crazier than she already was. Monica pontificated on PTSD as if she had the biggest, worst case ever seen.
"What are you trying to do? Be special?" Monica had mocked Lana's description of her symptoms. "My PTSD is so much worse than your PTSD."
Monica’s obnoxiousness had finally driven them all from the group. Good riddance to Monica, who was probably still trying to convince herself and the world how bad her PTSD really was.
Even the thought of Monica’s obnoxiousness gave Lana anxiety, and the fact anyone at all had that sort of power over her drove her nuts with self-recrimination.
Lana reached into the box and hesitated. "Pen or pencil? Fat or thick? Just make a damned decision."
Finally she started with the pencil and began to draw. She cleared her mind, intent on creating anything. Most of the time she’d write a little in the journal about her day and draw a picture after. Sometimes she made nothing more than a small symbol on the page. The pictures may or may not have anything to do with what she wrote. She drew three butterflies on the page, feathery touches of the pencil to paper. Her thoughts slowed and genuine relaxation banished the anxiety.
Clearing her mind with drawing always quieted the monkey mind. She used the colored pens in her box, selecting any color that caught her attention. Her drawings meant nothing more than doodles, scribbles, and whatever went on in her mind at the moment. Once she’d made a butterfly with pink, green, and orange, she looked at her creation with satisfaction. Sleepiness took over, and she gathered her journal and pen box and returned them to the table.
Who needs group therapy? I’ve got crayons.
She sank under the covers. At least she had one thing she could count on in life, even if it was nothing more than paper and pens.
Later that morning her alarm clock woke her at six. She started the day like anyone else with a shower, breakfast, and work. Cocooned in her apartment, she almost always felt safe. Almost. This morning as she sat at her small dining table with Greek yogurt and fresh blueberries, it hit her. The fear was a strange anxiety that she never understood. Okay, she did understand it. It came without warning, but she knew it was somehow related to what she’d experienced in Costa Rica. But she hated it. Hated it. A creeping, crawling, awful dread skittered over her skin. Her breath got short again.
She placed the spoon and yogurt on the table and took a deep breath.
I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.
I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.
She’d forgotten to use the mantra before she’d attempted to leave the apartment to shop. Now, as she said the words over and over again in her head, they started to work. The sense of death being around the corner subsided, until everything seemed normal.
“Thank you,” she said to the room. “Thank you.”
Anything to get rid of that feeling. She understood now, as she hadn’t before her kidnapping, why some people turned to drugs and drinking to mask this feeling. It was the worse damned thing she could have imagined, short of outright terror. She couldn’t describe the feeling to anyone accurately.
As the sensation faded, she finished her yogurt and went to her office, where she could admire the bright sun shining between the blinds of her office window. She placed her iPod into speakers on the credenza across the room and started a soothing set of classical music. She fired up her computer and settled in for a few hours of working with her students online. The setup wasn’t ideal, but it worked for the time being. She couldn’t argue with it, considering the alternative. She could have lost her job entirely.
I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.
For now that was all she needed to know.