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His gaze left her and he groaned, both hands around his left knee, squeezing the skin red there.
Slowly, Bryce backed out of the fort-like area behind the VW. She retreated to the stool on the other side, sitting shakily as she flipped the flashlight app off to see the cell phone’s screen.
Her fingers flew as she brought up the Google search bar, typing inWhat do you do if someone is having a PTSD flashback?
Google immediately returned several websites with information, and a quick glance confirmed that her instinct not to wake him was right. She scrolled through the .org sites Google had listed, her eyes scanning fast as Ryker continued to give a pep talk to a guy named Tarun and ask about someone named Paul.
She clicked on a bunch of links until she could summarize their advice:
Put your safety first. Be cautious and keep your distance to avoid getting hurt.
Stay calm. Avoid sudden movements.
Tell them they’re having a flashback, that it’s not real.
Gently instruct them to breathe deeply and slowly.
Wait for them to become aware of their surroundings. Ask them to describe what they see to ensure they are awake.
Support them afterward without judgment; invite them to talk about their experience, yet don’t press them if they don’t.
Bryce shivered. Was she equipped to deal with this? Hell, no. Would it be better to call Imani and have Zander come over? Maybe. She thought she recalled Ryker telling her Zander had been his recovery coach at Walter Reed.
Then she put herself in Ryker’s shoes. He wasn’t in any immediate danger. Besides blankets, there was nothing in the space behind the VW he might use as a weapon. He wasn’t posing a threat to her or himself. Ryker hated pity and any attention surrounding his war injury. If she called his relatives, there would be hubbub, embarrassment, and negative attention he definitely wouldn’t want. If he wasn’t in any danger or posing a threat…why should she make this situation worse for him?
Quietly, she walked to the garage’s tiny office and flipped on the desk lamp. The puddle of light barely illuminated the space, but she could see enough to notice the office had a door that locked from the inside.
Good. If things went south and she needed the extra security of a door barrier, she’d have it, but she’d still be close enough to keep an eye on him.
Her eyes lit on the coffee maker in the corner, and she got up to start a pot. She would watch out for him tonight, wait for him to awaken fully, then be there for him when…if…he wanted to talk.
Chapter 14
Ryker woke to the smell of coffee, toast and…mmm. Bacon. Inhaling the scents of breakfast deep into his lungs, he yawned, smiling. Bryce. She was cooking for him—her self-proclaimed love language—and that thought made him happier than her spending the night. He yawned, raising his arms to stretch.
Clunk.
His hand connected with metal, and he opened his eyes, blinking twice as he realized he wasn’t in his bed. He was curled up on a pile of blankets, wearing only his jockey shorts, behind the VW’s front end in the garage. His leg socket, sleeves, and his everyday prosthetic—the boring one with the faux Pinocchio-like foot at the end—lay in a neat stack where the VW’s fort-like entrance led to the garage.
Shit. What had he done last night?
He remembered Bryce. Remembered the fantastic sex. Remembered drinking his beer, then the one he’d opened for her, reluctant to wake her up after he’d returned to bed and found her asleep. He recalled eventually crawling under the covers next to her, feeling blessed as she rolled over, throwing an arm across his chest, her breath warm and sweet against his skin as he held her in his arms…
And then he remembered nothing.
He’d gone to sleep, relaxed by the beer and the wonderful lethargy from making love to Bryce. Yet, sometime during the night, he’d wandered out here.
The metal man and his metal security blanket…
He grabbed his head with both hands, then dragged them down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes, his cheeks, and all the way down his chin as he prayed, prayed, prayed for God or whatever cosmic force that ran this PTSD shit show to please pick this moment to take him.
But his heart continued to beat.
After a moment, he let out his breath in a defeated, curse-filled whoosh.
“Ryker?” Bryce’s voice came from the apartment, and he wanted to die all over again as he heard her approach the entrance to his weird safe space. Before his hand did anything but twitch toward his prosthetic, she’d popped her head in and around the VW’s front end.
She was dressed only in her watermelon-colored shirt from yesterday. A tiny bit of those incredible purple, lacy panties peeked out from beneath the hem, and the thought of being between those thighs again was almost enough to overcome his embarrassment.
