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The days drags. I’m glad the production is winding down tomorrow morning, and I’ll return to Vermont a few hours later. The thought of leaving Charity is . . . painful. Unless . . .
Charity usually comes home for the holidays. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t even asked her what her plans are.
I check the time. It’s getting late, and people are starting to head home. I scan the security feeds to see where Charity is. It takes me a minute to find her. She’s in one of the storage rooms behind the stage, sifting through boxes. I frown, wondering what she’s doing back there all alone, and before I know it, my feet are carrying me in her direction.
My question dies on my lips as I open the door, and my eyes fall on Charity as she lifts a gun from the box. My vision narrows. My heart stops. My lungs seize. I’m back in Helmand, acrid smoke filling my nostrils and gunfire ricocheting all around me . . .
* * *
Charity
During a lull in filming, I decide to sift through some of the boxes of props I noticed on the first day. Anything to distract me from thoughts of Ryder and what happened the other morning. I know he’s avoiding me. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding him, too, because it will kill me to see the regret and rejection in his eyes.
I head to the storage room behind the stage and pull one of the crates from the shelving unit. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I sift through the various items. It seems no one has notarized the contents of these crates because there’s a diverse assortment of props—everything from phones to plastic flowers to remote controls. The props nerd in me itches to make an itinerary.
The next item has me raising my eyebrows. A gun? Not a real gun, of course. Not even a working prop gun, as the safety protocols around those are as strict as a real gun these days. No, this one is made of heavy resin but looks very realistic.
My head jerks up as the door opens, and Ryder stands there staring at me. He sees me holding the prop gun, and his face pales. I stand as he strides toward me, a strangely detached look in his eyes. Suddenly, the gun is torn from my hand, and he’s up in my face, anger rolling from him in waves.
“What the fuck, Charity? You shouldn’t be handling a goddamn gun! It’s my job to protect you—to protect everyone!’ he shouts, waving a hand around him.
I gape at him, wondering what he’s ranting about. His dark eyes are frantic, and sweat beads his brow.
Protect everyone?Is that what he thinks he has to do? And,oh, shit.Did seeing me holding the gun trigger him? He’s used to handling weapons, but he’s not used to seeing me holding a gun, fake or not, and we both know how clumsy I can be.
I cup his face. “It’s okay, Ryder. It’s just a prop,” I state slowly and calmly. “It isn’t real.”
His brow wrinkles a little as he looks from me back to the prop gun now in his hand.He’s shaking. “I . . . fuck, what’s wrong with me?”
The look of vulnerability in his eyes turns me inside out. I swallow my tears as I wrap my arms around him. “It’s okay. I’m safe, and I’ve got you. You’re here with me. No one is going to hurt you.”
I continue to murmur soft words of comfort, smoothing my hands along his back until the tension finally drains from his muscles. His arms come around me, almost crushing me with his strength, but I don’t care. He needs this. He needs me. And I’ll always be here for him.
I pull back to look at him, but his mouth is on mine before I can speak. The kiss is hot and wild, almost desperate, as his tongue spears into my mouth, tasting every inch of me. I moan, wrapping my arms around his neck, giving him everything, every part of me.
Ryder kisses me like I’m his air, his sole reason for being, and I melt into him as our mouths mate and our tongues tangle.
And then he breaks the kiss. A shudder spirals through him as he buries his face in my neck.
“Talk to me, Ryder. Please,” I whisper, stroking my hands through his hair.
He blows out a tortured breath. “I promised him I’d take care of you.”
I pull back to look at him. “Him, who? Luke?”
“Can’t break a promise,” he mutters.
“What about you, Ryder? Who takes care of you?”
He shakes his head as if he can’t understand my question. “I take care of myself.”
I shake my head sadly. “No, you don’t. You torment yourself with guilt and regret. Luke was my brother. He was your best friend. We both loved him, but he’s gone, Ryder.”
“Yes,he’sgone, and it should’ve been me!” he snarls, pulling away from me and raking a hand through his hair. “He should be hanging decorations and dressing as an elf on Christmas morning. He should be here with his family. Not me.”
I feel his pain as if it were mine. “But he’s not here, Ryder. What happened was a terrible tragedy for all of us. But Luke knew what he was signing up for, just like you did. He lived his life on his terms and made his own decisions. And he wouldn’t want to see you like this. He’d want you to live in the moment, not in the past. He’d want you to be happy. To live your life like each day is precious. Because it is.”
I pause as I realize I’m crying, but I’m not done. “I loved what we did in my house the other morning. I loved having your hands and mouth on me. I loved the simple pleasure of sitting on a bench and drinking hot chocolate with you. I loved it all because I loveyou,Ryder. I’ve loved you for years. I loved you before that last deployment in Afghanistan, and I loved you even more when you came back because I know the devastation you battled through to return to us. And I won’t hide how I feel anymore because my love for you is a part of who I am. Somewhere along the line, you became my heart, and I’m not ashamed of that.”
