Page 53 of Petty's Crime

I brush that off. “I’m fine. Let me check you—”

“Petty, you pushed me away, that’s all. I’m sorry, it was me shaking you that made you fall off the bed.” She bites her bottom lip and looks contrite. “I was trying to wake you. You seemed so distressed.”

Knowing I’m wallowing like a stranded turtle on my back on the floor, I roll over and pull myself onto my knees. Wiping a hand over my face, I again shake my head, trying to rid the person who seems to have hold of my mind. The memories that nightmare brought back make my stomach roil, and I need a moment to swallow down the bile.It had seemed so real.

RoseLyn moves across the bed, swinging her legs over the side. “Do you need help?” She reaches her hand out as if to help me.

And fuck it, but I reel away from that innocent touch.

“Petty?” Understandably, her face creases in lack of comprehension.

“It’s not you,” I refute, fast. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. It’s just a dream that’s got me all twisted up.”

Though it’s not a dream’s paralysis this time, I feel frozen to the spot. The past, the present, all seems mixed up and right now I don’t want to be close to any woman again.

As she can see I’m not about to move from my position on the floor, RoseLyn settles back onto the bed, plumping the pillows to rest her head but remains half sitting up. “Is it PTSD? Like Sarge? Something from when you served?”

Hell, I wish that it was. I snort at the ridiculousness of it, but it was a personal fight and far from any of the world’s known war zones. Though she could be right, that nightmare and aftereffects aren’t a million miles from Sarge’s PTSD.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

When most women suggest that you talk, they expect you to concur. If you remain silent, they pick at the scab. But RoseLyn doesn’t say more, just leaves the decision completely to me.

After a few moments, she asks softly, “Do you want a glass of water or anything?”

There’s a wealth of concern in her tone, a desire to help, even though she has no idea what’s wrong. That must be the reason the truth blurts from my mouth. “I was dreaming about Britney.”

“Your wife?” I’ve surprised her. She rolls over on her stomach and again looks down at me. “You were freaking terrified.” She regards me cautiously, a slight quirk to her lips. “Is she really that scary?”

I shudder. Even if the details of my nightmare are growing sketchy now, I fully recall exactly how I felt the morning after the event that triggered my dream. Huffing, I respond, “You’d be fuckin’ surprised.”

She gives me her full attention for a moment, before inviting, “Come back to bed.”

But I can’t. Maybe it was lying in such close proximity to another woman, breathing in her feminine perfume, that had triggered the memory. Instead, I eye the room and indicate the chair. “I’ll sleep on that.”

“What?” She looks at it herself and scoffs. “Hell, Petty, there’s no way you’ll be comfortable over there.” Then her eyes crease, and worry lines appear. “Is it something I did? Did I touch you? Oh my God, if I did, I’m so sorry Petty—”

“It was nothing you did.” I interrupt her fast, though I suppose she could have inadvertently let her hand stray and it had generated a chain reaction in me. When she speaks next, it’s clear I haven’t sufficiently assuaged her fears that it hadn’t been her fault.

“You have the bed, Petty. I’ll go downstairs and sleep on the couch.” Looking away from me, she adds, “I knew my parents would put us in the same room. I just didn’t think you’d have a problem with that. I’m so sorry to put you in this position. Of course you don’t want to be unfaithful.”

Now I feel like a total ass. “It’s not your fault.” As she moves to leave the bed, I shoot out my hand and grab hers. “Stay, please.”

“It’s not fair—”

Before I can think better of it, the truth escapes. “Britney forced herself on me the other night.”

She stills, her head slowly turns as though on a swivel. “Forced. You?”

It sounds so stupid putting it into words. “I was sleeping. I woke up…” I wipe my free hand over my face, unwilling for some reason to lose the connection to her. “She was naked, on top of me, and I was…” How do I explain? “I thought I’d been dreaming.”

Her eyes narrow. “She touched you when you were sleeping?”

It sounds so stupid put like that. Maybe this is what I need, to talk it out, make myself understand my overreaction.

“I tried to stop her. Our relationship isn’t like that. I didn’t want sex with her. But she had her mouth on me. I told her no, but my dick was hard. She positioned herself over me…” I feel so sick that I couldn’t control myself.

She wrenches her hand away. For one fleeting moment I think she’s disgusted at my revelation, but she throws herself off the bed and comes down to her knees beside me.

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