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traitorous panties

Ayla

I am not a good patient. My husband is a miserable one.

We’ve been home for three days and if the faces he’s making are any indication, he’s in agony. Trying to out-stubborn pain is foolish. But Christian is obstinate and is determined to be stronger than the asshole who did this to him.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t hear his groans or see his hand reflexively reach for his shoulder.

While the blood was removed from the garage, the bandages across Christian’s chest are evidence that the incident happened. As is the heightened security.

Liam was at the hospital and gone again within an hour. Our state-of-the-art cameras and monitoring were his doing, apparently, and while it was the Cadillac of systems, we now own the Lamborghini version. Now, if only I could convince myself those black-masked figures weren’t real.

The hole in Christian’s chest is real. The room. The system. The gun. That horrid below-average coffee maker was too. So where did my mind spin to create that fragment of fiction in the world of fact? And how?

“You’re pacing again, wife.”

“You’re stating the obvious again, husband.” But I sit abruptly, as if pacing the sitting room were the problem and not the why behind it.

His chuckle melts quickly into a cough that drags a groan from him.

It doesn’t matter that our relationship is tenuous. The sounds he makes showing just how much he hurts are enough to turn my head.

“What do you need? What can I get you? Water? Pain killers?”

“I’d say coffee, but I’m fearful of you ruining… What did you call him? George?”

“Georgio. He probably needs a last name too. Salvatore? Georgio Salvatore.” I use a horrible Italian accent and pinch my fingers together as if the hand gesture makes it authentic.

“And you’re probably right. Not that he could mess up, but I sure could and we’d be in the situation we were this morning. ”

“I did okay this morning, thank you very much.”

“You did. Thank goodness. If I had to pull out that sad one from the safe room again, I would cry.”

“You did cry.”

“That was yesterday and there was a lot going on.” And there was. My emotions are definitely dancing right at the surface.

His smile is small but welcoming. And stunning. Seriously, how is he that hot?

“So you feel up to making espresso?”

“You ask a lot of someone who is afraid of Georgio.”

“He doesn’t bite. Only a nip or two, and you can do it. Want me to walk you through it again?”

“You sure you don’t just want iced tea?”

“You wound me, woman.” He throws a hand to his chest as if he’s a Shakespearean actor.

I pop up and head for the kitchen. “Okay, Georgio. It’s you and me. We can do this. Don’t let me down.”

I set my phone on the counter, place both my palms on the smooth, cool surface, and stare down the machine. I can do this.

I can and I do. The machine makes up for my deficiencies, though it looks worse for the wear when I’m done.

I take a cup to Christian. His grimace is barely visible when he takes a sip.

“Okay. So it’s not perfect. I know this, or I can easily guess. But it didn’t explode, so let’s call it a win.”

“And yours?”

“Mine wasn’t exactly drinkable.”

His full laugh morphs into a moan quickly, but the amusement never leaves his face, even as his brows drop. “Did it explode?”

I look away. “It tasted like it did.”

“I know the doctors expect me to sit here and do nothing, but that’s not my style. What’s on the agenda for today?”

“I’m flexible. What are your ideas?”

“Paint Mines?”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously. You’re supposed to be resting and recuperating? A hike is not what they mean when they suggest you relax.”

“Bad suggestion?”

“No. It’s a great one, but a nighttime shoot in a month or so maybe? Golden?”

“I’m up for riding shotgun.”

“You’ll give up control and let me drive?”

“I only demand control in the bedroom, Princess. And you’ve never had a problem with that.”

I hold his eyes but fight not to let the shiver coursing through me be visible. The heat at my core must be evident, or at a minimum I’ve given something away, because his eyes smolder and his lips tip just enough to keep the shiver moving.

“I’ll remind you soon enough. This—” he points to his shoulder with his good hand. “This will simply delay me a bit.”

“Good to know. I’ll go… get ready or something,” I toss over my shoulder as I head for the hall.

“Need to change your panties?”

I spin back to him, my mouth agape, and the man has the nerve to wink.

He freaking winks.

I don’t even respond, well… at least verbally.

I turn on my heel, head held high, and go to my bathroom to brush my teeth.

The espresso I made tasted like battery acid, and I need that flavor gone.

A little makeup and a change of clothes later, I’m making my way out of the bathroom as Christian enters.

He loops a palm around the back of my neck and holds my gaze. “You look positively edible.” His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment before he squeezes and lets me go, sliding past me for his closet.

Damn my traitorous panties.

Recuperation is torturous.

Christian is fine, mind you. He works and, with the exception of his exercise routine, everything seems to be business as usual. Except his flirting has skyrocketed. It’s as if gunpowder ignited his libido, and he can’t seem to turn it off.

Or he doesn’t want to.

And I’d be lying to say I’m not falling for it. I want to know more about how he won me the first time, but instead, I’m seeing it in action.

He isn’t shy about his feelings. He doesn’t bait me and play with his food. He’s bold as brass in his desires, his needs, and I feel it in my bones.

My mind is at war. I love the flirt and the chase. I adore this being desired and wanted. There is no doubt.

And I’m desperate for his touch.

At the same time, there’s something—and I can’t put my finger on what—that holds me back. A gnawing in the pit of my stomach that is just not right.

It’s the shadow in my brain of less than happily ever after. It’s a niggling suspicion that we might not have been wholly blissful. Is this a do-over? Or is this reality two-point-oh.

After a week at home, fighting these demons alone, I head for the salon to see Jessi.

I promised myself a blowout weeks ago, but mostly I need what I’ve dubbed follicular therapy.

It means my hair gets therapy while I have time with my friend who is a goddess among women.

She’s good for my head but she’s great for my heart.

“Keep doing that.” It comes off on a moan as she massages my scalp.

“That’s what all the girls say,” she replies with a smile.

“I’d believe it. Your fingers are magic.”

“They say that too.”

How she’s remained humble with as talented as she is is a mystery.

Warm water stifles any conversation before a hot towel wraps around my hair and she tilts me back upright. We move to the chair where she begins her magic.

“No, really. How have you been?”

I look at her in the mirror and shrug. “Good. Fine. Not fine. I’m fucked in the head and am over it. I need a therapist who won’t think I’m batshit for what’s happening up there.”

“I know someone. If you want a rec, I’d be happy to give one. She’s trustworthy. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

“Yes, please. Now tell me how you are and don’t leave out things you may have mentioned before. It’ll all be new information, I promise.” I roll my eyes and give her a fake smile.

She knows it’s fake and drops her hands to my shoulders. “Will do, but first things first. What are we doing with this gorgeous hair?”

“I trust you implicitly. Carte Blanche as always.” I wave my hand in a flourish. “Now catch me up.”

She hums and stares at my hair the way an artist stares at a canvas.

After a nod like she can see the finished sculpture inside a block of marble, she begins.

She chats and tells me what’s happened since I last saw her, how the salon is doing, the growth of the coffee shop and bookstore she opened next door.

She’s living the dream of every woman of our generation—bookstore slash coffee shop slash salon entrepreneur.

Every woman but me, anyway. I have my own dream.

Aspen & Evergreen is everything I could’ve conjured and more.

The nightmare is in not knowing a damn thing about it.

So much of it is in the dark, a shadow creeping in my memory.

It has the composition of the perfect snapshot, and I just can’t find the right angle to make it work.

A lone tear escapes, and Jessi stops her work to hold my eyes in the mirror. She says nothing, waiting for me. If I’m going to pay a therapist, I could see her weekly for the same price, and my hair would be incredible and my heart would be full.

I give her a small smile. “I wish you were a licensed therapist. I’d see you weekly if I didn’t think you’d go home thinking I drive the crazy train.”

“Ayla, I own the railroad. We are all a bit nuts. It’s whether we own it or it owns us.

I’m not judging, I promise. But this—” She holds my eyes in our reflections.

“This isn’t you having a rebellious streak or feeling antsy or even hormones.

There’s more going on in this beautiful brain of yours and the woman I knew—and the woman I know—would settle for nothing less than one hundred percent effort in its untangling.

See Joanie and come here anytime. It is no hardship for me getting time with you. ”

I laugh as a second tear escapes my lashes and give a firm nod. “You’re on.”

We finish up and I give her a hug as I leave, wandering through the bookstore on my way out.

When I get to my car, a text comes through.

Jessi: Joanie Jacaruso 303.555.1203

Me: You’re a lifesaver. I adore you!

Jessi: I feel the same!

I click the number and the phone rings, spiking my anxiety. While I wait for the receptionist, I hum “Crazy Train” and snicker at how inappropriate my brain is only to be interrupted.

“This is Joanie.”

“Oh. Hi.” I allow the world’s most awkward pause. “Joanie, my name is Ayla Barone. Jessi Marask gave me your name and number. She said you may be able to help with some… challenges I’m having. ”

“If Jessi wanted to be a therapist, my practice wouldn’t be half as successful.” Her voice is warm and kind, and I instantly feel like she’s safe.

I wait and she continues, “Ayla, what challenges are you having?”

I bark out a laugh, but it’s full of derision and self-deprecation. “How much crazy can you handle?”

“A lot. And we don’t use the term crazy anymore.”

“Well, I’m no professional and sometimes that word seems to be the tamest I can conjure up.

I have memory loss and what I do remember seems to be pieces from more than one puzzle.

My family is following doctor’s orders not to spark my memory with anything from my past. And my husband is…

well, he’s a whole story. I need a professional who can help me work this puzzle without the image on the box as a guide. Does that make sense?”

“It does. And it sounds like a challenge I’d enjoy. Would you be willing to come in and meet so we can see if we’re a good fit? It’s not a matter of qualifications, it’s a matter of trust. We’ll need that to find that picture together.”

I exhale. She sounds so reasonable and kind and just enough like a nurturer that I don’t get clinical from her as much as curious and caring.

“Yes.” My one-word answer is sincere, verging on desperate.

We make an appointment, and I relax into the drive home, cranking up the music and taking the long way. It’s considerably out of the way, but I pass the studio just because I can, and thrill at the tourists meandering through the street and in the shop.

I’ve got this.