Page 25 of Fake it for Keeps

9

COLT

The blare of a car horn ripped me from sleep. I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart beating too fast, like I’d been running full speed for ten miles. My skin was slick with sweat. My chest heaved as I tried to remember how to breathe, how to pull air into lungs that felt like they’d been crushed.

The dream. Again.

Screeching tires. The sickening crunch of metal.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

I realized I didn’t actually hear a horn. My penthouse was well above the busy Manhattan streets. It was just the vivid dreams.

Would they ever stop?

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the images to fade. But they never really did. They just retreated to the edges of my mind, waiting for the next time I let my guard down. I had considered sleeping meds. Actually, I did try them a long time ago, but they made the nightmares worse. The sleeping pills kept me locked in the dream. They made it impossible for me to wake up and escape.

So, no more pills.

Alcohol helped, but that was hard to recover from. I wasn’t getting any younger and I didn’t want to pickle my liver and brain.

My phone showed 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, but too late to try falling back asleep. Not that I wanted to. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant reliving the worst night of my life over and over again.

I threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, turning the shower as hot as it would go. The scalding water helped ground me, burning away the lingering panic until I could think clearly again. Or at least clearly enough to function.

I skipped breakfast. My stomach was still twisted in knots. I dressed quickly in one of my usual suits. Armani. Navy. The armor of a man who had his shit together, even when he absolutely didn’t.

The office was empty when I arrived just before seven, which was exactly what I needed. Silence. Space. Distraction.

I heard footsteps. I didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You’re here early,” Frankie said. She stepped into my office, closing the door behind her.

I didn’t look up from my screen. “So are you.”

“I always am. You aren’t. I saw your car in the garage.” She moved into my line of vision, forcing me to acknowledge her. “Colt. Look at me.”

I did. My little sister stood there in a burgundy pantsuit that made her look every bit the executive she was, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her eyes filled with concern.

She knew. Of course she knew.

“Are the dreams back?” she asked quietly.

I considered lying. Considered brushing it off with some joke about eating too much pizza before bed. But this was Frankie. She’d see through it in a heartbeat.

I nodded.

“For how long?”

I shrugged, returning my attention to the spreadsheet. “A couple weeks.”

“Since Hallie?”

“I suppose so, although I doubt there’s any connection.” I forced myself to stay relaxed, casual, like we were discussing the weather.

“Bull shit.”

I looked up. Frankie rarely cursed, which meant she was genuinely pissed.