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“Does it make me a bastard for saying it?”
“No. It doesn’t make you a bastard.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about what he’d seen.
“I can’t tell you the details, Linden,” he voiced, as if reading my mind. “I’ll never do it, and I don’t want you to ask. Do you understand?”
I squeezed my eyes tight, but it didn’t stop the tears from escaping from beneath my eyelids. I knew what he had seen was so bad he couldn’t bring himself to relive it, and I wouldn’t put him through it again.
“I won’t ask,” I whispered.
After a long moment of silence, he said, “I’m gonna find them, Linden. I’m gonna hunt down the sick fucks that do this type of shit, and I’m gonna put a fucking bullet in their heads.”
I slid my arm underneath his shoulders, trying not to jostle him. But then he rolled into my embrace, and I placed my cheek against his hair and silently wept for the things we couldn’t control, the people we couldn’t save, and the fragility of human life.
* * *
My dreams were messy, shadowed, and full of cobwebs. Talking to Boxer about what he was a part of had split my psyche open, and while I dreamed, my own demons found me.
When I awakened again, I was alone in bed and sunlight streamed through the half-mast blinds. I was sprawled out at a diagonal. No doubt I had pillow creases along my cheek.
I sat up and blinked, trying to get my mind to wake up. It was foggy, mushy, and unlike how I normally woke.
Melancholy weighed heavily on my heart, and not just because of my scattered nightmares. I was more than off kilter; I was raw, like my insides had been raked along coals and I was burning from the inside out.
The door to the bedroom opened, and Boxer ambled in. Aside from the bandage covering his wound, he didn’t look any worse for wear. He had more than a few days of stubble along his jaw, but his eyes were clear, devoid of pain or meds.
I wasn’t sure what to say to him before coffee and a good tooth scrubbing.
His gaze scanned my face and then my body. Despite the heaviness that weighed on me, my skin erupted in tingles with the promise of unleashing myself on him. But he was injured.
I wondered if our bodies should be leading our minds, or if we had it all backward. But what was more authentic than desire?
“Morning,” I said.
“Afternoon, you mean.”
My eyes widened. “It’s the afternoon?”
He nodded.
“But how?” I gasped. “I never sleep this long.”
“Guess you needed it.”
“Guess I did,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“How areyoufeeling?”
“Boxer,” I warned.
“Physically, I’m fine, Doc. Mentally… I might be taking your Basket Case title.” His smile was tinged with solemn humor. “I won’t be okay again until I’m deep inside you, and I forget all the shit in the world and just think about us.”
I nodded in understanding. He’d put into words exactly what I needed and how.
“I want that too,” I admitted, my voice raspy with desire.
“Yeah?”
