Page 49 of Play Dirty

“Stevie.” I shake her just a little harder. “Wake up, honey.”

She sits straight up in bed, her eyes wide. “What…”

“You’re okay,” I repeat gently. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Oh.” She shivers. “I’m sorry… if I woke you.”

“It’s okay. You all right?”

“I haven’t had one in a while.”

“Was it my presence?” I ask. “Having a man in your bed?”

“Oh.” She looks startled but then shakes her head. “No. I started having them after I got out of the hospital. At first it was every night, then every couple of nights, and then every couple of weeks. I haven’t had one in about a month, so I guess I was due.” She rubs her eyes. “God, I thought they were gone. Dammit.” She looks like she’s going to cry, and I hold out my hand, waiting for her to take it since I don’t want to touch her without an invitation.

She looks at my hand blankly for a beat and then puts her hand in mine. I thread our fingers together and tug her down.

“Tell me about it,” I suggest. “I know it’s not the same, but sometimes when my kids have bad dreams, I ask them to tell me exactly what happened. And then I explain why it either can’t happen or won’t happen, depending on the details. Like if it’s a blue monster with pink eyes under the bed—it’s not real. But if it’s of a bad guy breaking into the house, I remind them of the security system, stuff like that.”

“It’s always the same,” she whispers, settling back against the pillows. “It’s what happened the night of the…incident.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” She looks at me. “I can try.”

“Maybe it’ll help to get it out. I know you talk to your therapist but it’s different. She’s trying to help you get past it—I’m trying to be your friend and help you learn to live with the remnants of the trauma.”

She pulls in a shaky breath and closes her eyes. “Would you…hold me? Maybe I’ll be less scared if you’re holding me.”

“Come here, baby.” I tug her against my chest, and she practically melts into me. That’s the only way to describe the way she fits her body to mine and doesn’t leave so much as a fraction of an inch of space between us. The side of her face is pressed into my chest, her body flush with my torso, legs wound with mine, one arm draped over my waist.

Since we’re on our sides, I use my free hand to gently begin stroking her back.

She’s quiet for so long I’m almost afraid she’s asleep.

Then she starts to talk.

“He’d always been abusive. Verbally and emotionally. But not physically. And he was one of those good-looking, charming men who could make you believe he was sorry. He’d show up with flowers, jewelry, caviar—all kinds of goodies, every time we had a fight. When he proposed I was so excited about the wedding. The plans. The dress. The fact that it was going to be in Paris… and from that point on, things escalated.

“He stopped apologizing and would just tell me to get over myself. The first time things got physical was because I had my period and didn’t want to have sex. He raised his hand like he was going to backhand me but then he stopped and asked me to show him.”

“Show him?” I ask in confusion. “Show him…what?”

She shudders a little. “He wanted proof that I was on my period. He made me…pull out my tampon.”

“Is this fucker in prison?” I growl. “Because if not, I’m going to find him and kick the shit out of him.”

“I don’t know if he’s in prison or out on bail,” she whispers.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

She doesn’t react, merely sits there for a few minutes.

Then she continues.

“I knew I had to get out, but I was a mess. I was so excited about the wedding—like I was somehow able to separate the event from the man—and part of me was in denial. Like he’d miraculously change or something after we were married. I know it’s ridiculous, but that’s the only way to describe how I felt. Chey was frustrated with me, my agent was pissed because I kept missing jobs, and then… I found out I was pregnant.”

Crap.

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