Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(16)

As I paced, I glanced at the other side of the bed, which was empty. Travis had left shortly before midnight, and though I'd hated to see him go, I hadn't tried to make him stay. It didn't matter how much I missed sleeping beside someone. He didn't need to be there when my past showed up.

Sooner or later, the subject was going to come up. It always did. Eventually, it would be really late, and we'd both be exhausted from getting each other off a few times. After all, neither of us was twenty anymore-a couple of fortysomething guys were bound to fall asleep after sex. What happened if we drifted off, and Travis woke up to this?

Logan had usually been passed-out drunk beside me, so if I'd woken up freaking out, he'd slept right through it. If he'd been sober, he'd firmly believed he knew exactly what would put me back to sleep. It should've been a clue about our relationship that in this case, I'd preferred the nights when he'd been drinking.

I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. I would have sold my soul for something that would at least help with all this bullshit, but so far, nothing had worked. I was forbidden from talking about what had happened, so therapy was out of the question. Even the most basic details of the incident were strictly need-to-know, and the reams of nondisclosure agreements I'd signed before and after had warned me that it wasn't my decision who needed to know. I could get help with the PTSD, but my pursuit of help ended where the need for national security began. Not even a therapist or a chaplain with my clearance or higher qualified. 

I sighed. And people wondered why RAPs drank.

One doctor had recommended a sleep aid, but that had turned out to be a disaster. The only thing worse than having a nightmare-flashback was having one when I was sleeping too deeply to wake up.

The only thing that had ever "helped" was alcohol. I usually woke up hungover and terrified, but couldn't remember the dreams, so it was . . . better. Sort of. And alcohol wasn't an option anymore anyway, so it didn't matter.

I went into the bathroom and ran a towel over my face and neck to dry off some of the sweat. Though the nightmare's claws were slowly releasing their grip, I was worried now about Travis. If things continued with him, we'd have to cross this bridge sooner or later.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I told myself over and over that Travis was a good guy, and he was familiar with PTSD. He'd squashed the situation of showing combat videos in the office without making a big deal out of it. If there was a man in this town I could sleep beside without being scared it would end in disaster, that man was Travis.

And that was exactly why I was terrified to spend a night beside him.

Because what if I was wrong?





Though sleeping with someone in the office made the days crawl by, it did add some excitement to the nine-to-five monotony. Clint quickly became a normal part of my life. It was hard to believe it had taken only a couple of weeks to fall into such an effortless routine.

Morning hellos at the office. Subtle flirting and less subtle texting throughout the day. And, when we were absolutely certain we could get away with it, a breathless quickie in his office or mine.

Of course, there were also the evenings, which gave me something to look forward to most days. Hot sex followed by long kisses good-bye. Neither of us had spent a full night at the other's place. I kept wondering when he'd suggest it, but he hadn't so far, and I sure as hell wasn't volunteering. He'd already been subjected to more of my chronic pain than I would have liked. I wasn't ready to show my PTSD card quite yet. Before I knew it, October was nearly over. Our coworkers were plastering the office with jack-o'-lanterns and black cats, not to mention a zombie that looked suspiciously like the XO.

Unfortunately, with an inspection coming up the first week of November, our easy, comfortable schedules were suddenly crammed full of bullshit meetings and pre-inspection inspections. Office quickies ceased altogether. We exchanged grins when we passed in the halls, and exchanged texts whenever we had the chance, but time and privacy? Not exactly in great supply. If we hadn't worked together, we probably wouldn't have seen each other outside of the one or two nights a week we could muster up the energy to spend some time between the sheets.

It would be over soon, though, and I kept myself sane by counting down the minutes until Friday night. We'd made plans to watch a movie on his couch, and I couldn't wait to fail miserably and wind up making out again. All I had to do was get through the rest of the week and the inspection.

Finally, on Thursday, the inspection was over. The whole office could breathe again. Clint and I didn't hook up that night because we both needed some sleep, but tomorrow . . . tomorrow, he was all mine.

And surprise, surprise-I woke up on Friday morning feeling like someone had used my spine as a landing strip.



       
         
       
        

Go figure. We'd had damn good luck so far, so my body was bound to act up at some point and torpedo our plans.

There was still time, though. From the moment I gingerly rolled out of bed, I did everything I could to lessen the pain. I tried a hot shower. An ice pack. The TENS. The TENS along with an ice pack. Before I headed out the door, I took as much Motrin as I could handle without getting sick.

They each took the edge off in their own way, but it was like taking the very sharpest edge off an ax-head buried in my back. That little bit of relief was not enough.

Hope springs eternal, though, and on my way to work, I crossed my fingers that this would be a rough morning followed by a more comfortable afternoon. I might've slept weird, and the knots would gradually work themselves out as I moved around. Yeah. I'd be all right. Just needed to knuckle through it until the worst was over, and I'd be fine by the time Clint and I were in bed again.

Come on, body. Get it together.

Like we usually did, Clint and I arrived in the office parking lot at the same time. As we got out of our cars, he took one look at me, and I knew he knew. The pinch of his brow gave it away almost immediately.

Embarrassment gnawed at me. As always, the tightness in my back was worse on one side. It pulled at my hip, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't not favor my left leg. Anyone who saw me take more than two or three steps could see clear as day that I was hurting, and I fucking hated that.

As we walked inside, he said, "Not moving very fast today?"

"Not if I can help it, no." I sighed. "Tonight's probably going to be a bust." I should've known by now he wouldn't huff and bitch, not even when it was clear this would throw a monkey wrench into our plans for the night.

He had to be disappointed to some extent, but he just shrugged. "Doesn't mean we can't still meet up."

"Seriously?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Because I won't be able to move, so I won't be a lot of fun?"

Clint smiled. "Nights like that are why the good lord gave us movies and Motrin."

I laughed humorlessly. Oh, if Motrin could even touch the kind of pain I was in . . . "Sorry about tonight."

"Don't be." He glanced at me. "Are you going to be okay today, though?"

"Don't really have much choice."

At the base of the stairs, I paused. Oh fuck my life. I hated these goddamned stairs. There was an elevator at the other end of the building, but it was too close to the office that handled our physical readiness scores. Rational or not, I didn't want them noticing me limping into the elevator. I continued using the stairs for the same reason I would continue to properly run the Physical Readiness Test until I absolutely had to resort to an elliptical-because I didn't want to raise questions. Questions that had a funny way of-officially or unofficially, right or wrong-influencing whether or not I got promoted. 

So . . . stairs.

Clint had stopped beside me, and I could hear the question before he even said it.

"I'm good," I said through my teeth, and started up. Funny how most of my pain was in my middle and upper back, but even the simple task of climbing the stairs was enough to aggravate it. Anatomy and physiology could seriously eat a dick.

At the top of the stairs, a cold drop of perspiration rolled down the back of my neck. I couldn't ignore Clint's worried expression. He wasn't stupid. He knew I wasn't good.

I swallowed my pride as I rolled my shoulders. "Okay, I'm sore now. But I'll be good by tonight."

His eyebrows climbed his creased forehead. "You sure? We can always take it easy. If you're-"

"No. No. Give me a few hours to move around and stretch a bit, and I'll be fine."

He studied me for a second, then shrugged. "It's your call. Either way, I'm all yours tonight."

I smiled despite the nerves and embarrassment. "I will definitely take you up on that."

"Good." He grinned, but it faded quickly. "Just take it easy today, okay?"

I bit my tongue before snapping back that no shit, I was going to take it easy. The fact that people had been telling me that for years didn't change the fact that he meant well.

So I nodded. "I will. See you at lunch?"

"Definitely. See you then."

He headed toward his office, and I hobbled toward mine.

And before I'd even reached my door, I turned the TENS up to max.

This was going to be a long day.



By noon, it was clear that "a few hours to move around and stretch a bit" was not going to cut it. The simple act of getting in and out of my desk chair made my eyes water.