Page 42 of Chasing Wildflowers
Vic showed me the opposite. He taught me to be steady, patient, and protective. He taught me that men could build safety instead of taking it away.
Sometime through the night, I must have dozed off. I’m wrenched awake by the sound of Lane’s panicked whimpers. She’s thrashing in her sleep, hands clawing at the sheets like she’s fighting against some invisible enemy.
“No, no, no,” she mumbles, voice a desperate plea. “I got away. I have a new life now.”
I gently run my finger down her tattooed arm. “Wildflower,” I murmur, gently coaxing her from sleep. “It’s just a dream, baby, you are safe.”
She bolts upright, her breathing uneven and ragged. Her hands flying to her throat, eyes wild as they dart around the room, searching for shadows in the dark.
I sit up, arm brushing lightly against hers, keeping my voice soft, cautions. “Lane.”
Her eyes drift to mine, recognition flashing as the panic clears. She sags back against the headboard, her hands falling to her lap. A tear trails down her cheek, my name leaving her lips like a prayer. “Jameson.”
My hand comes up, cupping her face, my thumb brushing the tear away. “It’s me, baby.” I look into her eyes, gauging, assessing. “You were having a nightmare.”
She looks away, refusing to meet my eyes. A first. “I’m fine.” Then quickly adds. “I don’t remember it. I’m sure it was just about what happened last night.”
I gently grip her chin, drawing her eyes back to mine. “Are you sure that's all it was?”
Pushing her is risky, especially after what she went through last night, but we are running out of time.
She jerks away from my hold and throws the covers off, her feet hitting the floor with a muted thud. “Of course it was, he attacked me, remember? Anyone would have a nightmare after that.” She stands, her expression blank, arms crossed over her chest like a shield. “Thank you for last night, but you can go. I’m fine.”
She turns on her heel and stalks toward the bathroom, each step carrying her further from me. Both physically and emotionally. She’s shutting down, pushing me away.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, already hating myself for what I’m about to do. I never wanted to force her story out of her, but I’m running out of options.
“You were yelling out in your sleep, Wildflower.”
She freezes, her spine going rigid.
I stand from the bed and close the distance, stopping a few feet away. “Who did you get away from, Wildflower?”
She turns, eyes hard, shooting daggers right through me, as her hands find her hips. “I was obviouslytalking about Luke,” she bites out, but I see the panic through her facade.
I cross my arms, biceps straining against the thin cotton, and shake my head. “Try again. I know the dream wasn’t about Luke. He scared you, but you handled it. You were ready to beat the shit out of him when I stopped you. Something else caused you to break. So, who was it about Lane? Who are you afraid of? Who puts that look in your eyes that I see sometimes?”
All of the walls I’ve worked so hard to knock down slam back into place, right before my eyes. Her glare hardens, her words a sharp bite. “I don't know what look you think you see, but I told you I was fine. Now, please leave.”
I remain unmoving, feet planted firmly against the hardwood floors. “I told you my dad treated me and my mom like shit. But what I didn’t tell you was that he used to beat us.”
Her eyes widen.
“It didn’t start until I was about six or seven. He was always domineering, treating my Mom and me as his possessions. He made all the money, so he was the king of the castle. He didn’t allow Mom to work. He said‘a woman's place is at home, taking care of their man and raising children.’” I pause, scrubbing a hand across my beard.
I hate talking about this shit, hate talking about him.
“He had always been a drinker, always going out with his coworkers after work to the local bars. He started staying out later, drinking more. Sometimes, not coming home until after my Mom had put me to bed at night.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat and continue. “He started getting angry over the smallest things. Yelling and breaking things. The first time he hit her was because his dinner was cold. Even though he had told her to have it on the table by seven and he was over two hours late.”
I take a hesitant step, now just a foot away. “It became a regular occurrence after that. If Mom accidentally burned dinner or forgot to put a shirt he needed in the wash. She protected me the best she could, but sometimes he’d come after me too.”
My hands flex at my sides, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms. “If my room was too messy or I woke him up from his hangover. It went on for years. We did everything we could to not piss him off. But, he always found a reason to be angry.”
Lane’s eyes are brim with tears, one of them escaping and tracing a slow path down her cheek.
“I was twelve when I pointed his shotgun at him and told him to leave.” I reach out, grabbing Lane’s hand, running my thumb gently over her knuckles, needing the connection. “I think someone used to hit you. Someone caused that look in your eyes. Caused you to put up walls.”
