Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) (19 page)

“You did your duty and spelled it out for me. Again. I’m good, Caroline. You’re the best in the area, and God knows I need the best.” I sigh and run my hands through my hair in frustration. “I thought when my leg healed and I learned how to deal with the physical aspect of my injuries, shit in my head would start to fix itself. But the exact opposite happened. The nightmares, the anxiety, the isolation—it all amped up to a new level of hell.”

“Without the leg to divert your attention, the PTSD took center stage. It’s common,” she explains.

“Oh, well, as long as it’s common. That makes it all better,” I reply sarcastically.

Caroline shrugs her shoulders in apology and gives me a soft smile. She takes my barbs in stride, knowing they come from annoyance with myself, not her.

I’m furious for not being able to move on from this. It makes me feel weak when I’ve always been the strong one, taking care of my mother, my sister, even Alex. Now, I struggle to accomplish menial tasks.

“Let me tell you what I think. You came to me wanting help with your PTSD, but I’m only one part of that equation. You’re pushing the people who love you away, but they are the missing links here.”

“You can’t understand how hard this is for me. I have nothing to offer anyone, Caroline. I can’t sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, feeling like my heart is about to burst out of my chest. Large crowds are unbearable for me. Loud noises make me crawl out of my skin. I drive at least ten miles under the speed limit because I can’t stop myself from scanning the area for IEDs. I’m a real fucking prize.” I wring my hands and lean forward on my knees, getting closer to Caroline. “If I knew this was temporary? If I knew I could get back to some semblance of my old self? I’d sit on her doorstep every night until she finally gave me a chance. But that’s not my reality. This may be as good as it gets for me, and it’s nowhere near good enough for my Alex.”

I make a conscious decision to leave out any mention of my night with Alex. It was a one-time lapse in judgment. It’ll never go there with her again, so there’s no reason to spill. So what if it happened? So what if I slammed the woman I love up against the wall, screwed her into oblivion, and left her plastered against the wall as I walked out the damn door.

Without a fucking condom. Yeah, I’m a goddamn genius.

“I know that’s how you feel,” she starts, but grabs my knee and catches my eyes when she feels me pulling away. “I
understand
that’s how you feel, but you’re missing my point. I think you’re hiding because of your PTSD, but at the same time, your PTSD may just start to improve if you’d stop hiding. The problem may just be part of the solution. See the catch?”

“You have all the answers today, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any answers, West. You know that. What I do have is insight. What you choose to do with it is entirely up to you.” She glances at the cuckoo clock hanging on her wall. How appropriate. “Our time’s up. See you next week?”

I take my cue, standing and digging my keys out of my pocket.

“Next week,” I agree.

I walk to the door and grab the knob, feeling her eyes on me the entire time. I’m almost out the door when I realize I never answered her question.

“They’re blue. They’ve always been blue.”

“Of course they are, son.”

What the hell am I doing here? Nothing good can come from me showing up at Alex’s gallery, but my truck seemed to drive here with no direction from me. What I have to tell her can just as easily be said over the phone, but I don’t know if I can pass up the opportunity for a glimpse of her.

After what happened the other night, she has every right to throw me out on my ass. I knew I should have never gotten out of the truck. I should have pushed her away when she kissed me. But the second her lips touched mine, I was lost to her. I’ll always be lost to her.

I’ve been sitting here staring at the front door for thirty minutes, and it’s time to make a decision. Stay or go?

I haven’t been back to the gallery since Alex’s almost attack, and I can’t get it out of my mind. When I think of what could have happened, it makes me wish I had pummeled that sick bastard into oblivion. I thank God I was in the right place at the right time.

Alex was right to question my being there that night, even if I wouldn’t admit it to her. I’ve been living in Providence for a year, and I managed to steer clear of her, up until a few weeks ago. What I’d been avoiding came looking for me, and I couldn’t resist the urge any longer. Seeing her standing in the clinic waiting room, looking even more beautiful than I remembered, was like opening the floodgates.

I couldn’t stay away no matter how hard I tried. The promise of her is stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before.

Just a few days after her visit to the rehab clinic, I drove to the gallery late at night, cursing my weakness the entire way. I couldn’t resist the urge to peek through the windows and see her work. It had been so long—too long.

That was when I saw it.

It looked as if her emotions bled onto the canvas, and my chest physically hurt knowing with complete certainty that I was the cause. Never had a simple flower caused such a visceral reaction from me, but seeing that poppy cut me deep. I had no doubt in my mind she painted it after seeing me for the first time in six years.

I’m such a bastard. I deserved that hurt, not her.

That was my first visit to the gallery, but definitely not my last. I couldn’t bring myself to see her, but I couldn’t resist feeling her through her art. It was as close as I would allow myself to get. I came in search of new paintings, always at night, when I knew she’d be gone.

Until that night.

Thank God.

I can’t leave until I see her again, so I stop kidding myself and get out of the truck. The thought of her going to sleazy clubs and being a sitting duck for the sick fucks in this world is eating me alive. I need to know she understands the danger. I need reassurance from her she won’t be making foolish choices any longer. I need to tell her there will be no repeats of the other night under any circumstances. I’m sure I’ll be well received … right.

I open the door of the gallery and instantly feel surrounded by her. It’s a blessing and a punishment all at once.

Take it all in. This is what you can never have.

As if I need a reminder, the wicked flower taunts me from its place on the wall.

I hear footsteps approaching, and I turn away from the painting, trying my best to prepare myself to see her. I have to keep my true feelings hidden. There can be no more slip-ups like the other night. Knowing I may never overcome my demons, I refuse give her false hope. The truth is, I may never be the man she needs. That’s my cross to bear, not hers.

My blatant indifference and outright cruelty wounds her, I know, but that pales in comparison to what the alternative will do. I know Alex too well. She’ll never give up on me if I give her even the slightest inkling there’s a chance for us, and I won’t be her burden.

Instead of Alex, a woman with bouncing brown curls and tight ass jeans approaches. She makes no attempt to hide the fact that she’s sizing me up, taking her time looking me over before landing on my eyes. She smiles unapologetically, and I instantly like her. No pretense. No bullshit. I can appreciate that.

“Well, hello handsome. Can I interest you in some art? It would be my extreme pleasure to serve you,” she drawls, literally drawls, bringing a hand to her hip and a smirk to her lips.

I laugh out loud. I can’t help it.

“Marlo, stop verbally molesting my customers, would you?” Alex sidles up beside her friend and pulls her hair playfully. The smile disappears and her back goes ramrod straight when she sees me. Instantly, the temperature drops several degrees.

I deserve that and so much more.

“Why are you here?” she asks as she crosses her arms to protect herself. From me.

Damn, that stings.

Her friend looks back and forth between us, and her eyebrow lifts in question. I have a feeling Alex is getting the third degree when I leave.

“We need to talk,” I say curtly. If the look she’s giving me is any indication, she may just kick me out.

“Alex is in the middle of teaching a class, Mystery Man. Is it okay if I call you Mystery Man?” Marlo loops her arm around mine and leads me to the back of the gallery.

“Or you could just call me West. It’s shorter.” I chuckle and shake my head at her bravado. I may have only just met her, but this chick cracks me up.

“West it is. Anyhoo, why don’t you come on back and help out until class is over. It should only be twenty minutes or so.” She squeezes my bicep in appraisal and widens her eyes at Alex.

“Whatever,” Alex huffs as she passes us and bumps Marlo’s shoulder in reprimand.

“Don’t worry about her, West. She’s like one of those little bitch dogs. All bark, no bite.” Marlo laughs and gives me a quick wink before joining the commotion beyond the doorway.

I stop short when I hear the laughter and screams filtering into the hallway. I chance a glance into the room, and beads of sweat erupt on my forehead and upper lip. I try to slow my breathing, but my heart is already pumping overtime.

I’ve taken most of my college courses by correspondence for this very reason, only able to sit in class in recent months, and even then in the back row with the exit always in sight. The unexpected noises and general chaos is … overwhelming isn’t a strong enough word to describe the feeling.

A hand grabs mine, and my eyes dart forward to see Marlo pulling me inside. “Come on in. She won’t be long, I swear.”

With nowhere else to go, I push up against the wall so I have a clear view. Marlo closes the door behind me and saunters into the room.

A loud bang sounds on the other side of the room, and a few of the children howl in laughter. The noises echo, magnifying not only the sound, but my anxiety, too. My chest constricts tightly as I close my eyes in an attempt to get a hold on myself.

I have to get the hell out of here. I can’t let Alex see me this way.

Just before a full on panic attack ensues, I notice an open door in the back of the workroom. Sunlight filters through the doorway, and my chest loosens slightly at the thought of a way out.

I take a deep, cleansing breath in preparation and quickly walk to the door, my steps quickening the closer I get. As I cross the threshold and hit gravel, relief slowly washes over me. I fill my lungs to the brim over and over as I bend down, hands on my knees.

This was a terrible idea.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I whip my head around to find a young boy hunched on a bench with a full scowl and handful of rocks.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. I just needed some air. Okay with you?” I ask with a matching scowl.

He shrugs noncommittally and keeps throwing his rocks. “Fine with me. You didn’t look all right to me, though.”

I watch him for a moment as he pelts the rocks at the fence with no particular target in mind, at least not one that I can see. I run through my options and decide I’d rather spend some time with a smartass kid than deal with the inevitable panic attack I’ll suffer if I go back inside. Decision made, I gather my own handful of rocks off the ground and sit on the other side of the bench. Instead of blindly pelting the rocks, I aim for the empty paint can in the corner of the lot.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Trying to land the rocks in the paint can over there. It takes a bit more skill than hitting the broad side of a fence, don’t ya think?”

He shrugs again and nods slightly before joining me in the new game.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Timothy. Did Miss Cece make you come out here to talk to me?” It’s obvious by his expression he doesn’t like that idea at all.

“Sorry, little man, I don’t even know Miss Cece.” I turn my attention back to rock throwing and let him brood privately. My legs shift to adjust my throw, and Timothy’s eyes watch me closely.

“What happened to your leg?” His back is a little straighter than before as he curiously watches my leg. Taking a short break from rock throwing, his hands lay idly in his lap.

It’s my turn to shrug, so I do. “Roadside bomb.”

Timothy remains perfectly still, and I question my decision to be honest with him. It was a split second call. Everyone seems so desensitized by the constant reports on the news, it didn’t occur to me he may not be able to handle the truth.

“My dad’s in Iraq,” he whispers quietly.

Fuck.

I close my eyes and pray for the right words as I turn to him. I definitely regret being honest with the kid now. The imagination can be a debilitating thing sometimes, and I don’t want to put those thoughts in his head. “I bet he’s very brave. I’m sure he’s excellent at his job.”

His eyes brighten slightly at my comments. “He is. He’s a Marine.”

I tap my chest lightly. “I’m Army.”

“Army’s for wimps who can’t hack it in the Marines.” He puffs his chest and squares his shoulders. I almost smile at the unwavering pride he feels for his father.

Almost.

I give him my fiercest glare and move inches from his face. “Do I look like a wimp to you?”