“So, I’ve heard,” she sneers and I’m pretty damn sure it’s not about my name.
I take the glass of water she offers me and I hate the way my hand is shaking and how weak I feel.
It makes me lash out with the words, “Don’t you dare throw judgement at me. You’ve been the same way with tying men up to satisfy their needs. And it was you who thought it was better to leave. Breaking us apart while we were already broken and fucking needed each other if we ever had a chance at becoming whole again.”
“You agreed,” she snaps.
“You fucking sided with your parents and fucking left me. What the fuck else could I say when you voiced those fucking words? Force you into staying? Beg you not to leave me? Two people make a relationship and the commitment you work for to spend the rest of your life together. If one thinks about throwing the towel down…what else is there to do?”
We both glare at each other and I hate the way we’re standing on opposite sides. Just like we were facing each other all those years back. Throwing fighting words at each other and not knowing how to deal or move on. This time there’s one difference. I’m in a fucking bed feeling less than myself and have no breath to fight. We’re in her house by the looks of it, and why the fuck is that? Better question, why am I being an asshole?
I rip my eyes away and yet I can’t get myself to apologize for my behavior.
I take a few sips and let the water slide down my throat before I hand her back the glass with a muttered, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Need anything else?” She rubs her arm and I can see the goose bumps spreading on her arms.
Her arms, covered with faded scars. Another reminder of what we went through. Most of my scars are on the inside of my legs and lower stomach. Fucking erotic play. But hers cover more parts of her body including her forearms. She has the softest skin and the warmth her body holds was always soothing something inside me when I held her in my arms.
A longing to hold her starts to burn and it’s foreign. When she walked out of my life, I couldn’t touch another woman, let alone have them put a finger on me. All it does is trigger repulsion. Except now. Except her.
“You in bed with me?” I mindlessly reply, and I fucking hate the bouncing around between love and hate.
I clear my throat and before she can spew some hateful words at me, I tell her, “You’re cold and I need to talk to you some more. It might take a while since I feel like shit and don’t want to be alone. Can we put the past between us on hold for a bit?”
She shoots me a glare as she rounds the bed. “Keep your clumps of ice on your side of the bed. Got it?”
A laugh rips from my throat but my body is still sore and it kills my laughter but not the mood she lightened.
“I’m hurt, you’re not allowed to make me laugh,” I tell her and try to hold the blanket up so she can slide into bed, but even that’s too fucking much for my body.
She snuggles underneath the blanket and I’m about to warn her about hogging the damn thing but she prevents me from doing so.
“You and your cold feet, me and my rolling up into the blanket. We both have to deal. Besides, be thankful you’re hurting, it means you’re alive to feel.”
“Any chance we can snuggle without biting each other’s head off? You know, for the whole ‘alive to feel’ and being thankful about it thing.” My voice is strained and it’s from the fact I feel torn while my heart is working on overdrive.
I want her touch, and yet I don’t. There’s always the repulsion of a woman’s touch forced on me and it’s always connected with pain. Fucking trauma from the past. Trauma this woman witnessed and also lived through. There’s a war raging inside my body, yanking on every emotion and memory. It’s a battle I’m not sure I will survive or be strong enough to have a damn chance on winning.
Being in her bed—in close proximity with Val—brings back things I’ve wanted and yet managed to bury deep. I’m absolutely torn. There are wounds as deep as a damn ocean the both of us have suffered. We might have had years to let them heal and yet they are barely scabbed over and never intend to heal.
“The whole tying people up part for me is the ‘no touching me’ element. I need to be the one in control.” Her voice is a soft whisper, and to me it seems like we both landed into the same thoughts and dilemma we’re wrapped in. “I’ve heard stories from the people in your life. It seems we both share the same issues.”
I feel her hand slide over the mattress and the heat of her skin next to mine is killing me.
I take a deep breath and carefully place my pinky over hers. “Remember when I walked into your company when we first saw each other after years of being apart? You were the first woman who put her hands on me in a long damn time. I always freak the fuck out if something happens by accident and for sure as shit feel raw and ripped open now with just my pinky lying over yours, but fuck...can we just...be?”
She links her pinky with mine and gives it a squeeze. “We can. Though I have to call your buddies. They have to know you’re back to the land of the living.”
“If only,” I grumble. “We should. But I need a moment.”
“Shut up, Shaw,” she says with her deep and dominant voice. I’m about to remind her it’s Beecher now, but she slides her hand over mine and wraps her fingers around my wrist. “I’m not using Beecher. Never have, never will. You’re Shaw to me and no one will ever change or take that away from me, not even you.”
There’s a lump in my throat and I realize I don’t want her to call me Beecher either. And her touch isn’t scalding like it normally is, and neither is it triggering bad memories or repulsion whatsoever.
“Fine,” I tell her and though I take her touch as a personal win, I don’t want to lose it or have it tainted if I do freak out. Thinking fast I also use a dominant voice when I demand, “Go get your phone. I’ll call my Pres so he can let the others know.”
Her thumb lazily slides over the back of my hand as if she needs to make a point that it’s her choice to keep hold or let go. And right when I’m about to rip my hand away, she lets go and slides off the bed.
I watch her ass sway out of the room and let my gaze roam around when she’s out of sight. Floor to ceiling dark red curtains, same color fluffy as fuck looking carpet, and there’s not much else in this room. A TV on the wall, a door on the right that looks like it leads to a bathroom, and that’s it. Well, besides the bed I’m lying on and the machines on my left that were monitoring my vitals.
Val strolls inside with her phone in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other.
“Where did you get the coffee from?” I wonder out loud.
She hands me the phone. “Pierre always brings me my coffee at six. He’s ten minutes early.”
I swing my legs off the mattress and flash up. A wave of dizziness hits me and I fight like hell to get the black spots to fade as I growl, “You opened the fucking door wearing just a damn T-shirt?”
She puts her hand on her hip and it makes said T-shirt ride up, showing me a little more of the smooth skin on her thigh.
“Pierre has seen more of me since I’ve played with him a few times.” Her eyes narrow as she takes a sip of her coffee, keeping me under her gaze to see what my next move is.