None of that was the issue. She’d been hilarious when she’d told me she’d given up “self-love” as she called it. Her forehead had been adorably crunched when she said she’d given it up because she was so bad at it she was more frustrated after she tried than she was to begin with.
Throughout the commentary of her misadventures in masturbation, I managed to keep my cock in control—more or less. That didn’t mean as she told her stories I wasn’t sporting an erection, but I’d done what I’d promised and kept it far, far away from her.
It wasn’t until I was driving her home that the night took a sharp turn from fun to bad.
Five minutes after I put her in her car and she gave me her address she passed out. Ten minutes after that she jolted in her seat and scared the shit out of me when she started screaming. It got to the point where I had to pull over and get her out of the car to calm her. I got her settled back in the car and home. I carried her in and got her into bed without her waking up. While I was deciding what to do, she woke up again, this time crying and talking.
Nothing she said made sense. Someone had died and she felt it was her fault. That was all I knew. After the second nightmare, I couldn’t leave her drunk and alone in case it happened again. I hadn’t slept on her couch. I sat next to her in bed and watched over her.
I knew Shiloh Kent well enough to know she would not be happy I’d witnessed her nightmares.
And there was my dilemma.
Lie and tell her I stayed because I didn’t want to leave her alone while she was drunk or tell her the truth?
Fuck.
I hated liars.
I made it a point to tell the truth.
I couldn’t withhold what I knew even if in my gut I knew it was going to upset her and she’d likely tell me to leave.
“Last night you asked about the scars on my face. I know you don’t remember asking nor do you remember my answer.”
“Why aren’t you—”
“I was in Lebanon on a mission. We were tracking a bomb maker. He had an S vest strapped on and detonated it. The senior officer had given me a move-out order and I didn’t listen. I was caught in the explosion. That’s what fucked up my vision. That’s why I med boarded out of the Navy. Trey got it worse. I know you’ve seen him—he had a face full of scars. He blamed himself for not moving and taking me with him. And I blamed myself for the same. Trey almost lost his leg and according to Uncle Sam, I lost my ability to be behind a spotting scope. We were flown to Germany and for weeks I had nightmares—”
“Luke—”
I spoke over the panic in her voice. “At one point they were so bad my hands were strapped to the bed so I couldn’t tear the bandages from my eye.”
“Luke—”
Fucking hell, more panic.
“By the time I left Germany and got home they’d calmed but I still had them. Last night I didn’t tell you why I hadn’t had a woman in my bed since I left the Navy. Part of the reason is that I didn’t want anyone to see me vulnerable. The other part is because I was so fucking pissed I hated pretty much everything. Until I saw Trey drowning under an ocean of guilt that was not his to carry did I finally pull my head out of my ass and straighten myself out. I still have nightmares. Not frequently, but every once in a while I wake up in a cold sweat and it takes hours to shake the memory. It’s so real I can taste the grit in my mouth. I can smell the rubber burning. I can hear Trey groaning. I remember every single second. Every detail, and I can play them back in slow motion and in hindsight see the exact moment I fucked up.”
“You know,” she whispered.
“I know, babe.”
“I had one and you saw.”
It would do no good telling her I’d seen two and the severity of the first.
“I did.”
Shiloh turned her head away from me, brought her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her shins. I didn’t like what the protective ball conveyed. I didn’t like she felt the need to hide from me. But I seriously fucking hated the look in her eyes before she’d diverted her gaze.
“Shiloh—”
“I think you should leave.”
There it was. The brush-off I knew was coming. And even knowing she was going to do it I wasn’t prepared for the piercing pain in my chest. This was the shit I wanted to avoid. This was why I’d kept to myself. There were many things I excelled at; feelings and drama were not on that list.
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“I heard you, babe, but I wanna know why,” I pushed.
Shiloh pivoted her head to look at me but didn’t lift her chin off her knees, didn’t come out of her protective ball, but at least her eyes no longer looked devastated. Those blue eyes were flashing anger.
“I’d like you to leave.”
“Didn’t take you as the type,” I said as I stood, unsure why I felt I needed to make a point.
But I couldn’t bring myself to leave quietly.
“Takes guts to face your shit head-on. To let people in who can help you sort your head. You think you’re strong, sitting there suffering in silence, not opening up, not being truthful. That by doing it you’re proving you’re strong. Proving you’re tough and got your shit wired tight. But you’re wrong, Shiloh. It’s weak. It’s you being too afraid to open up—to share the pain.
“Thought you were a different kind of woman. Thought you had guts. Thought you were who you showed me at the range and at the bar. Then when I had you in my arms, shaking so goddamn bad I had to go to my ass on the side of the road so I didn’t drop you, I thought there was something there. Something that could be deep and rich and lead to a friendship—”
“Is that what you want, Luke?” she cut me off and stood. “You wanna be friends? You wanna poke around in my head and help me? Poor Sunny, right? Can’t handle her job. Too much of a pussy, she has nightmares.”
I studied the woman in front of me. Night and day. Sunshine and beauty. Darkness and pain. Then something nasty hit me.
“Those men give you shit?”
“What?”
“You made a point to emphasize her and she. Called yourself a pussy for having nightmares. So, I’ll repeat, any of the men you work with give you shit about being a woman? Your brothers give you grief about being a cop?”
Shiloh’s torso jerked then her spine snapped straight.
“No.”
“None of them? Your captain? Any members of your team give you pause, make comments, treat you differently? Your brothers ever make you feel like you can’t do your job because you’re a woman?”
“My brothers?”
“Answer me, Shiloh. Any of those fuckers you work with ever make a goddamn nasty comment to you because you’re a woman on a SWAT team?”
“No!” she shouted.
Some of the tension ebbed. I’d spent enough years in the military to witness punk-ass bitches make snide comments to females. There was good-natured ribbing we all did to our teammates then there was flat-out wrong. Bullshit remarks that in my opinion earned a man a punch to the face, and since it was my opinion, I’d delivered a fair few beatdowns in my time. There was never a time or a place for that shit but when you rely on your battle buddy to have your back that shit is wrong on a whole new level.