Page 76 of Drop Three

It’s nearing eleven and all lights are off except for the diffuser I left running in the kitchen. The diffuser gives off a soft glow, providing visibility to see my way around without turning on any harsh lights.

I wasn’t planning on being out this late.

Time passed quickly, and before Briggs and I knew it, we were sitting at the restaurant for nearly four hours talking—forgetting about seeing a movie altogether.

It was a good night.

My mind feels like complete and utter mush, unable to process much of how I’m feeling. I need to sleep. Then, tomorrow, I’ll evaluate and let myself come to terms with how I’m developing feelings for a man who isn’t Bodhi St. James.

A hot shower and my bed call to me.

I hang my purse on the hook by the coat closet, and I’m instantly transported to a couple of hours ago when Bodhi had me pressed against the door, his large frame caging me in.

I had never been so pissed off and enamored all at the same time.

I still cannot believe the audacity that took over him.

In Fiji, Bodhi said he didn’t want me, but now thinks he can tell me how to dress and proceeds to act like he owns me.

It’s incredibly frustrating and confusing. Also, I don’t deserve that.

If he wants to be fickle, let him do it with another woman who isn’t me.

Before heading upstairs, I grab a water bottle from the fridge and confirm I locked the front door before I’m stopped short by a shriek of panic piercing the air.

What was that?

The hairs on my neck rise at the terrifying sound, and it takes me a second to realize it’s coming from close by.

My mind goes into fight or flight mode, preparing for the worst.

“Oh god, no. No, no, no,” a manly voice yells in panic.

Bodhi?

I’d know his deep voice anywhere.

With long strides, I drop my water and reach his sleeping form on the white sectional couch.

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach at the sight of Bodhi tossing and turning, visible agony rippling through him. I hesitate to touch him—not wanting to startle him and make it worse.

“I can’t breathe. Help! Somebody help! Where is she? Where is she?” Bodhi screams through heavy breaths, tearing at the collar of his shirt while sweat pours down his face from the forcefulness of his tossing.

My body trembles as if I’m experiencing the terror with him.

He’s having a nightmare—a really fucking bad one.

He’s searching for a woman in his dreams. But who? She’s obviously someone he cares for or once cared for very much, enough to be buried deep in his nightmares.

All of the questions I once had about Bodhi going through something traumatic are now confirmed. I don’t know what this quiet and sheltered, yet vulnerable man has gone through, but the sounds of his screams tell me it’s heavy.

I decide I can’t just sit here and watch his body convulse in pain without doing something—anything to help him. I need to approach him carefully to avoid an unconscious retaliation.

Bodhi’s heavy breaths begin to stabilize as his tremors subside; I take this as my sign to reach out. Moving as gently and quietly as possible, I run my hand from his forehead to his thick hair and back again—soothing him carefully.

He steals my focus as a stream of tears falls down my face.

As much as Bodhi and I have had our differences, I care for him deeply.

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