Page 78 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Fuck, I'm close. Dangerously close, and I can feel a release building that might knock me out of this chair.

But as my hand is pumping and I watch her body tremble and her lips part on a loud moan, something happens.

I see a flash of blood in my mind.

A bloodied dress.

Mickey screams.

Because that's the fucking joke of PTSD: it doesn't give a shit what you're doing. You can't plan for every flashback.

Triggers can be things you don't even know exist.

I immediately stop stroking myself and shove my cock painfully back into my jeans. My hand slams against the keyboard with enough force to rattle the table. The monitor blinks to black, cutting off the feed from Londyn's living room. Air comes in ragged pulls, each one dragging against my throat like it's lined with sandpaper.

I can't do this.

My fingers dig through my hair, seeking control over my unruly strands. My heartbeat hammers in my ears, the same way it does when bullets start flying. Fight or flight. Danger close.

Get out now.

I force myself to count breaths. Slow the inhale, hold, exhale longer. By breath seven, my cock has relaxed and the roaring in my ears has dulled to a manageable hum. By twelve, I can almostpretend I'm a professional again instead of a teenager who just got his first glimpse of a naked lady.

My phone vibrates on the table. Her name lights up the screen, bright as a flare in the night.

Londyn:How was the show?

Four little words. Playful. Sultry. Dangerous.

My pulse starts racing again, my thoughts swirling like debris caught in a cyclone. I've crossed a dangerous line tonight, one I swore I wouldn't approach again after Wunmi.

What if Londyn and I are doing something like this again, fooling around, and a Navy Cap gets in?

My fingers hover over my phone screen, and I'm torn between wanting to play along and knowing exactly where this path leads. I've been here before. Not exactly like this, but close enough. I got too close to a client. Too involved. I lost focus.

Wunmi's face flashes behind my eyes. I see her body on that dressing room floor.

I won't lose Londyn that way, even if she hates me for what I'm about to do.

I start typing before I can second-guess myself.

Me:It was unprofessional. We can't do this again. There are lines I won't cross.

I hit send before I can change my mind.

Immediate regret washes over me, but I push it down. This is necessary. This isn't about what I want. It's about keeping her alive.

I drag a hand through my hair again, tugging at the blue strands. The monitor remains dark and accusing in its blankness. I reach out after a minute and switch the feed back on, telling myself it's my job. Because I can't leave her unprotected just because I'm having a crisis of professional ethics.

It's not because I need to see her.

The screen blinks to life. Londyn sits motionless on her couch with her phone held tight. Her shoulders curl forward, making her look small and fragile. Her face… the hurt there is naked and unguarded, and it stabs at my heart.

She stares at her phone for what feels like forever, then her gaze drifts to some middle distance, seeing something I can't. Whatever it is leaves her eyes glossy, and her expression hollows out in real time.

She stands suddenly, wrapping the blanket around her, and flees down the hallway to her bedroom. The living room is now empty except for the ghostly blue light of her abandoned phone.

I lean back in my chair, simply exhausted. Did I do the right thing? The professional thing, sure. But therightthing?

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