A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2)(39)

Notice how that’s not a question?

“Yes.”

“And when you saw Blaine near her?”

“I was prepared to kill him with my bare hands right there.”

She looks at the newspaper. “You showed remarkable restraint, then.”

“I should get a medal.”

She gives me a somber smile. “You have quite a few already, Drew. Do you need more?”

I can’t really react to that. So I don’t.

She breaks the silence.

“You punched him.”

“Yes.”

“Wanted to hurt him.”

“Yes.”

“For revenge.”

“Yes.”

“Who were you avenging?”

“What?” My brow tightens.

“You or Lindsay?”

The feeling that the room is growing extends, the walls stretching like taffy, the floor dropping into a pit, the space dark and blindingly white at the same time.

I know what she’s really asking.

“Both of us.”

“The unfairness of the sexual assault would make any person experience a triggering episode, Drew, upon seeing their attacker.”

My lips are numb.

“But the level of sexual assault that you experienced four years ago from those three men, combined with your combat experiences, make your encounter with Blaine all the more traumatic.”

She said it.

It’s out there.

I haven’t told anyone other than Salma. Emergency room doctors, my parents, my sister, and probably some NSA officers know what those bastards did to me that night.

And that’s it.

Salma blinks rapidly. It’s a sign she’s trying to approach me carefully. Finally, she asks, “Lindsay still doesn’t know the full truth from four years ago?”

“No.”

I can say that loud and clear.

Because the word is screaming like a bass drum in my head. No. No. No. No. No.

NO.

This is the part where I admit I’m a hypocrite. I’m a Grade-A bastard. I hold Lindsay to a double standard. Where I have one set of rules for the rest of the world and a very different set for me.

I do.

I know I do.

Because I want Lindsay to confess to me and trust in me and lean on me and let me protect her and love her.

But I’m a liar.

I lie to her every day, every second, every breath.

Every kiss.

Salma shifts her weight again, blinking slowly, just waiting. The first seven sessions we had together, years ago, involved nothing but silence.

Mine and hers.

It took seven hours for me to realize she wasn’t going away. That she wouldn’t judge.

Didn’t help that I had no choice. My commanding officer threatened me if I didn’t go to therapy.

For seven sessions I stared at any object in the room and tried to ignore the screaming in my veins.

And on the eighth hour, I broke. I gave in.

I talked.

And didn’t stop talking for nearly a hundred sessions.

“How do you feel about that, Drew?”

Ah, there it is. That old chestnut. How do you feel about that, Drew? Salma has asked me that countless times, and I’ve answered it, mostly with the truth. Mostly. Sometimes I lie at first, but the truth eventually wiggles its way in.

Now? Not so sure what’s about to come out of me.

“I feel like Lindsay’s safety is my priority. She’s struggling enough with her own baggage from four years ago. I don’t need to add mine to the load.”

“You are very protective of her.”

“Of course I am. There’s no way those *s are hurting her again.”

“Is there a serious chance of that happening?”

“Yes,” I bark, looking away. I rub one eye, then sigh. “They’re directly threatening her with text messages and covert communications.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I see. Including the picture of you that you mentioned in your voice mail.”

“I can’t tell her.” I plant my elbows on my knees and rake my hair with both sets of fingers, head down, fighting nausea. “Not yet.”

Not ever.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Does the difference matter?”

“You tell me, Drew.” She smooths her hands over her skirt, making it cover her knees, and leans forward, elbows on her thigh bones. The move is slick and designed to be unobtrusive, but for some reason it reminds me of Lindsay.

Everything reminds me of Lindsay.

“Can’t. Won’t. Both. Look, Salma, if I try to tell her what happened to me that night, she’ll – we’ll – I – damn it.” I feel this getting away from me. My hand rips through my hair. It’s shaking so hard I feel my teeth chatter.

She waits me out.

“It’ll complicate everything,” I finally choke out.

“The truth usually does. And then it simplifies.”

I’m losing it. I’m losing it and fast. Blood that normally pulses through me at a steady pace is roaring in fits and starts, making my chest heave and sputter. All that skin covering muscle and bone feels like it’s floating in outer space, like gravity stopped working.

The world telescopes and pinpricks, then it expands and widens until I’m living in a funhouse mirror.