Chapter 22
1148 Words
The next night, Emma pulled up in front of Dean’s house. She grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat and turned around.
“Well, hey there, darlin’. Nice to see you again.”
Startled, she looked at the front porch of the house next door. There sat Dallas, as huge and gorgeous as she remembered him.
“Dallas?” she said walking up the path between the houses.
“The one and only.” His blue eyes were warm as he smiled at her. “How you doing?”
“Good. I’m good. What about you?” She gestured at his shoulder. “I heard what happened. Are you OK?”
“Fine. Just a flesh wound.”
She laughed. “God. I don’t know many people who’d call being stabbed by a maniac a ‘flesh wound’.”
“Well, like I said: I am the one and only, darlin’.”
“You are indeed.”
“Hey, Emma.” Dean was standing on his front porch, taking her in. She was dressed casually tonight, in jeans and a t-shirt, her glorious hair loose and blowing in the breeze, but she looked all the more stunning somehow. She stared back at him, admiring his arms in that tight t-shirt, his bright green gaze stripping her naked even from eight feet away. She caught her breath.
“Hi,” she said. “So, I guess you two are neighbors, huh?”
“You didn’t tell her that?” Dallas asked Dean. “Never mentioned that little fact?”
“Nope.” Dean shrugged his massive shoulders. “You never came up in conversation at all, if you can believe it.”
“Goddamn.” Dallas slumped. “I’m losing my touch.”
Emma laughed again. “So how’d you end up being neighbors?”
“Oh, Dallas actually owns both houses,” Dean said. He came down the stairs and took her overnight bag from her. “I’m the perfect tenant.”
Dallas snorted. “You’re an acceptable tenant.”
“And you’re a half-decent landlord,” Dean told him. He shifted his attention to Emma and his eyes went soft. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looked her up and down again, noting that she looked better than she had even the day before. “You got some rest last night?”
“Yep. And today, too. I literally lay on the sofa watching TV and reading. I barely moved at all.”
He dropped his voice so Dallas couldn’t hear. “Conserving your energy and strength for tonight?”
She grinned. “You know it.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Dallas called down. “But I can tell it’s dirty as hell. Get on in the house now, kids.”
Emma blushed and Dean glared. Dallas didn’t look even remotely abashed.
“Come on,” Dean said. “I’ve got some food heating up. You hungry?”
She blinked up at him. “You cooked?”
“Yeah, of course.” He opened the door for her. “You think I live off bowls of cereal and take-out?”
“Uh, well. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“OK, well, to be fair, it’s not much. Just a stir-fry. I hope you’re not vegetarian.” He helped her with her jean jacket and hung it up next to the door.
“Nope. Pure-blooded carnivore.”
“Then we’ll get along just fine at meal times,” he said. “Sit down.”
She sat, a bit taken aback at the sight of Dean in the kitchen. He brought her a plate of noodles, vegetables and beef, and her stomach growled at the sight: the food looked fantastic. She was immediately starved.
“Thanks,” she said.
He sat down across from her. “No problem. Dig in.”
They ate together, chatting about his day at the tattoo parlour. His clients that day had included a drug dealer, a university student, and a new mother. Emma stared at him, imagining those huge hands carefully inking the baby’s date of birth and tiny footprint on the mother’s breast, just above her heart. Dean could be gentle, she’d experienced that personally, but she was still astounded at what his hands could do and where they’d been.
She knew a tiny bit about his time in Afghanistan. He’d skimmed over it that night at the bar, but she knew enough about what Ranger training and three tours meant to know that he’d seen battle and death. She was positive that he’d killed people – maybe lots of people. His hands were large and lethal, but when they touched her, they were nothing but tender.
She had never had a former-Ranger as a patient, but she had counselled lots of military spouses over the previous six years. Mostly, they were women whose husbands had come back from Iraq or Afghanistan and were struggling with PTSD. The men had nightmares, they were distant and closed-off, they often abused drugs or alcohol, they often used s*x as an escape or distraction. Sometimes, the women were very afraid of their husbands; in a heartbreaking number of instances, they truly believed that the men were traumatized and dangerous. Dangerous to the point that the women themselves were in danger.
In one especially-bad case, Emma had had to help a woman get herself and her two children out of her home. Her husband was so unstable that he’d required forced hospitalization, and Emma had genuinely feared for all of their lives. PTSD among the former troops was serious, and it was more common than most people wanted to believe. She’d never counselled a female soldier with PTSD, but one of her colleagues specialized in them, and her client list was full – overflowing, actually.
At Shooter’s, when she’d heard that Dean had been a Ranger, Emma had backed off a bit. Any s****l spark she’d felt was pushed down as her psychological training took over. She had probed gently, asked lots of questions, felt him out. After an hour of talking, she'd had no doubt that Dean was a hard man, a man capable of violence, but he didn’t have any anger that she could pick up.
Dean – and Dallas too – seemed to be coping with their time in Afghanistan by emotionally disconnecting from people outside of their little circle of friends. The men refused to commit to women, didn’t allow themselves to care for anyone too deeply, couldn’t handle anything long-term. Emma understood this psychological coping mechanism well, and Dean’s desire to stay aloof in relationships worked with what she needed in her life.
He’s offering what I need right now; I’m offering what he can handle right now. It’ll work. At least for a while.
- Writer
