Page 59 of Cassio

I read it and my lips curved into a smile.*What is my beautiful Butterfly doing?*

Eager for a distraction from my own thoughts, I quickly replied.

*Waiting for your message.*Fuck it, text messaging wasn’t enough today.*Are you in the mood for a phone call?*

One heartbeat and my phone rang. A smile spread on my face and I answered, suddenly feeling lighter. He was what I needed. “Áine, are you alright?”

Each time I thought about Hunter, there was a lightness in my chest. No matter what was happening; no matter how bad the nightmares got.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I assured him. “I couldn’t sleep and I’m tired as hell.”

“Sleep?” That’s right, he didn’t know I was in another time zone, a different country. There were many times in the last few weeks when I really wanted to tell him what I did. I never felt the need to tell Jack, nor my mother. Yet, I wanted to tell Hunter, make him understand. But I had just met him, and I couldn’t risk The Rose Rescue on my need to tell him.

“Yeah, I’m overseas,” I explained, keeping it vague. “Time difference is killing me. What are you doing?”

“Besides talking to you?” he chuckled. “Going through some boring paperwork.”

“Work stuff?”

“Yes.” He never told me what his profession was. Somehow, he didn’t strike me as a nine to five businessman.

“What is it that you do?” I asked him.

“Run a business.” Hmm, the answer seemed vague just as my answer on where I was.

“What kind of business?”

“I own several nightclubs, casinos, and hotels.” There was a tone to his voice that led me to believe there were other things he ran as well, but when he left it at that, I let it go. I didn’t want to pry too much. After all, I had my own things that were not for discussion. “Do you often have issues sleeping?”

His perception surprised me. We’ve spent little time together in Vegas, but other than that, we haven’t had a chance to see each other again. We texted a lot over the weeks, but I didn’t think he’d pick up on my sleep issues over the text messages.

“Sometimes nightmares plague me,” I admitted uncomfortably. “I know, I know,” I added in an exasperated tone, trying to lighten it with joking. “I’m too old for those.”

“Nobody is too old for nightmares. Have you talked to someone about it?”

“Yeah, I see someone occasionally.” I wasn’t ready to admit to him that I went through a treatment every so often to ease the migraines and nightmares.

“Does it help?” He sounded sincerely concerned and somehow it felt good to talk about it.

“It did, in the beginning. Now, I just don’t know.” I shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try it,” he urged. “Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

I exhaled deeply. Truthfully, none of it made sense. “I keep having dreams of something that never happened,” I murmured into the phone. “The images are bad… disturbing. And I’m in the middle of it.”

Two heartbeats of silence seemed like two hours. “What are the images about?’

Sick, twisted images, I wanted to say. “Women being tortured,” I answered instead vaguely, my voice slightly strained. “And though I want to say something, help… I never do.” And their screams pierce my brain and bleed my ears. But there was no need to go that deep into it.

“Do you think it’s a memory?” he asked softly. God, was this man for real? I fully expected uncomfortable silence and changing subjects.

A choked laugh escaped me. “I think I’d remember it when I’m awake if it was,” I told him. Though in my dreams it felt like a memory. “Sometimes-”

My voice trailed off, unsure about my next words. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a soft demand.

“Sometimes, the images come to me when I’m awake,” I muttered. “They slam into my brain out of nowhere. No idea what triggers it.” God, this was stupid but I couldn’t stop. “Ummm, like your hand.”

“My hand?”