Ruined(4)

“No,” I say truthfully. I haven’t had a violent nightmare about Javier and Michael in almost six months. But that doesn’t mean what they did to me has vanished from my subconscious. I used to have that same dream all the time. Sometimes five nights in a row. When the hospital discharged me, I lost a considerable amount of weight because I puked every time I startled awake. The exact same way I did tonight.

“I’m fine.” I wipe the tears from my face. “I just need some water.” I try to smile, try to placate him, because the last thing I want is Kayne worrying that he’s the cause of my recurring nightmares.

“C’mon.” He lifts me to my feet and helps to steady me. Our bathroom is enormous so it takes several steps to get from the toilet bowl to the sink. The whole room is white marble with copper fixtures. It’s a spa-like oasis with the shower and soaking tub overlooking the picturesque landscape.

I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth with some cold water then swish some Scope around to kill the nasty vomit taste. Kayne stands by my side, his worried stare searing through the side of my head the whole time.

Once I dry my mouth, he pulls me next to him, so my side is touching his. We gaze at each other in the mirror as he raises the hem of my shirt—one of his white clingy undershirts that I’ve made a habit of living in. He only lifts it as far as my ribcage, exposing the circular tattoo that matches his. Around the scar where Michael shot me are the words That which does not destroy us written in fancy cursive. The same words circle Kayne’s scar where Javier shot him in the shoulder. I know what he’s trying to tell me. Fight. And I am. I have been for the last four years, and I’ll continue to fight for the rest of my life. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t survive. And that’s just not an option.

The tattoos were Kayne’s idea. We got them on our first wedding anniversary. As a reminder, a symbol, a signification of strength. I’ve come to learn my husband loves philosophy, theology, and metaphysical poetry. He’s filled our home office with works of Richard Crashaw, Friedrich Nietzsche, John Donne, and John Wesley. Apparently, Jett was the influence for Kayne’s educational interests. When they first met, Kayne was a bit “rough around the edges.” That’s how Jett put it anyway, attempting to be sarcastic and empathetic all at the same time. Before Kayne met Jett, his reading material consisted of comic books and car magazines. The first book Jett ever gave him was the Canterbury Tales, and I quote, said, “Read it, Neanderthal.” Kayne wasn’t a fan at first, but somehow, Jett instilled a love for literature and philosophy in him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kayne asks, cutting through the severe silence.

I nod, resting my head against his arm. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t trigger it?” Insecurity peeks through his stoic façade.

I stare at him in the mirror.

Well . . . not in the way he thinks. Kayne’s dominant behavior didn’t bring on the nightmare. I think his mention of kids did. He asked about starting a family a few days ago. No pressure, he was just poking around to see how I felt about it. I can tell you that I feel the same way as I did four years ago—resistant to the idea.

I’m not sure I want to disrupt the perfect little life we’ve carved out. And starting a family would definitely do that. Am I being selfish? Maybe. Do I have justification to feel that way? I think I do, given everything I’ve been through.

“No,” I assure him once more. It’s half the truth. “I’m ready to go back to bed.”

“Okay.” He kisses my head tentatively then walks me back into our bedroom with a death grip on my hand. Once under the covers, I cuddle up next to him, my body drawing calmness from his warmth. He’s always warm and eager to hold me. I drift off listening to the sound of Kayne’s breathing and the soft laps of the ocean just outside. I don’t dream of Michael or Javier again. Instead, I dream of a young, dark-haired, green-eyed boy playing in the sand, calling out Mom.





“YOU ALMOST READY, KITTEN?” KAYNE asks, leaning against the doorframe of our office looking good enough to eat.

“I’m responding to my last email.” I flick my eyes up at him.

And also responding to the way you look in those wind pants and tight t-shirt. Whoa.

Our foundation, and my current baby, has taken off tremendously. Over the last three years, we have sent nearly four hundred survivors and their families to all seven continents. I personally coordinate all the arrangements with the help of a local travel agent on Oahu. So many stories and so many survivors. I correspond with each and every one of them. My soul just floods with joy knowing that I’m providing someone with something they could only dream about. I dreamed of paradise for so long, and at one point even believed my hopes and aspirations were stolen away from me. Luckily, that wasn’t the case, and I came away with more than I could have anticipated.

A husband who once told me he would kill for me, and then made good on his promise. A husband who gives me everything and asks only that I love him honestly in return, flaws and all. Which I do.

I’m compelled to share some of my good fortune, and through To Catch a Falling Star, I do. The foundation got its name from the tattoo scribbled on Kayne’s rib cage, It takes a certain kind of darkness for the stars to shine and the knowledge of all those girls he saved from Javier’s home. I think about them often, even though I never personally met any of them. I wonder if maybe one or two of them were part of the four hundred we’ve sent away thus far. A tiny piece of me hopes so.

I hit send, then push away from the desk. I’ve been plugging away at the computer since six a.m.

“Do you have everything you need?” I ask Kayne as we walk hand in hand down the curved staircase.

“Yup. Bottled water, snacks, and a hat.”

“What about a compass?” I ask.

Kayne smiles. “Have that, too.” He taps his chest, right where the brightly colored tattoo is inked over his heart. “It always brings me home. I just follow North.”

He makes me grin like an idiot sometimes. On the needle pointing North is my name permanently written in small lettering. That’s right. I’m home. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

Six months after Kayne and I got married, he and Jett left on one last mission; when they returned home, they both resigned from Endeavor. Although he was only gone a few days and in little to no danger, (his words though I’m still skeptical), it was trying. Very, very trying. Not knowing where he was or what he was doing. My imagination had a field day at my expense. I don’t know how spouses of duty men and women do it. I was a nervous wreck until the minute he came home.

And as thrilled as I was that he decided to retire from the super-secret black op spy business, I sort of had a feeling his retirement would be short lived. And I was right because six months later, a knock came at the door. It was the commander of Honolulu SWAT. The same SWAT team Jett and Kayne worked with to save me. A few openings had ‘materialized.’ I use quotes because two positions were basically created specifically for them. Both Kayne and Jett said yes, and my husband went from nonexistent undercover operative to specialized service provider. AKA full-time, gun-toting, Kevlar-wearing badass.

Which, of course, he loves.

I sort of do, too. Especially when he walks around the house dressed in black fatigues with firearms holstered all over his body. Hot.

We climb into my Jeep. Not the one I used to drive, no. Kayne felt I needed an upgrade, so he purchased a new white Rubicon complete with body armor—a steel cage looking thing over the roof and front grille—for me. Boys and their toys. I end up driving the Jag half the time because he’s always hogging the Wrangler.

We drive several blocks in the perfect October weather before we pull up to our destination. A large two-story house with a Chevelle parked in the driveway. We don’t even bother knocking as we walk into Jett and London’s home. They moved into the neighborhood shortly after Kayne and I did. It was sort of a whirlwind. Baby, house, marriage, in that order, but it was clear they couldn’t be happier, despite London’s horrific morning sickness.

“Peanut butter!” a high-pitched voice squeaks as soon as Kayne walks into the living room. Jett and London’s house may be as large and spacious as ours is with the same panoramic view, but it feels much different with baby gates and toys tossed all around.

“Jelly!” Kayne lifts Layla as she runs and jumps into his arms. I don’t exactly know where the nicknames came from, but they’ve been calling each other that since Layla could talk. “Pretty girl, what’s all over your face?” he asks as he examines her.

“Makeup.” She chortles like she knows she’s not supposed to be wearing it but doesn’t care.

“Yup, Jett caught her red handed playing in our bathroom,” London says as she bounces six-month-old Beckett around on her hip, the newest member of the Fox household. “After he scolded her, he taught her how to apply blush. He’s stealing all my thunder.” She laughs.

“We were just having some daddy-daughter time,” Jett announces as he comes down the stairs. He’s dressed similar to Kayne in a white T-shirt, form-fitting hiking pants, and a pair of Ray Bans sitting on his blond head.