Page 80 of Shattered Lives

“Sorry, Sugar, he’s going home with me tonight,” Tucker says in an extremely effeminate voice. He sets our beers down and squeezes my shoulder, leaving his hand to stake his claim.

I want to crawl under the table.

Champagne looks from me to Tucker and back again. I smile weakly. She unearths a card from her ample bosom and slides it across the table to me. “Call me if you change your mind.”

She’s barely ten feet away when Tucker starts laughing. “If you could see your face.”

“I’m never coming to this fucking bar again,” I mutter. He only laughs harder as he slides back into his chair.

“Shut up, Tucker. It’s not that funny.”

He grins broadly. “You’ve been hit on twice tonight, and I’m your best offer. That’s fucking hysterical.”

“Have you ever heard of a stump bunny?”

“A what?”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Champagne has an amputation fetish.”

He winks. “I’m more of an ass man, myself. Now finish your beer so I can take you home, Soldier.”

This time when he laughs, I laugh too.

CHARLIE

Sunday finds me trailing through stores after Lila, thinking. Yesterday, I told her I was done with dating, but my emotions have cooled enough to allow me to be objective. I initially enjoyed my evening with Blake. Until his comment about foreplay, that was the most promising date I’ve been on since I moved to Cedar Ridge. The downward spiral that culminated in my panic attack stemmed from his provocative statement.

What I need is to figure out how to stop reacting to non-threatening flirtation. Just because a guy mentions sex or foreplay doesn’t make him a threat. After a full day of self-examination, I decide to visit Lila’s sex therapist. Doing the same thing over and over hasn’t worked for me. It’s time to try something new. I place a call to her first thing Monday morning, startled when she offers me an appointment for Wednesday afternoon.

Willow Entwein works out of her home a few miles north of Cedar Ridge. I pull up about ten minutes early. I’ve imagined an older hippie-type woman with long graying waves dressed like a flower child. When a tall siren opens the door, I’m shocked. Willow has rich hazel eyes and dark curls that hang to her waist, and she’s wearing a black wrap dress with a plunging neckline.

“Wow,” I say awkwardly. “I feel very underdressed.” I gesture to my khaki cargo pants and flowing white top. I drove here straight from my last appointment, not wanting to arouse curiosity by stopping to change because I’ve not told anyone about today’s visit.

“You must be Charlie. Please come in.” Her voice flows like warm brandy, and everything about her oozes sexuality. She runway-walks down a long hall wearing (what else?) black stilettos, leading me to a sunny room with a pair of overstuffed plush chairs and a comfortable sofa. Colorful art and rugs add life to the space, and plants sprawl happily across a bookshelf below the window. “Take a seat wherever you feel comfortable.”

I choose one of the squashy red chairs, and Willow takes the other, facing me. It’s silent until she smiles. “Perhaps you could start by telling me what brings you here today.”

I take a deep breath, wondering where to begin. “My friend Lila recommended you. Lila Maxwell,” I add. “She and I were medics together in Afghanistan. We were kidnapped for eleven days. They – ” I stop to compose myself, staring at my hands. “I was beaten. Restrained. Whipped. Branded. Mutilated. Raped repeatedly. More men and more times than I can count.” Memories of rough hands, soured bodies, and fetid breath overwhelm me. The familiar band tightens around my chest. My hands dig into the arms of the chair, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Breathe.

You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you.

Just breathe.

It takes me a couple of minutes to regain control. I open my eyes to find Willow watching me closely. She passes me a box of tissues. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

Again.

Fuck.

I blot my eyes and take a deep breath. “This happened about four years ago. I’d ended a casual relationship not long before that. I’ve not been in a relationship since then.” I sigh heavily. “I can’t let anyone get close to me. If it wasn’t someone I trusted before, like Lila or Mark, I have a hard time letting them in. I’m friends with Lila’s husband Tucker, but we were friends before. I have a co-worker, Tom, who’s become a friend, but I’ve never told him what happened. I’ve been on several dates, but I have too much baggage for most men to deal with.”

I pause. “Last week, I went out with a nice guy who was interested, even though he knows I’m a disaster. I had a good time, but I got uncomfortable when he made an offhand comment about foreplay. When he walked me to my car, I had a panic attack at the thought he might try to kiss me. I hate being like this.” I pause for a moment before I quietly finish. “I feel like I’m too broken to move forward, and I’m sick of being imprisoned by my fear.”

“Does Nice Guy have a name?”

I smile. “Blake. His name is Blake.”

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