Page 33 of Stolen Trophy


Font Size:  

BOOKER

Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. Count the things I know for certain. Repeat the things I know are true.

I am not at war.

I am not in Afghanistan. I’m in the middle of bumfuck nowhere in England.

There are no enemies currently trying to kill me.

I am safe.

I am safe.

The door slams behind me, and I flinch again. My heart rate is out of control, and adrenaline is hitting my system, making me shake because it doesn’t have an outlet.

I am safe.

“Booker?”

Her voice penetrates my inner mantra, and my shoulders tense further.

The memory of an explosion, followed by screams and shouts, slams into me, and I shove it back…or at least I try to. I’m not capable of pushing them away completely. Mostly, I’ve mastered them during the day, but something about her touch…

“I’m going to come sit next to you,” Genevieve says softly, as if I’m a cornered animal. “I won’t touch you again.”

“Do whatever you want,” I mutter as a cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Fuck! Why can’t I get control of this? It’s been ten fucking years! My body shakes as if I’m the bomb about to detonate.

She makes measured movements, taking a seat beside me in the grass, ensuring we don’t touch and there are a few inches of space between us. I’m grateful for the consideration. The others didn’t understand, always reaching out to touch me during one of my attacks. It’s a terrible oxymoron, because I crave touch during it but can’t actually handle it. It overloads my system until I’m stuck in a loop of memories and panic until I see the image of my friends dying, until I can’t breathe through the tear gas that’s not physically here.

Ten years, and I’m still panicking like a marine fresh out of the service. Shame fills me. Guilt. What good am I if I can’t even handle the sound of a syrup bottle hitting a plate and the touch of a good woman?

“I can’t handle when someone comes up behind me and touches my shoulder,” Genevieve begins, her voice as soft as a dove. “The first time it happened after my launch into the richer society, it was at a party, some gala. I can’t even remember what it was for anymore.”

She isn’t looking at me, her eyes trained on the same sky mine are. My heart rate eases just a little.

“What did you do?” I murmur when she doesn’t immediately continue.

“I kicked him in the shin so hard, he bled,” she admits with a mocking laugh. “Then I ran out of the room in embarrassment and had a panic attack in the bathroom. I had to be quiet so they didn’t hear me and talk.” She shrugs. “Then I fixed my makeup and went back out there, apologising and blaming it on bad champagne.”

“And they believed that?”

She snorts. “You’ll find the elite don’t like to look too deeply into much of anything. I was new money, new prey, so they chose to pretend it didn’t happen.” She turns towards me, her beautiful blue eyes drawing me in. “All this is to say we all have triggers. I apologise for hitting one of yours.”

For a few long seconds, I can’t respond. Has anyone ever apologised for setting me off? I certainly can’t remember. Hell, when I’d come back from war so long ago, my then wife told me I was broken and got some sick satisfaction from triggering me.

“It’s not you…”

“I know,” she replies, smiling gently at me. “I understand.” She worries her bottom lip. “So your triggers are touch and loud noises? I don’t want to trigger you again.”

I shake my head, only then realising that my heart rate has returned to normal. I’m still shaking, but simply sitting out here with her and talking is helping. The fuzziness in my head slowly begins to subside. “The combination is what got me.” Sighing, I pick a wildflower from the grass in front of me, rolling the stem between my rough fingers. “I hadn’t expected your touch, so I tensed. The noise sent me over.”

Genevieve grimaces. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” I interrupt, not wanting her to blame herself. “Like I said—it’s not you.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, but it isn’t awkward. If anything, it’s comfortable. I find I like her being close to me.

“I’ll make sure not to touch you in the future,” she murmurs so softly, I almost don’t catch it, as if the wind is stealing it away from me.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like