Page 25

HARLOW

A pain in my side drags me from my sleep. I blink a couple of times in the darkness, trying to figure out what it was and where I am. When it happens again, everything comes back to me.

“No,” Corey cries, his arms flailing around like he’s trying to grab something. “No, let me help. No, let me go.” His voice is deep with emotion as he continues to fight his imaginary demons.

I scramble so I’m sitting on my knees beside him.

“Corey,” I say gently, reaching out to touch him.

He throws his arm around once more and it connects with mine, making it go dead immediately. Understanding the pain he’s in right now, I rush to try to drag him from his nightmare.

My heart aches for him that whatever it is that causes shadows in his eyes during waking hours also disturbs his slumber.

“Corey,” I repeat louder in the hope of dragging him from his nightmare. “It’s okay.” I put more pressure onto his chest as I shake him awake.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice broken and distant. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you awake?” I ask, although I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond. That apology wasn’t meant for me. It’s for whomever he’s dreaming about.

I lie back beside him once he’s settled, but I can’t switch off. Just those few simple words from whatever is haunting him stir up memories of my own. Of the people I couldn’t save and who only found themselves in danger because of me.

A sob rumbles up my throat as my loss hits me full force. I’d hoped that after all these years it would have been easier, but it never is. I came to the conclusion a few years ago that the pain and regret are just something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

Pushing myself from his bed as quietly as I can, I grab one of his shirts that’s been abandoned on the floor, but before I pull it over my head, I gather it in front of my nose.

His smell takes me back to being encased in his arms as I drifted off to sleep last night.

I’ve slept in a bed with other people more times than I can count, but I’ve never fallen asleep in a man’s arms like that before.

It was as comforting as much as it was unsettling.

I’ve only known this man a week, yet he’s somehow managed to wriggle his way behind the armor I wear on a daily basis. He’s becoming an addiction I’m not sure I want to break anytime soon.

I look over at where he’s sleeping. He’s on his back with one arm thrown over his head. His lips are parted, and his dark eyelashes rest on his cheekbones. One leg is out of the covers, revealing the mass of ink down almost the entire length.

Dropping the fabric so his shirt falls around my thighs, I walk over to him.

I may have seen him naked on two occasions now, but I’ve never really had the chance to study his art.

As I get closer, I notice something that’s passed me by the last two times.

The tattoos on his left leg aren’t just artwork.

I drop to my knees, feeling like a bit of a creep for studying him when he’s unaware, but the rippling and stretching of the skin beneath the ink draws me in.

There are scars, and a lot of them.

I gasp at the severity. He’s done a fantastic job of covering it.

You’d never know from a distance that anything was amiss.

Hell, I didn’t notice, and I’ve slept with him twice.

The artist that did all of this is incredible.

There’s a Union Jack, dog tag, a gun, and other army paraphernalia inked onto his leg along with a series of names.

Most of the ink is in black, but laced through it all are bright red poppies and the script Lest we forget.

My breath catches and tears burn the backs of my eyes at what he must have been through.

Standing, I silently back away from him and leave the room.

When he told me about being medically discharged last weekend and losing some of his guys, he said it so lightly that I didn’t really think about what that meant.

But seeing that has reality crashing down.

No wonder he’s so closed off about love and his future.

He’s probably just trying to get through each day.

My nightmares must pale in comparison to the things he’s seen, the things he’s experienced.

The small hallway is void of any furniture or possessions, and I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way down to the kitchen and living area.

I didn’t have a chance to look at my surroundings when we first arrived here last night. I was too consumed by him. But now I see that this apartment isn’t a home. It’s just a place he exists in.

I chew on my bottom lip as I look around the bare space. There’s an old couch and coffee table in the middle of the living area along with a small, empty bookcase. There’s no TV, no photographs or ornaments, any of the things that turn a place into a home.

It’s just empty. Cold. Sad.

A shudder runs down my spine despite the warm morning sun beginning to pour through the curtainless window. I take a step closer and inhale a deep breath. At least he can see the ocean from here.

With a sad sigh, I turn back to the kitchen. The only thing on the counter is a coffee machine. A small smile creeps onto my lips. I’m glad he has some priorities right.

I pause at the hallway and listen to see if he’s awake, but when I hear nothing but his soft snores, I continue to the machine that’s calling my name.

I stare at it, figuring out how it works before setting about finding a pod and a mug.

Pulling the first cupboard open, I find it empty, and the next, and then the next.

Corey’s been here a couple of months. How has he lived like this?

I locate a solitary mug and place it under the machine before starting on my quest for pods.

As expected, the first few drawers are empty, but then I pull one open that has a few bits of paperwork inside. I’m about to shut it, not wanting to pry, but at the last minute the large red eviction notice stamp catches my eye.

Unable to help myself, I pull the letter out.

It’s dated three days ago and has an eviction date of Friday.

I look back to where he is when I hear a noise before quickly shoving the letter back where I found it. The last thing he needs is to catch me prying.

Suddenly the emptiness of the place makes sense. He’s getting ready to leave. But why is he being evicted? He’s got a good job. His eyes light up when he talks about it and his boss back in London. He’s told me that he’s getting paid well for setting it up like he has.

I stand motionless for a few minutes as everything settles in my head.

Something’s not right here.

I desperately want to ask him about it, but I can’t. It’s not my place or my business. We’ve slept together twice, and he’s already made it abundantly clear that there is no forever option here.

My need to help nags at me, but it’s not my place. I barely know the guy.

Going back to my original mission, I locate the coffee pods and get the machine started. I definitely need caffeine now.

I take my mug and curl myself into the corner of the couch, staring out at the deserted beach beyond. I love my house, but a view of the ocean sure would make it better. I love watching the waves crash in. I could lose a lot of hours if I had it on a daily basis.

I have no idea how much time passes before I hear Corey padding down the hallway, but the mug in my hands is long empty and I’m starting to get a stiff neck where I’m craning slightly to get the best view.

“I thought you’d left again,” he says, dejection clear in his tone, and it throws me for a loop.

Last night he was telling me he doesn’t do forever, then he’s disappointed that I might have left. Surely that’s exactly what someone who isn’t looking for long-term wants, right?

I sigh, feeling like I’m already spinning out of control with my confusion. But I really don’t want to be one of those women who asks questions like ‘where is this going?’ because I already know the answer.

“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Am I that bad a bed mate?” His voice is lighter as he jokes, and it makes me wonder if he remembers his nightmare.

“No, not at all.”

“I see you found the coffee machine.”

“It wasn’t hard; there’s nothing else in here.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “About that …”

“Are you moving?” I ask when I get the sense that he needs an out.

“Uh … yeah, something like that.”

“It’s a shame. This place is nice. Great view.” I nod toward the window.

“The bedroom has a balcony.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go have coffee out there.”

“We’ll have to share. I’ve only got one mug.”

I shrug, passing him the empty mug in my hands.

I stand and take his hand as he walks away with his shoulders lowered.

“Hey,” I say, stopping him in his tracks. “I don’t care about this place.”

“It’s not exactly the kind of home I wanted to bring you back to.”

“I didn’t come back for your apartment, Corey. I came here for you.”

“Yeah?” The beginnings of his signature smirk start to appear on his lips.

“Yeah. Maybe we should forget about coffee. I can think of something I want more.”

He abandons the mug in the kitchen as we pass before taking both of my hands in his, and he begins walking us backward toward the bedroom.

Yeah, the coffee can wait.

It’s two hours later before we’re both dressed, and I manage to get him out of the door for breakfast.

“Do you have any preference?” he asks as he threads his fingers with mine and pulls me toward the stairs.

“Nope. I don’t know this side of town very well. Where’s good?”

“I know just the place.”

Ignoring the camper that’s sitting in the parking lot, we head out on foot.

We walk in silence. I’m desperate to ask about his nightmare, but I’m scared how he might react.

I know from personal experience that someone bringing up something you’re trying desperately hard to forget about is almost worse than the nightmare itself.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as we walk. “You’re tense.”