Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(39)

"Okay. More than the book is on your mind. Let's hear it."

I smile. "You know, for someone who's been out of the dating game for a while, you know how to read women."

"Like riding a bike," he says. "Only so much scarier. But seriously, what's up?"

"I don't even know," I say, telling him the truth. "Don't feel like reading, I guess."

Both of his hands are on my feet now, massaging in deep kneading motions that feel amazing. "Okay. So we'll talk."

I give him a wry smile. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Actually, that's not true. I fully intend to trade conversation for a blow job later."

I roll my eyes. "The sad thing is, I know you're only half joking."

"Less than half, actually. I really like blow jobs."

"Shocked. I'm completely shocked."

"Seriously though, Middleton. Say what you need to say, or ask what you  need to ask. Your mental anguish is giving me heartburn."

I start to tell him that he can go back to his reading, and that yeah,  I'd love another book recommendation. Preferably one that doesn't double  as a lullaby like that biography.

But I do want to talk. But I won't ask him about us. Not only because I  don't want to see his wince, but because I'm terrified at the answer I  might get. I'm not ready to hear that I'm just a fun fling that helped  pull him back from the dark side.

"Tell me what happened," I blurt out. "In Afghanistan."

My mind goes blank for a second, as does his face, and I clap a hand  over my mouth. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I don't know why I threw that  out there so tackily."

Paul's mouth quirks up, the lines from his scars moving too. "You asked because you want to know."

I open my mouth to tell him it's none of my business and that he'll tell  me when he's ready. Then I remember what he said that day he found me  Googling him. I remember why he was so upset. He said no one ever asked  him, person to person, what had happened.

And I just did that, so . . . I hold my breath. Please let this be it.

He leans forward slightly, his palms sliding up my calves. We both watch  the movement of his hands before he slowly raises his eyes to meet  mine.

"I want to tell you. I want it to be you."

His eyes hold nothing but trust, and my heart squeezes. In that moment, I know.

I love him.

It's not the easy love I had for Ethan, or the warm, uncomplicated love I felt for Michael as a friend.

I love Paul, the person. I love his darkness and his shadows. I love his  smile and the kindness he tries so hard to hide. I love the boyish  quarterback beneath the war veteran, and I love the scarred right side  of his face even more than the perfection of his left.

I love him.

And because I love him, I do one of the hardest things I've ever had to  do. I let him tell his story, even though I know the ugliness of what he  has to say may very well rip me apart.

I start to pull my feet down so I can sit up straight, but his hands  stop me, his fingers continuing to move absently up and down my calves  as he turns his head to watch the fire.

"Tell me what you know," he says quietly.

"Not much. That article-it mentioned that you and your team were taken . . . that you were tortured. But it didn't say much."

His head drops a little. "The lack of information makes it seem worse  than it was, actually. As far as those things go, I was lucky."

My eyes bug out. "Lucky? In no scenario should torture and lucky be uttered in the same sentence."

"I-"

I lean forward, placing my hands over his, our fingers linking. "Start  from the beginning. Say as little or as much as you want."

He takes a deep breath. And then he talks.

He tells me about how he'd been in Afghanistan for only five months, but  that odd as it sounds, things had become almost routine. Life on the  base was monotonous but not awful.

He talked about how early on, his heart had hammered every time they'd had to leave base, but over time that too became routine.         

     



 

"I think I knew," he says then. "I think I somehow knew when I woke up  that day that it was going to be different. My guys and I . . . we had  this pact. No matter how bored we got, or how shitty the weather, or how  much we missed life back home, or Oreos, or our girlfriend . . . we  didn't talk about the bad stuff. You know? It was like this unspoken  power of positive thinking, or bullshit like that. If we didn't talk  about how much it sucked, then we didn't think about it."

I nod in understanding, even though I know nothing in my own life experience compares.

"But that day, Williams let it get to him. We were out on routine  patrol, and he said something about it being hot. A harmless statement,  really. But over there, nothing felt harmless, and like superstitious  morons, we all jumped down his throat for jinxing us. We were still  giving him shit about it when we stopped. There were . . . there were  bodies on the side of the road. Two women and a child-"

He breaks off, and I swallow in dread.

"One of the women was dead. At least I think she was. We never had a  chance to find out for sure. But the kid . . . it was this little boy,  maybe six years old, and he was crying, pointing to the bodies of the  women. One of the women lifted her head, barely, but enough for us to  see that she was all bloody, and her hand was motioning feebly in the  direction of the boy, as if she was begging us for help. Like, take  him-help him. We were in the middle of goddamned nowhere, with nothing  in every direction. The kid would have died . . . they all would have."

He falls silent again, and I barely breathe, afraid that one wrong move  will have him retreating inside himself again, where this story comes  out only in the nightmares.

"It was a trap. I'd like to think they weren't willing accomplices-the  blood on that woman's face was real, and the kid's fear was plain in his  eyes. He was scared. But the insurgents were on us before we could even  get to him."

I close my eyes.

"The thing that gets me the most is that I never knew what happened to  them," Paul says, almost absently. "From the military perspective, they  were merely the catalyst for what happened next. But on a human level,  they were, well, human."

He gently sets my legs aside and goes to throw another log on the fire,  even though it's not needed. His hands find the mantle, his finger  sliding along the wood, back and forth, back and forth, as though the  gesture can help calm his mind.

"They came out of nowhere. I don't know where they came from, because  like I said . . . there was nothing around for miles that I could see.  But they ambushed us. It happened so fucking fast, Olivia. One second  we're like, ‘Oh shit, this poor kid,' and the next . . . Williams fell  first. He was two steps in front of me and I think I saw him fall . . .  saw his blood, before I even registered the sound of gunshots."

I press my lips together, wanting to tell him he doesn't have to do this, but knowing that on some level he needs to.

"There were six of us that day, and four of the guys died in under a  minute. All that training, all those weapons, but when it's you and  bullets and bad guys, it takes a minute. I play it back . . . I play it  back over and over, and I don't know why they didn't just kill all six  of us then and there. I think they meant to, because Alex and I both  took a shot. I got a stupid flesh wound to my leg, another on the  shoulder. But him . . . they shot Alex in the stomach. It's the worst.  You hear it's the worst, but it's not until you see it that you realize.  It's not until you see the agony on their face that you understand it's  so much better to just take a bullet straight through the heart or  between the eyes."

Alex. That's whose name he cries in his sleep. I feel a little like I'm  going to throw up, even though I know we're not at the end of the story.

He continues. "I barely registered the pain in my leg, and I turn to  open fire before I realize my shoulder's not moving like it should. It  wouldn't have mattered anyway. Alex called my name as they moved toward  us, and he was just-his face was just stunned. He was lying there in the  dirt, lying half on top of Clinksy's body, and he just looked up at me  like, What is happening?"

Paul swallows. "I mean, what the fuck are you supposed to do when your  best friend is sitting there, his stomach a bloody mess? What do you  say? You're dying, dude. We're all as good as dead. And that's when the  jackasses got us. There were only four of them, and I'm humiliated to  say that I didn't act fast enough to shoot when they ambushed me. I got  off a couple of wild shots, but the last thing I remember about that  deserted road is a split second of feeling like my brain had been bashed  in."         

     



 

I stand, moving behind him and resting my cheek against his back as my  hands wrap around his waist. One of his hands covers mine, and he keeps  talking, his words coming a little faster now, as though we're coming to  the end of the story.