Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Shh, it’s okay.” I want to reach for him and bring him against me, but I don’t. Something tells me that might make things worse, so I keep holding his hand to my face. It should feel weird, but it doesn’t. I’m trying not to lean into his touch and rub up against him like a cat.
And speaking of cats, Lucky is right by our feet, walking in and out around Anders’ legs.
I look Anders in the eyes. They always seem to hold darkness behind them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in here, but I thought you were in danger. I thought someone was in here with you.”
“No one in here but me.” He taps the side of his head. “And what’s up here is probably worse than what anyone else could do to me. I’m sorry for hitting you. I should get you some ice.”
He tries to pull away, but there’s something inside me that won’t let him go.
I hold his hand tighter and try to grin but wince instead. “Guess it’s my fault. I should remember you Steele brothers are like kung fu masters.”
Anders scoffs, but I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or self-deprecating dismissal. “That’s Law. Not me.”
“Well, you’ve got a mean right hook. Just sayin’.”
One of Anders’ rare genuine smiles breaks free.
“So, the nightmares. Did you, you know, wanna talk about it?” God, could I be any more awkward than I am right now?
“I really don’t.”
“Okay.” I don’t blame him. Just because I want Anders to trust me, doesn’t mean he ever will.
“But we will talk about it, because I should’ve done it when I moved in.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Actually, yeah, I do. Especially if this is gonna happen again. I don’t want to keep punching you. Well, mostly.” Anders smirks and reaches out, a single finger running from my eye along my jaw and down to my chin. “But ice first.”
I nod. “Ice.”
7
Anderson
Fuck.
Double fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I hit Brody. I was in the middle of an episode, and I hit him.
This is why you should’ve told him before now.
Yeah, thanks, Karen. I don’t need your voice in my head right now.
Why is it when I start to feel comfortable, my brain has to go and ruin everything?
I’ve been here two weeks now. Two weeks where I expected this shit to happen, and it didn’t.
I thought, maybe, I was stable enough here.
Good feelings never last.
Never forget that, Anders.
I grab a bag of peas from the freezer and wrap a tea towel around it, but when I turn, Brody is right there at the entryway to the kitchen.
I jump out of my skin. “Fucking hell.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump. I didn’t know if you wanted me out of your room or out here or—”
I hand him the icepack as I pass him on my way to the pantry where Brody keeps his liquor. “Want some?” I pull down an open bottle of scotch. “This conversation might need it.”
“Sounds like we’re in for a long night.” Brody’s tone drips with innuendo, but I don’t think it’s intentional. It’s probably my brain reading into it, because words out of Brody’s mouth can make anything sound sexual.
“Certainly not of the fun variety.”
I pour us both more than two fingers and slide his over to him. Brody sips his slowly, but I can’t get mine down my throat fast enough.
His stocky frame leans against the kitchen counter. The abs that like to torture me are out again—shocking—and like always, my eyes betray me by scoping out every inch of bare skin.
“So, is it like a night terror thing from when you were a kid, or …”
Yeah, I’m gonna need more alcohol. After another two-ish fingers of scotch, I put my glass on the counter and gesture to move to the living room. Brody follows, taking a seat on one side of the couch and dragging a blanket onto his lap.
“Boxer situation.” He smiles coyly, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him bashful.
“Sweatpants. Should always go sweatpants.” I run a hand down the leg of mine, because my palms are clammy and sweaty and gross.
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
And reality comes crashing back. “About that. Chances are high it will happen again.”
“And why is that?”
“You want the professional diagnosis or the personal recount?”
His hand pauses halfway to his mouth as he goes to take a drink. “Whichever you’re comfortable with.”
“Well, if you ask my therapist’s opinion, she says I have PTSD, GAD, and a whole heap of other acronyms.”
I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see pity or judgement, and I don’t want to feel the shame. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of—a lot of which has been in the last five years. I had guys warming my bed when I’ve felt nothing. Treated them like shit. Didn’t even have the balls to break up with them in person. But the Kyle stuff makes me feel dirty and shameful in ways I never knew were possible.