Page 69 of First Time

Chapter 27

Daniel

The man who had shot Stephen was an FBI agent headed to his Boston office. Had it not been for him being late that morning, I would have been the one hauled off in a black bag rather than Becky’s ex.

Stephen had been hurt badly when his car rolled, his body half-out of the driver's window, leg pinned beneath metal and plastic. Blood had covered his head, filled his mouth so his teeth stained crimson when he’d pulled his gun on me and promised to watch me bleed out.

I’d seen the agent approaching in my periphery and watched him round the backside of Stephen’s car. I’d managed to keep Stephen talking rather than taking me out by stating that Becky was his—always would be. She missed him. Wanted to spend the rest of her life submitting to him.

A pile of fucking lies, but it was what the bastard had needed to hear at that moment so he wouldn’t pull the goddamn trigger.

The officer had made a scuffling noise behind Stephen before hollering for him to drop his gun.

Dual shots had rung out, and fire had ripped over my shoulder, spinning me around and to the ground.

Teeth gritted, I’d stayed put until Becky called out to me, her voice ragged. Overwhelmed by emotion. On the edge of losing her shit.

A glance was all it had taken for me to know Stephen wouldn’t look her way again.

I’d gone to her. Held her. Assured her I would be fine—which I was.

Stephen’s bullet had only grazed my left shoulder, enough to bleed but not require stitches. I was patched up by an EMT onsite, refusing to go to the hospital.

Traffic had backed up for miles behind us, and I’d never been so thankful for life. The ability to fill my lungs. Luck allowing no other vehicle to be involved in Stephen’s rage and eventual wreck. Becky clinging to me for days afterward, refusing to leave my side, her hands greedy, her body insatiable with need.

No matter my physical assurance of health, desire for her, or the love I lavished on her, she rode an edge of anxiety, refusing to find release. She’d emptied her well of tears, but something held her mind prisoner. She slept well. Ate whatever I put in front of her and then some. But she took no pleasure from our interactions.

Chantelle visited, and I gave the two women space, heading over to Micah’s Sunday afternoon for the Sox game.

Only Jarod joined us, and I sucked down two beers while filling them both in on what had happened.

“How’s Becky doing?” Jarod asked, his dark eyes intense and knowing. He’d faced death with Christine and had probably experienced similar PTSD or whatever it was that haunted Becky about the terrifying afternoon of Stephen’s death.

“She’s going through the motions but isn’t living,” I replied. “Not really. Won’t discuss what happened—in their torn apart house or anything after that morning we left it behind for good. It’s like she’s shut herself down.”

And I felt powerless to help bring her back to life.

“Give her some time,” Micah suggested. “She’s been through some serious shit. I can’t imagine she’ll be ready to move on from that sort of trauma like the flip of a light switch.”

“Maybe take her to see a therapist?” Jarod said, shifting forward on the couch to rest his elbows on his knees while he angled to face me. “Christine and I have been seeing someone once a month, both by ourselves and as a couple. I’ll be honest—I always thought shrinks were for the weak, but I’ve learned better ways of thinking. Communicating. How to allow my emotions their place. I’m telling you, it’s so damn worth it.”

I contemplated Jarod’s words, having already considered suggesting a therapist once Becky settled a bit. But maybe waiting wasn’t the answer. Perhaps she needed a figurative slap to the face. But what? And how? Real talk hadn’t accomplished shit. Asking her to share her thoughts and feelings with me earned me nothing but a dismissive smile and an I’m fine.

“Set her free.”

My head jerked toward Micah, a scowl denting my forehead. “No fucking way.”

He barked a laugh, his blue eyes twinkling. “Not like that you fuckhead—string her ass up. Take her out of her mind and send her soaring. Isn’t that what you do with your ropes? Same as I do when inflicting desired pain?”

“Fuck.” I slumped back on his couch, scrubbing a hand down over my face. Could it be that simple? Asking her to submit to me, entice her to trust me with her body, her mind? She fell so easily those first two times…

The more I considered it, the more I realized I’d had the power to break through her block all along.

I hopped up, drawing both men’s gazes. “Gotta go.”

Neither questioned me as I spun on my heel and headed toward the entryway.

“Good luck!” Micah called out.

---