I firmly believed Clint wouldn't have opened up to me about it if I hadn't had the proper clearance, but he knew as well as I did that now I could destroy his career with one phone call. It was unnerving that he'd trusted me enough to tell me.
Which meant we were a lot closer than I'd realized. And I didn't know how I felt about that. I'd had plenty of sex with men over the years but never let myself get attached to one. Not since Dion had died. The minute feelings started to materialize, I was gone.
Except this time. Emotions had shown their faces, and I was still here. I'd been here long enough to be invested, which meant when Clint exited stage left, I was going to be in a world of hurt.
I refused to let myself cling to the hope that he wouldn't leave. I was as fucked up in the head as I was in the body, and one of those two things was usually enough to send someone packing before we'd gone too far. My last girlfriend had stayed around for a year or so, but being with a man like me got old fast.
Sighing into the stillness, I wiped a hand over my face.
Emotionally, we were disasters. Ten years later, I still didn't go a day without thinking about Dion. Clint's marriage had crashed and burned so recently, the wreckage was still smoking. Who were we kidding if we thought this thing could take off without going up in flames?
And physically? Shit. Most women I'd dated had gotten tired of "no, really, it hurts my neck," and the men got bored with gentle blowjobs and languid handjobs. One guy'd been perfectly happy without fucking, but had decided it'd been enough of a concession that he shouldn't have had to give up sex entirely on nights when I could barely move. I'd been with two people who'd decided without mentioning it to me that if I couldn't give them everything they wanted, they had carte blanche to get it elsewhere. Which had been fine-I rarely dated exclusively-right up until they each had decided that since their needs were getting met elsewhere, I was more trouble than I was worth.
"Just once," a former fling had complained, "I want to have sex without being reminded that you've got all these injuries."
Three years later, that one still hurt, and we hadn't even been that close. It was just the kick in the balls about being defective. Damaged. Broken.
I gazed at Clint in the near-darkness, and resisted the temptation to kiss his forehead. So far, he'd been a saint about everything. Limited sex life? No problem. PTSD dreams? Something to commiserate over. Nights where I was lucky to stand up, let alone get it up? Movie night. He took it all in stride as if this was how normal, functional relationships actually happened.
For now.
I was fine with people being temporary fixtures in my life and in my bed. Clint, though . . .
I closed my eyes and released a long breath. I was getting too invested. Hanging way too much hope on the stupid idea that this might be the one time falling in love didn't end in disaster for me. Or that he'd be that one person in a million who could cope with someone whose life was ruled by pain.
The last time I'd started getting close to someone, I'd gone off the deep end of stupid. Anything she'd wanted in bed was suddenly doable. Even if I was blinking back tears or praying I could stay hard despite how much it hurt to breathe, I'd given her anything she wanted because I was less afraid of the pain than I was of her leaving.
And ultimately, she'd left anyway.
Same as everyone before her.
And everyone after her.
And eventually . . .
Inevitably . . .
Clint.
If being in pain all the time and being fucked up in the head had one advantage, it was that a sleepless night was easy to excuse. If I had circles under my eyes and couldn't form a coherent sentence until my seventh or eighth cup of coffee, I could wave off any concern with a muttered "back was bugging me" or "you know . . . nightmares." As much as those things sucked, they were useful smoke screens when I didn't want to admit I'd been an emotional train wreck.
So, as we said our good-byes and Maxine dropped us at the airport, no one questioned me. Clint and I shuffled into the airport, made it through the lines, and after another debacle of getting through security-seriously, why did I always end up behind the assholes who wanted to argue with TSA?-we made it to our gate. By this point we were both out of patience, though neither of us turned it toward the other. His jaw was tight, and I was quietly stewing, but no sniping or snapping between us, so that was a plus.
Once we'd acquired some more coffee, we both started to relax a bit.
He sipped his and turned to me. "How's your back doing today?"
"Eh." I grimaced. Truth was, though it hadn't been what kept me up all night, it sure as fuck wasn't feeling great now. I couldn't say what had set it off-something during security? lack of sleep? moving wrong when I'd picked up my bag?-but it definitely hurt.
Clint nodded toward the podium, where a couple of airline employees were cheerfully handling a thin crowd of customers. "Why don't you see if they have upgrades? The last flight was almost empty in first class."
I pursed my lips. It did sound pretty tempting.
"Go for it." He offered a hand. "I can watch your bag."
I hesitated, but then gave him my bag and went up to the podium.
Fifteen minutes later, I returned to where we'd been sitting. "They had first-class upgrades, but only one seat."
"So did you take it?"
"What? No. Of course not."
"Are you kidding?" His eyes widened. "Those seats will be so much better for your back."
"Yeah, and you'll be sitting alone."
Clint scowled. "I'm going to be a nervous idiot no matter what." He motioned toward the counter. "Take the upgrade so you can be comfortable."
Oh, it was tempting.
But after spending the whole night wondering how long this thing would last? And knowing that taking the seat meant leaving Clint to endure the flight alone? When he'd come to San Diego because of me in the first place?
"I'll be fine," I said.
"But-"
"I'll be fine."
He held my gaze, but then shrugged, and God bless the man, he didn't bring it up again.
I wondered a few times if I'd made the right call, though. Especially when we started to board. On the way through first class, I stole a glance at one of those wide, plush seats that no doubt reclined until they were almost horizontal.
Should I have upgraded?
I should have upgraded.
Fuck. Why didn't I upgrade?
But . . . Clint. I wasn't leaving him alone for the flight.
We took our seats in row twenty-seven. After he'd put on his seat belt, Clint closed his eyes and released a breath. A hint of sweat gleamed at his hairline.
"You all right?" I asked.
Eyes still shut, he said, "I could ask you the same thing."
"I told you-I'll be fine."
"Are you sure?" He put his hand over mine and turned toward me. "You really didn't have to give up that seat."
"I know. But I don't think I'd be all that comfortable up there while I knew you were back here . . . you know . . ."
"Freaking out?"
I nodded.
His cheeks darkened. "I'm sorry. I-"
"Don't." I squeezed his hand. "I didn't invite you along on this trip so I could ditch you on the flight home."
"But your back-"
"Don't worry about it."
The plane started toward the runway, and Clint stopped arguing. He was probably focusing on not panicking, so I clasped his hand between both of mine and tried to keep his mind off the flight.
I told myself I'd only passed on the upgrade because it would be a dick move to ditch him back here when he was afraid of flying. It had nothing to do with that familiar insecurity creeping in like a sneaky muscle twinge, making my heart pound at the thought of letting Clint out of my sight. As if the minute he were alone, he'd start to realize how much simpler life was without someone who could do literally nothing without stopping to consider how it would affect his pain level. It had gotten old for me in a hurry-if I could've walked away from me and my bad back, I would've. So how could I hold it against him if he did the same?
And who was I kidding if I thought staying close to him would prevent the inevitable?
The airport had barely faded into the rearview before the painkiller knocked Travis out. He'd hemmed and hawed about taking it because he was down to his last two hard-core pain pills, but by the time we'd made it back to the car, he'd made up his mind.
As I drove, I still felt guilty that he'd given up a comfortable seat for me. Guilty, and a little stupid-there was something embarrassingly ironic about being more afraid to fly than a guy who had actually been in and narrowly survived a crash. If either of us had an excuse to break a sweat during takeoff, it sure as fuck wasn't me.
We'd made it back to terra firma, though, and now Travis was dozing beside me thanks to the painkiller. I had the radio on to keep me awake and fill the silence as I followed the winding highway toward Anchor Point, and of course kept the volume down so it wouldn't disturb him. Though with as quickly as that pill had put him on his ass, I probably could've blasted Judas Priest while badly singing along and he wouldn't have noticed.
While he slept and I drove, I thought back to our trip. I hadn't had that much fun in ages. Charlie and Maxine were awesome people, and even though they'd been strangers a few days ago, I'd left their house feeling like I'd known them my whole life.