Until You (The Redemption, #1)(17)

My chest aches from the thought. It hurts more from that than from whatever damage this goddamn bullet has done.

Another noise to my left. I shift to look and the motion sends a lightning rod of pain through my body. Shadows play over the closed blinds.

My vision blurs and my head dizzies again, but my hope soars.

They’re here.

They’re coming.

I brace myself for the battering ram. For the door to splinter.

Then . . .

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.


*


I jolt awake. My breathing’s ragged. My bed’s soaked in sweat. My heart’s a fucking freight train in my chest. There’s an ache in my shoulder where the second bullet hit me.

Pressing my hands against the mattress on either side of me, I force myself to take in my surroundings. To acknowledge where I am.

Not in that apartment.

Not slumped against a wall.

Not slowly dying.

There are shadows here too. But these shadows are from the trees swaying outside in the breeze, not from SWAT about to breach the door.

I need to move. To work through the adrenaline coursing through my body. My throat is dry, but the last thing I think about is taking a drink.

One foot in front of the other, Crew. I watch my feet as I move. Count my steps. I get to twenty and then start again.

Repetition.

Deep breaths.

Focus my mind elsewhere.

I work through the process the therapist devised for me. The one we’ve practiced. The one that I thought was total bullshit because I refused to believe my mind was as fucked up as my body—but it’s even worse.

And that’s the fucking bullshit in all this.

The blood has been washed away. The darkened scars have begun to fade. But my goddamn head isn’t right.

Post-traumatic stress disorder is the official diagnosis from the department therapist. The same damn therapist who has refused to allow me back on the force because I’m not fit to serve yet. Because my body is healed, but apparently my head is not.

“Fuck.” The nausea hits me just like it always does. Forcing me to stop my pacing. To brace my hands on the windowsill and practice my breathing.

Two breaths in.

One long, slow exhale out.

I practice my breathing. Two breaths in. One long, slow exhale out.

Where’s the crying coming from?

Where’s the baby?

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fuck!

Justin. No.

Stop.

Practice your breathing, Madden.

His laugh. That’s what is the soundtrack to my nightmares most nights. The fucker’s laugh as he waited in that room for us to die.

Two breaths in.

Stop thinking about it, Crew.

One long, slow exhale out.

Focus on something else.

Another deep breath as I scrub a hand over my face and then through my hair.

I look out the window over the driveway.

What do I focus on?

The oak tree at the bend.

How about one Tennyson West?

Talk about a welcome . . . distraction? Surprise? Maybe a little bit of both.

I’ve hooked up with women since Brittney left. I’m a guy. Sex is a necessity. A way to ease the adrenaline rush after a crazy night at work. But it’s only happened a couple of times, and only when the girls went on sleepovers to friends or my sister’s house.

For thirteen years, I came home to the same woman. Made memories with her. Did for better and for worse with her. And slept in the same bed with her. And although I do not miss Brittney, I do miss that connection. I miss the shared jokes, the easy company, the familiarity, and the having someone to talk to about your day.

The irony is that I thought we still had that when she up and left. Either I was blind, or she was good at pretending. Maybe a little of both.

Hookups are temporary and quick. Fun but fleeting with the promise of more never even considered.

But for the first time in a long time, I had an inkling of what I’ve missed when I laughed with Tenny earlier tonight.

Sure, the lust part fired good and well enough, but there was something more with Tenny. Something added.

And I have no fucking clue what it is or whether she felt it or not . . . but I know I want more of it.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Tennyson




“This is just the best day ever.” Bobbi Jo clasps her hands over her chest as her accent gets a bit thicker with each second. “I told Calliope that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks that the Tennyson West was going to accept my invitation to help with our Founder’s Day events. That she—meaning you—has turned down every other invitation to get involved in town. Lo and behold, you emailed me and did just that. Two years. You’ve lived here for almost two years, and this is the first time you’ve joined us, and we couldn’t be more thrilled.” She winks and leans over, her platinum-blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she lowers her voice. “Not only did you make my night, but you also made me look oh-so-brilliant to the girls on the committee, so thank you.”

She smiles at me with a cute shrug before moving a stack of fliers from one table to another, her heels clicking on the varnished floor of the community center’s convention area—if you can even call the small space that.

“I mean, we were all sitting there at Wine Wednesday, wondering how to infuse fresh ideas into our annual festivities, and we thought that maybe you, being a woman from the city and having experienced the world beyond Redemption Falls, might just have some to give.”