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I was about a quarter of the way through the very last book in the series, and I was at a fight scene.
It was a sword fighting scene, so I hoped that it wouldn’t also cause his PTSD—and I knew that this was post-traumatic stress disorder rearing its ugly head—to worsen.
Hitting play, I sat it next to his head and hoped that the story would help.
And, miraculously, it did.
The fireworks kept coming, but the book kept playing.
And one muscle at a time, he finally became unlocked.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
He swallowed hard but nodded. “Yeah,” he croaked.
He wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit okay.
Not for the walk back to his truck. Not for the car ride home. Not for the minutes that it took for us to sit there in awkward silence as he tried to decide how to proceed.
In fact, I would say he was so far from okay that it was downright depressing.
“Can I come with you?” I asked softly, breaking the silence. “To your place?”
He jerked.
“No.” he said. “No.”
I sighed and shifted in my seat, reaching for the door handle as I did.
When I got out, I looked at him through the open passenger door.
“Listen, Hayes,” I said quietly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m a big girl. I know that you’re not perfect. More so, I can handle you saying ‘you’re not ready’ and ‘you don’t want me to come home with you.’” I paused. “What I can’t handle is you shutting down, going hot and cold, and pretty much ignoring me for two days and then turning into a happy person. Only to turn back into an ogre at the end of the night when I invite you to stay the night.”
Hayes didn’t say anything.
So I took that as an ‘I’m not going to say anything’ on his part and walked into my apartment and closed the door.
I kind of expected him to stay. To tell me I wasn’t reading too much into it.
But he didn’t stay.
He went home, and I went to bed pissed.
Not because he wouldn’t stay, but because I knew something was wrong and he wasn’t telling me what it was. Or, more importantly, admitting that there was something bothering him and telling me he had a problem, but didn’t want to discuss it.
You know, like a motherfuckin’ adult.
Still, that night, I researched PTSD.
Oh, and I also might or might not have contacted a few agencies that had PTSD awareness dogs that helped people in the case of a PTSD attack.Chapter 12Sorry, I don’t do quiet.
-Ares’ secret thoughts
Ares
“When can I come get him?” I asked.
The young woman on the other end of the line laughed.
“Your boyfriend will have to be registered as…” she started, but I interrupted her.
“I already have that happening as we speak,” I said. “Officially, he can get one.”
“You’re on top of things, I like it,” she said.
I was on top of things because I’d had plenty of sleepless hours over the last two days to think about what had happened. To plan, and to initiate my plans.
“Now, about Trigger,” I said. “When can I come get him?”
The woman sighed. “Trigger is my favorite.”
My lips twitched.
“How about today after school?” I pushed. “I can bring him with me. Like it says on your website, we can see if Trigger and Hayes get along.”
The woman made an agreeing sound. “That sounds perfect. Though, he might not want Trigger.”
Oh, I knew Hayes would want Trigger.
The moment that Hayes saw him, he’d see the broken in Trigger and feel an immediate kinship to him.
That was what had drawn me to Trigger, and to Dottir Service Dogs in the first place. They specialized in dogs that were either unwanted—pound puppies they called them—or war dogs that were no longer useful. Or, like Trigger, abused dogs that would never even be considered by normal people.
Trigger was a two-year-old Poodle. He’d been very severely mistreated by his former owners, former owners that were now in jail for animal cruelty. He was missing one eye, had a half of a left ear, and had scars all up and down his body.
Though, you couldn’t tell when his hair was allowed to grow.
“What time would be good for you?” I asked.
Once the time was confirmed, I contemplated my next step when it came to getting Hayes to go there with me when he hadn’t talked to me in two whole days.
However, before I could so much as consider this dilemma, a throat cleared at my door.
I jumped, startled to find someone standing in my open doorway.
“Ms. Downy?”
I turned to find a young woman staring at me with her hands crossed underneath her arms, staring at me with excitement.
“Ummm, hi.” I smiled. “How can I help you?”
The woman bounced on her toes.
“Well, my husband came home from deployment early, and he wants to come see his sister at school. Right now, he’s visiting with his parents at his mother’s job. But I decided to jump in my car real quick and come over here to let you know what’s going on. And I found you because Abilene has been really talking about you lately. She’s had a lot of great things to say.”
