“I’m Amy. What are you having?”
She’s beautiful, with a kick-ass figure and a mind of her own. There’s just one problem—she’s not Scottie. Despite my hesitance, I know the next one won’t be either, and I have to push past this.
“I’m simple,” I tell her. “A shot of Jack and another beer, and I’ve never let a woman pay for a drink in my life. I was raised that way.”
“One round?” It’s a compromise, and I nod. “Okay, thanks.”
She sizes me up, and I can’t help my growing smirk.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Agree,” I say. I’m half-assed flirting, and it feels out of place. I wonder if I’ll ever get back to who I was before. The world seems plastic in contrast to the alternate life I live as a soldier, and I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
Connors takes off to the dance floor, and Amy turns to me.
“You dance?”
Immediately I think of Scottie, and that somehow this is wrong. Please make it fucking stop.
I’m being faithful to a woman I have no future with. The notion is ridiculous. At this point, it’s either fight or fuck my way through it. I decide to try for option B. Breaking this hold I’ve put on myself is the only way to get over her.
She’s not waiting for you.
She never asked me for loyalty; she asked me to let her go. I’m the one who decided to love her from afar.
I answer Amy, who’s patiently waiting. “Not feeling the dancing right now, that okay?”
“I borrowed this jumper,” she announces suddenly.
That earns a laugh from me. “Okay?”
“Well, it’s fucking short, shorter than anything I’ve ever worn. I’m capable of intellectual conversation.”
I give her a grin. “Sounds…stimulating.”
“I just mean…” She bites her lip, looking over at her friends on the dance floor, who are bent over, shaking their asses.
Amy’s adorable and just as uncomfortable as I am. I find comfort in that. She’s out of her element. “I think what you’re trying to tell me is you’re not an idiot who counts on her looks to make up for what she’s lacking.”
“Precisely,” she says. “This is a slut suit.”
My eyes trail down her body. “Can I be honest?”
“Yeah.”
“You look really fucking good in that slut suit.”
Her smile comes from within, and I feel better about talking to her. We make our way to the corner of the club, and soon our conversation is flowing easily. Amy’s twenty-three and works as a kindergarten teacher at a Catholic school. The more she talks, the more I like her. She’s no bullshit, opinionated, and I like the way she drinks—heavily.
“So, you’re single?” she asks.
“Not exactly. I’m in love with a married woman,” I admit freely, because why the hell not? Women are the best at giving advice on this shit. “And before your wheels start turning,” I add, “no, I haven’t slept with her. I have no intention of breaking up her marriage.”
She nods as if she understands. “I just got dumped by the principal at my school. Which means, yes, I was screwing my boss. I don’t exactly have the moral high ground.” The more she talks, the more I like her. Her smile says a lot. They’re all genuine but have to be earned.
She looks up at me with hope in her light blue eyes. “How about tonight, we commiserate together?”
“I’m game.” We clink bottles, and she gives me a shy smile, which I reciprocate. Though her presence should bring some comfort, I still feel like I’m being dragged through glass. Admitting the truth did nothing for me, and she’s not doling out advice. We’re just two clueless and heartbroken people sharing time and drinks. Hours pass, and we get a little sloppy. We’ve talked about everything but the heavy. The light conversation is making this easier for me, and I can visibly see the relief in her. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. Half drunk, she pulls me out to the dance floor, and I allow it. Slow country music sounds out through the club, which is more my style.
“We’re pathetic, Briggs,” she murmurs to my neck. “We are a country song right now.”
I chuckle because I have to agree. “Go big or go home. And I wasn’t always such a sad bastard.”
“Gah,” she says, visibly upset. “Why is it we always give our hearts away to the person most likely to break it? We’re gluttons…I mean, at least that’s how I feel.”
I pull her closer. “I’m sorry, Amy.”
“Me too, Chris.” She looks up at me with a different light in her eyes and her arms link around my neck, her body pressing against mine. She smells good—sweet—the rub of her chest indicating the conversational portion of the night is over. Slipping my arms around her waist, I pull her tight to my chest, rubbing my hands along the small of her back and brushing the top of her ass with my thumbs as we sway to the seductive beat. Before I know it, her hands are pulling my head down to hers, and I’m licking the seam of her mouth, beckoning her to open for me. Willingly her lips part, and I dive in. Briefly, my mind wanders back to her, and my stomach begins to churn. Amy slips her hand between us discreetly, kneading my cock through my jeans with a question in her eyes, and I answer with option B.
“So, you and Amy, huh?” Connors elbows me as he walks past to make his way over to the coffeepot. It’s four in the morning, and I’m nursing the hangover from hell with PT in just thirty minutes. “You gonna see her again?”
My stomach revolts as a cloak of guilt lays heavy on me. “No.”
“Really? She’s fuckin’ hot, man. You seemed so into her last night.”
“She’s great, but I’m not there at the moment.” Amy was the perfect distraction, but I don’t feel a centimeter closer to where I hoped it would take me. I’m no idiot; I know that love doesn’t exist in the physical, but I damn sure hoped a little physical would help this ache. And now I know I’m looking for a warm place to sleep in a blizzard.
Man. Fucking. Down.
He nods, concentrating on adding the creamer to his cup. “So, you’re a one and done? I gotcha, man.”
Yeah, one woman has done me the hell in.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Katy
Therapy. It’s the bane of my existence. I sit in a room for an hour every other day, talking feelings about feelings. The meds aren’t working. They keep me asleep during nightmares I’m dying to wake from. I’d rather feel like I’m on fire than feel that whacked-out. But for Gavin, I’ll try anything. I’m tearing him apart.
But I know what I need is not in any sort of bottle.
I can’t cry, and I know that’s a problem for Gavin. I’m fine with it. I don’t want to feel this way. Mostly because it feels inconvenient for my family. Trying to hash out what happened is working me into a constant frenzy. I traded one harsh reality for another.
I didn’t belong in that hole in the ground, but feeling like I don’t belong in my life is ruining me.
Noah seems oblivious, but Gavin’s constant scrutiny is maddening. I know it’s out of love and concern, so I just keep trying. That’s why I’m taking the advice of my therapist and attempting to sink back into my old routine. Gavin is why I’m at the market, picking up ingredients for his favorite dinner. Noah chatters next to me as I open a freezer door and grab Gavin’s favorite ice cream.
Will this make him happy? Me being at the store? Buying his favorite ice cream?
I would do just about anything to get that look out of his eyes, but every time I wake from thrashing in my sleep and climb out of the hell of my dreams, the look on his face haunts me. And I see it in his expression.
You’re not her.
“Mommy, can I have this?” Noah looks up at me with a fistful of some strange new glowing candy full of red dye.
“Not that kind. But you can have some of Daddy’s ice cream, okay?”
“Cherries?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he says, replacing the candy on the shelf. The freezer door slams shut behind me, jolting me forward, and I see Noah flinch. He laughs at my reaction. “That scare you, Mommy?”