I remembered this sensation all-too-well. It was there on the night I had finally told a woman who would become my mother about what had happened to me in that basement and the rooms above.
It had been there when I told my Aunt Janie because she'd been through something similar.
It had been there when I finally got into therapy to help me cope with my crippling anxiety, my bone-deep fear of every man I came across, including my adoptive father, Cash.
It was there in quiet moments too. When my defenses were too low. In the moments right before sleep and right after waking especially. Or even, at times, when I saw handcuffs or basements or certain foods, beds with metal headboards.
"What's wrong with metal headboards?" Finch had innocently asked in the bed department of the furniture store a few days before.
"Finch," I said, voice a pained hiss, drawing his gaze, making the easy smile fall from his lips. "No metal headboards."
He didn't even ask. Anyone else would have asked, pressed, demanded an explanation.
Not Finch.
He had just tucked his hands in his front pockets, making his shoulders hunch forward, giving him a boyish appearance. The lollipop between his lips was really helping that image too.
"Okay. No metal," he agreed, then swiveled on his heel. "What are your feelings on padded leather?" he asked, making his way over toward an absolutely hideous reddish/black tufted leather monstrosity like it was the fanciest car at a vintage show.
"I think it looks like a bed some cheesy rockstar would have at home," I told him honestly.
"That's half the charm!"
"What's the other half?" I asked, dubious.
"Well, padded headboards certainly come with their own set of benefits," he said, giving me a little eyebrow wiggle that would have been ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow worked on him. Maybe because half of his personality was utterly ridiculous. He pulled it off without being obnoxious because the other half was smart and sweet and interesting.
"It doesn't even match your mismatched living room set," I told him, feeling like I was starting to get hives over the idea of all those little parts that simply didn't fit together.
"Who says furniture has to match?" he asked, grabbing one of the little papers out of the plastic tag holder so he could bring it up and order the hideous thing.
"Oh, I don't know. Every single home decorator? Home decor magazines? Martha Stewart?"
"Hold on right one minute," he declared, stopping short, making me plow right into him before jumping back a step as he turned to face me. "Are you telling me that the lifestyle queen herself would take offense to my carefully chosen decor?" he asked, loudly, pressing a hand to his heart.
"You're making a scene," I hissed at him quietly, trying to ignore the way the couple a few feet away were snickering at us.
"This isn't a scene. I can make a scene," he declared proudly, chest puffing out.
"No! Finch, no!" I demanded in a whisper voice as he seemed to pull in a deep breath to, I don't know, yell or scream or sing. Whatever it was, I had no intention of letting him do it. "Finch, please, don't," I demanded, reaching out without thinking, grabbing both of his arms, squeezing.
I didn't even realize what I was doing until his gaze slid down to my hands, then slowly back up to my face, making me remember myself, snatch my hands back.
"Well, when you ask so nicely," he said, eyes sweet. "Come on, dollface. Let's go buy my ugly bed."
"If you think it is ugly too," I said, jogging a bit to keep up with his long-legged pace, "why are you buying it?"
"Mostly because it offends your sense of taste," he admitted as we made it up to the customer service counter.
"But you are going to be living with it every single night," I told him, shaking my head, not understanding how that was going to spite me in any way.
"Yep. And when I do, I will think of you, angel," he told me, before turning his charms on the much older lady behind the counter.
That was just how he was.
Easy to get along with.
Someone who understood things without you needing to spell them out. Because of that, it made you want--it made me want--to do that spelling.
"Get those myself sometimes," he admitted, bringing me back to the present, his voice a little less humor-filled than usual.
"Why are you calling so late?" I asked, feeling my eyelids flutter closed as I waited for his response.
"I have a problem."
"What kind of problem?" I asked, sitting up, flicking on the light, reaching for my pen and pad on the nightstand, already in work-mode, in fix-it mode.
"The press," he said, sounding frustrated, something new from him. At least to me.
"What problem? We found the guy. We had an agreement."
"Yeah, well, he suddenly decided he doesn't want to sell it to me anymore."
"That's unacceptable."
"I tried to tell him that. I even told him that this gorgeous lady I know was going to have my balls for not getting it. He was unmoved by my predicament."
"Alright, well. I have his address. We will go there tomorrow morning. After my self-defense class at my mom's gym. Actually, if you could meet me there, that would be great. I have a lot on my schedule for the afternoon. So if we can shave off a couple minutes here and there, that would be great."
"Give me an address. I'll be there."
Then, just a couple of sleepless hours later, he was there. As I got tossed onto the mat for the sixth time in a row, starting to bruise my ego as badly as my butt.
"You're still freezing up," Jake, one of the guys from Hailstorm, declared, frustrated with me.
I didn't spar with Jake often for this reason. His short fuse. The way I reacted badly to it.
"I'm trying, Jake," I told him, stubbornly getting back onto my feet because my pride wouldn't let me lose time and time and time again. I had to at least get a good strike in before calling it a day.
"Not fucking hard enough, C," he told me, deflecting a jab effortlessly. "What's going to happen when you freeze up in an actual fight, huh?" he asked, slamming his hands into my shoulders, knocking me back a step as my stomach twisted.
I had my demons.
Clearly, Jake had his own.
And they did not play well together.
His said to attack attack attack, leave no prisoners.
Mine said to hide away, dig deep into a happy memory, escape the ugly reality.
"Stop being such a pussy and fight back," he demanded, slamming his hands into my shoulders again, knocking me against the ropes.
"Yeah, that's about enough of that." I barely registered that the voice belonged to Finch before I saw him duck under the ropes, make his way toward Jake, cock back, and knock Jake to the ground with one blow. All with a damn lollipop in his mouth. And an Alf t-shirt on his chest. "Sorry to butt into your training, doll, but fuck-face here was getting out of hand."
"Who the fuck are you?" Jake demanded, wiping blood from his nose as he hopped back up, eyes burning, hands curled into fists.
"Finch," Finch declared simply, shrugging, not seeming the least bit intimidated by a guy who had a good fifty pounds on him.