Ravaged River (Men of Mercy #6) (2 page)

H
ayden James tugged
her pink skirt down her thighs and shifted on the couch, praying no one detected the desperation lining her new clothes. She'd spent a whole week's budget on the outfit, but she'd needed to be a drop-dead bombshell for Hoyt's welcome home party. The past two months had been pure torture and she needed all the ammunition she could get to convince Hoyt to listen to her.

Any minute he’d come walking down the hall into the living room. He’d be wearing one of those tight black t-shirts that perfectly displayed his corded biceps, his ripped hard abs would flex and narrow into hips even leaner than six months ago. Her mouth watered at the thought and her skin grew sensitive.

He’d look at her in a way that made her heart beat faster.
No, twit, he wouldn’t. He didn’t want you anymore.

As if to test her nerves, the low buzz of chatter in the living room crested over the latest hit playing on the radio. But even the rising decibels had no hope of drowning out the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Nothing did. Nothing but Hoyt.

Evie winked at her from across the room. Hayden tugged her hemline down again. Was her sister-in-law sending some hidden message? Did everyone in the room feel sorry for her?

The whole team and their spouses were here today, even Colonel Grey. Hayden reached in her purse for that imaginary pack of cigarettes. If she still carried around a pack, she’d probably throw away the past five-month, ten-day, six-hour long cessation and toss her nicotine patch in the trash.

She forced her fingers to uncurl from the pack. She didn't need to give Hoyt another excuse to ignore her. Hell, she couldn’t figure out why he’d pushed her away in the first place. She’d made it clear she didn’t care about his scars, she would stand by him and help him through his torment.

"I wasn't sure you'd come." Jared, Hoyt's brother, took a seat next to her on the sofa. His black hair and matching dark eyes were so different from Hoyt's golden coloring. He wasn’t a man who usually showed his emotions, but there’d been regret in his eyes the day he told her Hoyt didn't want to see her anymore.

"I wasn't sure if I would either."
Liar.

His arm brushed hers and Hayden scooted sideways to make more room. He hadn't sat too close on purpose. His shoulders just took up about six more inches than a normal guy’s. The love seat she'd occupied wasn’t roomy enough for any member of Task Force Scorpion.

"Good decision." He smiled, a sort of sideways grin meant to put her at ease, but his concern shone through. Jared was losing his poker face.

"Thanks, for telling me about the party. I’ve been worried about him." This was the first chance she'd had to see Hoyt in over a month. After having Jared do his dirty work, he'd refused her calls. Her texts. And her one bit of late-night, buzz-induced bravery—knocking on his window. He didn’t seem to understand that she didn’t see his scars when she looked at him. She saw
him
. The man. And he stole her ability to breathe.

Jared leaned back and dropped his gaze to his lap. "He's changed. Drinks all the time."

Hayden covered his hand with hers. "It's not your fault. You saved him. You're the reason he's alive."

"Can you really say he's living when he won't even leave this house?"

Her stomach tightened and she pulled her hand back to her lap. The Hoyt she knew
lived
for the outdoors. He'd taken her camping and fishing, insisting she learn to be a real 'country girl.' She'd loved every minute.

But that had been months ago. "So why the party now? He's not ready."

"He needs to see we support him. Maybe it will help him past this dip," Jared said.

Dip? More like the Grand Canyon. "You're just as stubborn as your brother. Freud would probably blame it on the wrong kind of bottle when you were a baby, but I think it must be a military thing."

Jared smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "Those college courses you're taking are getting to your head. Ask anybody, stubbornness is in the male DNA."

"It's about time you two smiled. I thought we were prepping for a funeral." Sparrow, Jared's fiancé, perched on his knee, her copper-colored hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She leaned over and placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Where have you been hiding?" Jared asked.

"Out back with Squirrel. He ain't used to this many folks at once." The twang in her accent was pure Tennessee hills.

Squirrel was like a father to Sparrow, practically raised her after her mother’s death. The old man had left Tennessee to be with her in Mercy.

"Is he still living in the camper out back?" Hayden asked.

"Yep, refuses to move into the house with us. Said he doesn't feel right taking up our space. I told him he's flat-out crazy, this place is huge, but he won't listen." Sparrow glanced over her shoulder. "Hoyt come out yet?"

Hayden's gaze shot to the hall. Nope. The light wasn’t even on. It was like the hidden entrance a rock star uses to get to the stage, but Hoyt was over an hour late to the show.

Jared shook his head. "Not yet. I'm gonna give him five more minutes before I drag him out."

Hayden heard a distant sound, almost like glass shattering and sat forward, fingers twisting the end of her hair. Maybe this was her chance to talk to him alone. "I'll check on Hoyt,” she said quickly, speaking before either of them could object.

Jared gave her a slight nod, the corners of his eyes creased with concern. She jumped from the couch and all but ran down the hall. Hoyt's door was at the very end, shut tight. She lifted a shaky hand and knocked, laughing at herself for being so nervous.

The worst thing he could do was order her to leave.

Again.

But this time he’d have to tell her to her face.

He didn't answer. She knocked harder. He might not want to see her, but she wasn't about to leave until he gave her an explanation.
Why they couldn’t beat this darkness together.

He still didn't answer. She banged on the door again.

No response.

Dread took a sudden grip of her muscles. He didn't know it was her. There was no reason for him to just ignore the knocking.

It was too quiet on the other side of the door. He might be pissed at her for intruding, but she'd deal with that later.

Hayden opened the door and walked right in.

Her brain took a moment to catch up with the horror laid out before her. Hoyt. On the floor. Arms out spread, blood pooling around him. A long piece of broken glass in his hand. A huge gash from his elbow to wrist.

Her heart stopped beating.

She stopped breathing.

Stopped everything.

"Hoyt!"

"
S
o in conclusion
, class, trauma can manifest in many ways, both consciously and subconsciously. You have to learn to be experts at reading body language when you’re a practicing psychologist.”

Professor Latham stepped from behind the podium at the front of Hayden's psychotherapy class. The florescent lighting overhead flickered, shining on the professor's bald head. He walked to the center of the stage in the auditorium-style classroom. "And as a professional, you have to realize when a person has gone past the point that counseling can rehabilitate them."

Professor Latham stopped, took his glasses off, and rubbed at the lenses with his shirttail. As he replaced the glasses, he sighed and looked straight ahead. Straight at Hayden. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she followed it down, scrunching smaller in her seat in the first row of chairs.

She might as well hang a flashing neon sign over her head—
warning, a relationship with Hayden James will lead to never-ending doom.

Her only two relationships, if you could call them that, had not exactly led to happily ever after.

She glanced quickly to the right and then the left, certain the other hundred or so students were staring at her, but everyone's gaze remained riveted on the professor.

"No matter how much time you've invested or how involved you've become with a client, at the end of the day you have to be able to separate your work life from your personal life."

Oh my God. Hayden slunk lower in her seat and dropped her head into her hand, waiting for him to shout out,
Hayden James, everyone look at Hayden James.

"You have to know yourself, really know yourself, and recognize when you're in too deep. When you stop becoming objective, you are no longer the solution, but part of the problem." Professor Latham paced back to the podium, stood behind it and grabbed the sides. His gaze swept across the classroom, but it ultimately landed on her. Again.

She slumped lower, but there wasn't any room left between the chair and her butt.

He paused, and she was convinced there were lasers behind those coke-bottle thick glasses. She could practically feel her skin burning. Her whole body tensed as she waited for the kill shot.

"That's enough for today. Study chapter fifteen over the weekend. Now that you know all the theories behind the different modes of therapy, we’ll start diving into the actual processes next week. Have a good weekend."

The lights clicked on over the rest of the class and everyone stood, shuffling papers into backpacks and quickly shuffling out the door. It was Friday afternoon, so the other students were all eager for the weekend. They had plans to party. To procrastinate on homework.

The weekend didn’t mean the same thing to Hayden. Not anymore. Her only plans were to work, study, and avoid social interaction.

The long line of students filing down the aisle would take another few minutes to clear. She had to either wait her turn or shoulder into the line of metaphorical cattle and risk being trampled. But Hayden stayed glued to her seat. She didn’t like to draw undue attention to herself.

"You plan on staying in my classroom all weekend?" The professor's gentle voice broke through Hayden's thoughts.

She kept her eyes locked on her textbook. Professor Latham could sniff out sadness better than a bloodhound. "Just wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything."

Professor Latham slid into the empty seat next to hers, stretching his long legs out straight and crossing his ankles. "I know you felt like I was singling you out, and in a way, you might be right. You know, subconscious behaviors and all. But I meant what I said. I’m worried about you."

He had her best interests in mind, she knew that. She really did. He'd done everything he could to help her and mentor her, and in return, she tried to be the very best research assistant she could be. "Why are you worried?"

His hand covered hers, warm to her cold. "Because I've come to think of you as a granddaughter. And I might be closer to seventy than thirty, but I’m as shrewd as ever. Even a man who’s as nearsighted as I am can see you're still hurting."

"I'm fine. Really. I was just having a bad day last month when I confided in you. I needed to clear my mind. But I’ve felt a lot better since then." She'd broken down like a blubbering idiot in his office.

"I don’t want to overstep, but when is the last time you had a date?"

Hayden gave a shaky laugh and pulled her hand away, closed her book and shoved it into her backpack. "I can't even count on one hand the number of dates I've been on."

"It doesn't work if the number is zero. I couldn't count either."

Hayden paused, instantly loving and hating the man. "I'm busy. I work at the Java Shop part-time, and I'm in your lab at least half of the week. I don't have time."

"And what if Hoyt asked you out again? Would you make time for him?"

Her heart froze into an ice sculpture, cold and brittle.

What could she say? Of course she would. She'd drop everything for him. Still. Always. But it would never happen.

"Sometimes it's not just the person who suffers from PTSD who's the victim. The people around him can be just as impacted by post traumatic stress disorder. It's been months, but you're not moving on...and you're not making progress. You're too young and too smart to get stuck in a battle you’re not equipped to fight."

The professor's words took a hammer and chisel to the weak walls of her defenses. Hayden made a show of zipping up her backpack, hiding the tears stinging her eyes. At least the room was empty except for them.

"I'm not trying to fight for him. I haven't even talked to him." She shot to her feet. Pick. Pick. Pick went his chisel. Let’s play the game of dissecting Hayden and her ongoing obsession with a broken man.

He told you he didn't want you. Move on. Special Forces soldiers who've been through what he went through never come back whole.
The memory of her brother's words drove the chisel even deeper, breaking open a hole in her chest. The anger she'd buried inside erupted.

"How can you say I'm stuck when I haven't even seen him?"

"Because you haven't seen anyone else." The professor stood up beside her, but his own tone stayed calm. Gentle. Well, it wasn't his heart that had shattered.

"I don't want to see anyone else."

The professor took her hand and the understanding in his gaze nearly broke her. "I know. I know how hard it is to move on when you lose someone you love. Just because Hoyt didn't die, doesn't mean he's not gone."

She cracked. A sob broke free. "He's not dead. He's not your wife."

"No, he's not. My wife had a much more merciful ending than Hoyt did. Her life was over in a second."

Hayden was breathing fast and sharp now, the tears tracking down her cheeks.

"He saved me,” she said. “You don't know this, but a while ago I screwed up. Big time. I slept with a married man, my brother’s best friend. His wife found out,
everyone
found out. They shunned me, and I can't blame them. Hoyt was the only one who stood by my side. He made me remember my own worth." Tears pricked her eyes as she said it. She would never forget what it had felt like to be the subject of all those accusing eyes. All that gossip. "How can I just give up on him?” 

He'd never given up on her.

"Because his trauma isn't the result of a bad relationship. The only way he can overcome something like that is through intensive therapy and years of counseling. You can't pull him out of that pit. Not alone. And it doesn’t sound like he’s ready to get the help he needs."

He took her hand again. "All I’m asking of you is to stop pretending to be a normal college student and actually be one. Go out. Meet new people. Live a little. And if Hoyt is as strong as you think, you'll be here when he's ready."

"But what if
I'm
not ready?" The words gushed from somewhere deep in her subconscious.

"You are ready. You just have to trust yourself. I know you can be an amazing psychologist, but in order to graduate and help others through their problems, you have to work through yours first."

Hayden pulled free of his grip and wiped her face dry. "I might try going out more often." She could relax and make casual conversation about...whatever. It didn’t matter much, did it? No one's life would be at risk if she inadvertently said the wrong thing. The stakes in the real world weren’t the ones her brother, Hoyt, and the rest of Task Force Scorpion faced in their line of work. They went to the places normal people didn’t go, willingly putting themselves in danger to protect their country.

"That's better. Now, I know there must be any number of functions this weekend you could attend to seek out new beaus."

She couldn’t help but smile at that. "Professor, it's 2015, not the fifties. There are parties. There will be guys there.”

"Ah, yes, of course. I'm afraid my last date pre-dated your birth, and possibly your parents'." He put a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, his tan corduroy blazer stretching with his movement. "Is there a party you could...ahem...scope out to meet guys?"

"Hasn't anyone told you that you're supposed to be a stodgy old professor?"

The room filled with Professor Latham's deep laugh. The sound bounced off the walls and ceiling and landed right inside Hayden's chest.

"Of course. And you know as well as I, that I listen as well as you do." Hayden moved in for a hug, and the scent of pipe tobacco and old spice wrapped around her. She didn't have a grandfather. Not a real one. Professor Latham was as close as she was going to get. "My friend and I met a guy at the coffee shop, and he invited us to a party tonight. My friend’s been trying to get me to go.”

"Does this young gentleman have a name?"

"Chance." Hayden tensed, knowing what the professor would say before the words left his mouth.

"So will you give Chance a chance?"

"That has to be the cheesiest line you've ever given me." She stepped back and adjusted her backpack.

He just grinned. "Now tell me about this Chance. Is he a suitable candidate? Does he converse well? What is he studying?"

For her, Chance was more defined by what he was not than by what he was. He was not over six feet tall. Not packed with muscle. His hair was not wavy, honey-colored, or softer than goose down. But he did look a little bit like Hoyt, which was both appealing and ultimately dissatisfying.

"Well, if he’s not your sort, there will undoubtedly be other men at this party,” Professor Latham said. And just like that, he had her smiling again.

Professor Latham was the anomaly at the college. Clean shaven. Neatly trimmed hair. Suit jackets, even if they were a screen shot from the fifties. The complete opposite of the majority of her professors who'd somehow gotten stuck in the time warp of the sixties hippie revolution.

Not that there was anything wrong with that—except for their adamant belief that deodorant was poisonous and taking a bath too many times a week was unnatural.

Professor Latham always smelled like Dial soap and tobacco.

"Professor?" A young guy poked his dark head through the door. Malik, a Ph.D. student also working with Latham. He and Hayden had spent hours in the lab, working on research, and yet she didn’t know much about him. “Are we going to start this project tonight?"

Malik's dark gaze found the professor’s before sliding over to Hayden. "Hi."

His look said so much more. She hadn’t really noticed him as a man before, and she definitely hadn’t noticed the intensity of his attention to her. Despite his English accent, Malik was of Middle Eastern descent, with midnight black hair and golden skin. He looked good. Well dressed. Sweater. Slacks. Slim but not skinny.

The complete opposite of Hoyt Crowe.

Hayden cleared her throat. "Hello. We were just chatting, but I'm done with him. He's all yours." Hayden made a move for the door, her steps somehow lighter despite her heavy backpack. It felt good to be admired by a handsome man.

"Malik, I've had something come up,” Professor Latham said. “I'm sorry, but I need to cancel our research tonight."

Hayden and Malik both stared at the professor. He never cancelled.

Ever.

"Everything okay, Professor?" Malik stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

"Yes, of course. Everything is fine. But you know, I feel bad for dumping you like this. Hayden's planning on going to a party tonight, why don't you go with her?"

Hayden stiffened. "I'm sure Malik doesn't want to waste his evening with me."

Malik's face flickered with surprise. "A mind reader already?"

"No. Just trying to save you from throwing away your plans on me." Hayden felt herself blush.

"And why would you think I wouldn't enjoy the pleasure of your company?” His eyes twinkled a little as he said it.

A groan worked its way up her throat, but Hayden cut it off fast. Instead of letting her ease into the social pool, he was dunking her into it.

The professor pulled her in for a quick hug and whispered in her ear, "You can't just sample one guy. Besides, Malik has been making googly eyes at you for months."

"I'll get you back for this." Hayden whispered, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't hold on to her aggravation.

He stepped back and gave her a wink that would have put Peter Pan to shame. "Well, I'll leave you two to make your plans. I've got a date."

"A date?" Hayden said.

"A real date?" Malik echoed.

Professor Latham grabbed his briefcase off the stage. Then, as if he hadn't just dropped a nuclear news bomb, he headed to the door. "With Professor Rhoden."

The bomb detonated, sending both Hayden and Malik stumbling back a step.

Malik made a strangled sound. "You mean Kathy Rhoden, the Abnormal Psych professor?"

The professor opened the door and stepped into the hall. Then he stuck his head back in. "I do."

The door clicked shut on the beginnings of a whistled version of “My Girl.”