Sweat rolled off them like water, pure and evoked by the desert heat but vanquished by their mutual need. Her face was flushed by this connection, the way his hand found her between her legs, how his tongue played with her nipple, how she moved to wrap her palm around his shaft and stroked once, twice—just enough before he stopped her, needing more heat.
Wet, wild heat.
Her breath on his hip chilled him, cooler than the ambient temperature, the rise and fall of her chest as the air tickled his slick skin making his body tingle.
As she sank lower, her mouth a fortress, a temple, an asylum, he groaned and pulled her up. Straddling him, she sank home, her hands sliding up from his navel to his shoulders, her long, blonde hair free and spilling behind her back as she arched.
The tent felt like nirvana, her body heaven, their union complete as they both—
Gerald awoke with a start, gasping into the strange box of reality, the room dark with shadows and filled with the scent of deeply anticipated horror.
“Oh, God,” he grunted, breathing erratic, heart in flames in the center of his chest.
That dream.
That fucking dream.
He hadn’t had that dream about Suzanne in eight years.
Drawing on every tool in his psychological coping toolbox, Gerald started with deep breaths. Inhale for eight, exhale for four. Something like that. His hands fisted the sheets, which were damp in sections. Sweating profusely, Gerald stood, throwing the sheet off him, stomping through his bedroom naked, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Instead, he found himself five minutes later, standing in front of the open freezer door.
Just...standing there.
A glance at the stovetop clock told him it was 4:56 a.m. Sunrise soon. The day would begin.
Hell, the day had clearly begun already. No way was he going back to bed.
His nose was cold. His back was covered with sweat. One drop trickled down his spine and into his ass crack. And yet, still he stood there, stupidly staring at a half-empty freezer.
Enlightenment would not come from a frozen pad Thai dinner.
Today was his day off. He had a wide-open schedule. Nothing planned.
Which made today dangerous.
Think, man. Think, he urged himself, recalling what his psychologist at the Veterans Affairs center had told him, all those years ago. Use the tools. Don’t define yourself by the intrusive thoughts.
He froze.
And realized that the dream had been different this time.
Blinking, he felt his corneas stick against the backs of his eyelids, the rapid eye movement necessary to return his body to the well-oiled machine it needed to be.
The dream was different.
Ten years ago, when the invasive dreams had started, they’d ended with him reaching up to her beautiful neck, trying to choke Suzanne. Trying to hurt her. He’d always woken up in the middle of the violence. He’d never actually killed her in the dream.
He’d also never told her about the dreams.
Not a single damn one.
And that’s why he broke it off.
Because he never, ever wanted to take the chance that the violence might move from his subconscious to reality.
Four psychologists and two psychiatrists had tried to convince him he never would—in real life—but he knew PTSD could play tricks with your mind. It was a nasty bugger, a second self that took up real estate in the body, a lurker in the shadows that waited to torment you when least expected.
No, he didn’t think he’d ever actually hurt Suzanne.
Leaving her made it ironclad. A guarantee.
Until last night, he’d been certain that his decision was the only choice.
Until last night, he hadn’t allowed himself to play the regret game.
Until last night, he hadn’t let himself hope.
And until last night, he hadn’t had that damn dream for eight years.
Bzzz.
He checked his phone. A text from his friend, Vince.
Hey, sleepyhead. Slacker. Get up and come lift with me. I could use a wimp to wipe my brow and fetch towels.
Gerald snorted, running a hand over his shaved head. He’d met Vince years ago. Helped him get an in at Anterdec, where Gerald worked. The guy was hard core.
And a bit of a jerk.
I’m up, asshole. You need a real man to show you how it’s done? he typed back. Something in his chest loosened. His shoulders dropped. His stomach growled. The parasympathetic nervous system slowly resumed functioning.
He would be okay today.
He had to be.
If you’re the real man, then I fear for humanity’s future, Vince typed back. Bring coconut oil. I ran out.
What’s the coconut oil for? Your blow-up doll? Gerald replied.
Your sister, was Vince’s reply.
Gerald barked out an outraged guffaw.
My sister would kick your ass if she read that, Gerald tapped out.
She single? Got pics?
Give me twenty minutes, and don’t you ever touch my sister.
But your mother’s fair game, Vince typed back.
If you’re into necrophilia, pervert. My mom’s been dead for five years, Gerald answered.
She single? Got pics?
You’re a sick motherfucker, Vince.
Not yet...get your ass here. We got a preener. Need to put him in his place.
Twenty, Gerald typed one-handed as he walked into the bedroom, fishing around in a laundry basket of clean clothes he hadn’t put away, finding workout clothes.
Five minutes later, he was on his motorcycle, zooming toward the gym, relieved to have something to do.
Even if it meant hearing Vince talk about dating his lesbian sister.
Especially if it meant hearing Vince talk about dating his sister, not knowing she was gay.
Early morning in Watertown meant uncrowded streets and the near-daylight glow of bluish skies that gave the town the feel of a straight-to-video movie set. He lived three blocks down from where the Boston Marathon bomber had been caught in a boat, bleeding under the cover, ensconced during a fugitive search that Gerald had spent in Boston, shuttling James McCormick everywhere that day.