I can understand that. Like a soldier in a war, she’s been doing what had to be done. It’s only after the bullets stop flying, you check to see what damage there is. As for thinking time, we’ve made her give up what really was a shit job. I’d ridden past the dive where she worked and wasn’t comfortable with her being there at all. A suggestion that it was best if she kept out of sight was the only persuasion it took for her to tell Andy and his shotgun a final goodbye.
“If time’s hanging on your hands, why not help Jeannie out in the kitchen?”
An almost there smile appears. “I tried, but Jeannie hates me.”
She’s not exactly right, but I remember now that she allowed a pie Jeannie asked her to watch out for burn when she’d left it too long in the oven. Thereafter, her offers of help were turned down. Prospects clean and tidy, so there’s not much else for a female to do.
“Jeannie’s okay.” I defend Bomber’s old lady. “She just likes to be in charge in her domain. Perhaps you could help by peeling vegetables or something?”
She holds out her hand with a Band-Aid wrapped around one finger. “Tried that. Failed. Blood on the potatoes is apparently worse than a burned pie.”
I have to laugh at the crestfallen look on her face. “Can’t you cook at all?”
“I can open a can and pour it into a saucepan. I can put bread in the toaster, er,” now there’s an actual grin, “some of the time without burning it. And I can microwave. When I remember to remove the tinfoil first.”
I snort. “Thought women were born with the cooking gene.”
“Obviously my genetics are wrong. I must be partly a man.”
My eyes view her up, then down. “Well that part must be in your head. You look all female to me.”
Damn. Fuck it to hell. Why did I go and say something like that? To cover the moment of awkwardness when I realise given her situation I shouldn’t have been looking, and she, clearly linking my statement to how she’s been objectified for the last year, bristles. I make a swift change of subject.
“What are you good at?”
“Machinery.”
Well fuck, I didn’t expect that. The expression on my face must show my surprise, as she nods sharply. “Give me something mechanical that doesn’t work, and I can usually fix it.”
Well colour me surprised. “You work on bikes? Cars?”
Her hands move a foot apart, then widen. I frown, then realise she’s indicating bigger. “Tractors?”
“Large farm machinery, yes. Oh, I could find my way around a smaller engine, but I’m more used to something larger with the torque to drive a combine harvester.”
“You trained?”
“Graduated in mechanical engineering, so yeah.”
My eyes widen in admiration. But before she can latch on to that, I shake my head, forcing the corners of my mouth to turn down. “Shame it doesn’t make up for the fact you can’t cook.”
She stares at me. Just stares. Then, when my lips twitch, she snorts a laugh, then another, then she’s doubled up laughing. When she straightens, she wipes tears from her eyes. “Asshole,” she tells me.
Four days ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of calling me that, or anything like it. Progress. I have a warm feeling inside that it’s me she’s growing more comfortable with. Rather than analyse why I should feel that sense of pride, I nod to the pool table.
“This one of your talents?”
“That would be telling.”
“Want to be beaten?” Poor choice of words.
But she’s got a sly look on her face. “I’ve got nothing else to do. I don’t mind standing bored while you work the table.”
Huh. Minutes later, it’s me standing looking on as she expertly sinks ball after ball, eventually getting a short turn which, I completely fuck up, then, for the second time in less than a week, my pool playing ability is brought into question by a woman. Aren’t women supposed to know their place? Which is, of course, allowing the man to win. But she certainly doesn’t, and I find I don’t care at all.
I love the little jump of triumph she makes as the final ball sinks into the pocket. Without thinking, I place my arm around her.
“You’re a ringer, sweetheart.”
I’m a big man, my arm, like everything else about me is muscular. I’m totally unaware I’ve trapped her until she goes stiff by my side.
“Let me go.” There’s desperation in her voice. “Let me go!” she repeats.
Immediately my arm drops, and I look down to see her shaking, her face white. “Oh, baby,” I tell her quickly, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Deep breaths, babe. Deep breaths. Look at me.” My gentle voice has panicked eyes staring my way. I take a deep breath, hold it, then exhale. Then I repeat my actions. “Breathe, babe.”
She looks like she’s struggling to do that simplest of action, but tries, eventually inhaling sharply, and then, mimicking my movements, holds it before letting it out. She copies me again and again until finally I see her relax and her shoulders slump.
“Come and sit down.” I indicate a couch, and when she sits, putting her head into her hands, I take a chair opposite.
“I’m sorry.” Her apology’s offered in a low weak voice.
Dismissing her words, I tell her, “Shay, you were forced to do things you didn’t want for the past year. No wonder you don’t fuckin’ want a man’s hands on you. It’s me who should apologise. I didn’t fuckin’ think.”
“I’m fucked up, Mace. I don’t think I’ll ever be right again.”
“Darlin’, you’ll get there. May need some help, but you’ll get through this.”
“Help?”
I nod. “Yeah. You and Esme both. I think you need some therapy. What I saw just now was a classic PTSD response, and Christ knows you’ve been through trauma.” As her face tightens, I wave my hand around the room. “If brothers here haven’t got it themselves, they know men who have. The way you reacted is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“How come you knew what to do?”
“I served, babe. I’ve seen things no man should have. Yeah, I know a bit about what you’re going through.”
“I’m scared I’ll never get over this. That I’ll always panic when a man gets too close.”
I fucking hope not. “It’s about learning coping mechanisms, babe, and that’s why I think therapy could help.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “I was surrounded by broken women. Each time a man would enter the room, it was to torture us, or take us to get dolled up so we could go service one of their clients. In my head, I equate men with pain, or being forced to do something I don’t want. Just telling you this, hurts, Mace.”
I wish I could wave a wand and wipe away her past, but I can’t. “You won’t forget. But you can learn how to deal.”
“After my panic attack just then?” Her eyes open wide. “I can’t see how.”
“You’ve been free of him, what, three months? All that time you’ve been running on adrenaline, looking over your shoulder, doing your best for you and Esme. Fuck woman, have you any idea how strong you are? You got out and stayed free, and all with a disabled kid.”