He laughed the deep laugh I loved to hear and leapt out of my reach. “I am afraid I did, baby, now move that spectacular American ass of yours down to the kitchen so we can feed you.”
“Payback’s gonna be fun for me,” I said, looking back over my shoulder and narrowing my eyes.
“Promise?” he said at my ear. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh…I don’t know. Maybe something…like this—” I spun around and grabbed his crotch, finding my target easily, giving a little squeeze to his prized possessions. “A tug on your balls for a slap to my ass sounds about fair.”
The look on his face was priceless. And the very surprised open mouth.
“I have you by the balls, Blackstone,” I reminded him.
He laughed and leaned down to kiss me. “This is not new information to me, my beauty.”
“IT’S a surprise, I told you. You have to trust me.” I led her along carefully, a silk scarf over her eyes serving as a blindfold. “I want to show you before everyone begins swarming down upon us for your Thanksgiving.”
My girl had decided that she wanted to do a Thanksgiving dinner at our place and invite everyone to join in the US holiday we didn’t officially celebrate in England, but with such strong influence from our American friends across the pond, was certainly gaining momentum in the UK. Brynne wanted a nice house party to serve as a housewarming of sorts, so we were hosting—and would be circled in another half day. My dad and Marie were traveling up together, as were Neil and Elaina. Fred, Hannah and the kids of course, plus Clarkson and Gabrielle. We’d have a house crammed with guests and I would have to share my girl with everyone else for a few days.
I never wanted to share her.
She sniffed the air. “I smell cloves so we must be near your office?”
No more smokes in the house.
I was back to my once-a-day habit after my slip the night of the Senator’s—cocksucking bloody serpent—ultimatum. Make that, Vice-President of the United States of America. Or he would be come January, once the new president was installed in the White House. Colt-Oakley had indeed won the US election earlier in the month by a sweeping margin. Having a hideously wounded soldier for a son was a helluva way to stir patriotism and win votes. And apparently, it was inconsequential if the same son abused young girls with his friends at parties, and made videos of it happening. The landslide was no surprise for any of us.
Brynne seemed resigned to putting her past behind her for good, and for that I was very grateful. She didn’t offer much about Oakley, nor of their meeting, to me. She had said she’d felt less troubled by the visit than expected, but I hoped she’d worked through it with Dr. Roswell, because I couldn’t bear the idea of her suffering anymore because of his problems. That hospital visit was hard enough on me, so I couldn’t imagine how she felt having to see him, speak to him…and touch him. I closed my eyes and shoved the thoughts of Lance Oakley down and away. I breathed in my girl’s intoxicating scent in front of me and focused on what I wanted to show her instead.
“You are relentless right now. I forget sometimes just how competitive you are.” Which was straight-up truth. Brynne was a scrapper at her core. A girl who went in with her fists up—ready to deal a blow, or take a hit on the chin. I loved it, and thought it made her just that much hotter. “And I think it’s fucking hot, baby.”
She laughed softly at my last comment, the sexy sound of her making my cock bone hard and my mind race with possibilities.
“All right, we’re here,” I said at her ear, positioning her body exactly how I wanted so the view would be the best it could be when she saw the surprise. “And I think you should know that I’ve been waiting for this for six months. Six long months I’ve thought about this moment,” I said dramatically.
“That is a long time, Ethan, I agree with you. Kinda feels like I’ve been waiting six months to get this blindfold off.”
I tapped her lips with a finger, and then traced around them slowly. “Such a smart mouth, baby, and I have busy plans for it later…but right now I want you to see the surprise, so I suppose I’ll take this blindfold off you now.” I began unknotting the scarf as her breathing picked up the pace. My words had turned her on. “This silk scarf is sexy as hell on you, by the way. I think I should remember to use it again sometime,” I whispered at her neck.
“Mmmm,” she moaned very softly. Just a low breathy sound that told me a lot about her true feelings regarding the blindfold. I wouldn’t forget.
“Your surprise,” I said, pulling the scarf away.
She blinked up at the portrait of herself, silently observing. I wondered if she saw it as I did. The mile-long legs pointing straight up with crossed ankles, the arm shielding her breasts, the strategically splayed fingers between her legs, hair spread out on the floor to the side.
The same image Tom Bennett had sent along in an email to me, when he asked for my help in keeping his daughter safe. The captivating photograph of her I’d seen in the gallery the night I met her, and bought on impulse, not knowing the gallery required six months of display before they would release it me. The portrait of my beautiful American girl—now in my sole possession.
Utterly breathtaking.
“You finally have it.” Her voice was low and soft as she studied the huge canvas taking up the dominant wall in my office study at Stonewell.
“I do indeed.”
“Having this picture of me really means a great deal to you, Ethan.” She leaned her body into mine as we both looked at the image.
“Oh, yes it does.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, this image was the first part of you my eyes ever looked upon. I saw this picture and knew I had to have it. It was just a defining moment I can’t really explain properly, but one I understand perfectly.”
I rubbed up and down her arms slowly, dropping my lips down to the base of her neck. I flicked my tongue out for a taste of her skin, loving how she tilted and exposed her neck for me. So generous all the time, she never ceased to amaze me.
“I had never met a collector before that night I met you,” she said wistfully. “The idea that you’d bought my portrait, and then were meeting me in person…was a very defining moment for me, too. That night—you standing there in your dark grey suit—the way you looked at me from across the room—was something I will never forget as long as I live.”
Her words shot straight to the center of me. “I couldn’t forget that moment even if I tried, Brynne. It’s seared into my memory.”
“Why, Ethan?”
“Come here.” I turned her so I could look into those beautiful brown-green-grey eyes of hers and rubbed my thumbs over her cheekbones. “I couldn’t forget you that night because when I saw you in person for the first time…it was the moment I came alive again.”
Her eyes got the glassy look in them. When she feels a great deal of emotion I see it in her, so I knew my words were something meaningful to her. They were true. Seeing Brynne that first time…brought me back to life somehow, some way, and none of it was planned or expected. It just happened that way.
“It’s true. You made me want to live, at a time when I knew I’d never really thought about, or cared much about, what the future held,” I repeated.
“I love you, Ethan.”
“I love you more, my beauty.”
Her expression changed from emotion to something else. Something just as wonderful in my opinion—a sultry, I-want-you look.
“So, you said something about plans to keep my mouth busy,” she hummed in a low voice, her eyes darkening as the lids lowered slightly.
“Are you offering, baby?” I managed to ask without my voice cracking too badly.
She dropped to her knees on the thick Oriental carpet beneath us, and gave me the most excellent response. With her equally excellent and very busy mouth.
“BRYNNE, my darling, you are to be congratulated for an outstanding meal. To Thanksgiving,” my dad toasted enthusiastically
with his glass of wine, “which I say is a lovely idea that I think we should repeat every year. Make it a tradition for this family.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Jonathan,” Marie began. “Yes, my sweet Brynne, it was so lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed an American Thanksgiving meal as you’ve prepared it with the yams and the cranberry sauce. Fetches back some really happy memories for me. I am so glad you decided to bring Thanksgiving to us, and I would love to make it our new tradition, as Jonathan said.” She glanced over at my dad with a look of total devotion.
I knew Brynne’s great aunt was half American by birth, but had spent all of her adult life in England. Marie had also caught the eye of my father. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on between the two of them, but I had a pretty good idea. I’d know after tonight for sure, depending on what rooms they used or didn’t use for sleeping.
Everyone went ’round the table in turn, giving their toasts and acknowledging my girl for her efforts, as they should. Even Zara gave her sincere appreciation for the pumpkin pie, which reminded her a bit of gingerbread but much “squishier.”
Brynne thanked them all for coming to share it with us, blushing under their praise, so graceful and humble. She was an accomplished cook, but this I already knew. She had been cooking for me as soon as we’d gotten together and I just chalked it up to my tremendous capacity for luck in getting a girl who was good at everything she did.
There were two areas of my life when I’d been blessed with luck. One of them was at cards—for a time—until I left it behind me. The other was in finding her. And that gift was for forever—until I drew my last breath.
“I have a toast,” I said, raising my glass. Looking at all the faces of my family and our friends who’d come to be with us, and share in a celebration of thanks together, it all felt very fitting.
I realized thankfulness was my truth for the first time.
“To my beautiful American girl, for reminding us all to be thankful.” I put my eyes solely on her. “But mostly me…because she’s helped me to see all of the blessings in my life I didn’t notice before. She’s the reason I have anything at all to be thankful for.” I spoke the truth out loud for everyone to hear. “She is my thanksgiving.”
Part Three
WINTER
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt
Mumford & Sons ~Winter Winds
CHAPTER 13
13th December
London
I texted Ethan and wondered if he’d make it before my name was called by Dr. Burnsley’s receptionist. It wasn’t like him to miss a prenatal check-up. In truth, Ethan was probably more into all the details than me. He spent more time on the website and reading the book than I did, for sure. He was always telling me little snippets and factoids he learned from his research, about how our baby was doing and the developmental stages. I teased him relentlessly about being a super nerd who knew “everything about birthin’ babies”—to quote Prissy from Gone With the Wind—and as long as he was the expert he could just give me all the info, saving me the work of looking it up on my own.
Jokes aside, it really wasn’t like him to forget to message me, or call. I tried once more with a text. Is there a problem? Where r u?
I wondered if he would still meet me for lunch. We had a little routine after seeing Dr. Burnsley—lunch somewhere in the city, before he had to return to his office, which was keeping him busier than ever. He’d be leaving for the XT Winter Europe Games on an important assignment for the King of Something-burg right after New Year’s. Ethan didn’t seem thrilled about the job of babysitting a royal crown prince at an international sporting event, but when the king asked for him personally, I think he pretty much had no choice but to say yes. I couldn’t go with him to Switzerland anyway, because flying in the final trimester was a no-go. I’d be here on my own, but it was only for a week. I planned to use the time to get the final touches on the nursery finished up. Make that, nurseries—plural. I had two homes to get prepared by the end of February.
I decided I would go shopping once I was finished here, with or without Ethan. Originally, I’d thought that it would be a good day to get some Christmas shopping done. Only twelve days left to pull it all together, and the presents wouldn’t wrap themselves.
“Brynne Blackstone.” The nurse ticked something off on her chart, and held the door open for me. “Go ahead and leave a urine sample and then I’ll take your weight.” She smiled sweetly, probably to counter the stink eye she usually got from pregnant women who desperately needed to do the first task, as much as they dreaded having to do the second one.
Fun times.
REPLAYING the statistics Dr. Wilson has just rattled off to me didn’t really inspire a great deal of optimism for my future. One in five firefighters; one in three teenage survivors of car crashes; one in two female rape victims; two in three prisoners of war. Especially the last two items on that wretched list. What in the fuck did that say about Brynne and me? PTSD sufferers. Damaged souls who had somehow fallen into each other’s lives by a twist of fate. Brynne was owning up to her demons, and worked with Dr. Roswell to find a way to cope with what had happened to her. She amazed me with her strength—very British in her methodology—just like the WWII poster the doc had plastered above his desk: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. Brave and beautiful was my girl. Straight-up truth.
Was there some hope for me, too? I wanted there to be. Now, I craved to find a way to be free of the fucking curse that had woven itself into the darkest caverns of my psyche. I needed relief so badly.
I needed it so I could be the husband and father I had to be for Brynne, and for our little one.
“So, I’m listening.” I gave the doc my focus and thought about why I was here with Combat Stress Psychiatrist, Gavin Wilson, at his nondescript office in Surrey, discussing the merits of a course of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“The goal is not to force you to dwell on events in your past, but to gain insight into your emotional state of mind at present. This is not a "lie on the couch and tell all" type of therapy, Ethan.”
Thank fuck-all for that. I took in a slow breath and felt relief at what he’d just told me. Talking terrified me. If I spoke of it, I’d go numb, freezing back in time to that place, hearing those voices, smelling the piss, and puke, and shit, feeling the cold, seeing the knife and the …rivers of blood. I’d only told Brynne a fraction of the worst part, because I’d felt so strongly that she deserved to know what I carried around, but it pained me terribly to share all of the ugliness with her. The shit was too dark, too horrible, just too fucking much for her to have to be burdened with.
“That’s good then, I think. So, how does the programme work for somebody like me?” I asked.
“CBT tends to deal with the here and now—over the events during your service in the BA that led to why you’re sitting here talking to me.”
“My wife…she’s had a traumatic event in her past, too. I worry that if I give into this—fuck, I don’t even know what to call it—my worst flashback memory, then I won’t be strong enough for her when she needs my support. We’re expecting our first child at the end of February…” I trailed off, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetically weak, but figured I should be honest with the doc.
“Congratulations to you both.” He wrote something down on a legal pad. “Is your wife in therapy?”
I nodded. “For over four years. She tells me she can’t imagine not having her doctor visits.”
“And you support your wife in seeking treatment and help through psychiatric therapy?” Dr. Wilson asked. I had an idea of where he was going with his line of questioning.
“Of course I support her. It helps her and that’s most important.”
His mouth turned up on one side
. “I am sure your wife wants you to have the same level of support that she has, Ethan. But the decision will have to be yours, of course.”
I know she does. “So what will we do when I come here?”
“CBT recognizes that events in your past have shaped the way you currently think and behave. In particular, for you, from what you have told me, is, delayed-onset PTSD. We’ll explore what is bringing your flashbacks to the forefront more intensively now versus immediately after the event.” I know why. “And even so, CBT does not dwell on the past, we’ll aim toward finding solutions of how to change your current thoughts and behaviours so that you can function better now, and in the future. It’s the emotional processing of your past, rather than simply reliving it, which is key.”
I nodded and absorbed his explanation. I felt ambivalent, not particularly optimistic this would work on me, but in no way critical either. I liked the doc. I especially liked his non-bullshit way of explaining things. He didn’t promise a miracle. Because there won’t be one coming to you. My miracle had been used up over seven years ago…on the twenty-second day. I knew that. I accepted the gift as I’d received it. Dr. Gavin Wilson had served in the same army as me. He was a comrade in arms of sorts. If anyone could help me, it was probably going to be someone like him.
We got down to the nuts and bolts of things and by the end of our time, I was feeling somewhat lighter about my decision. I was given a bit of homework to do as well.
CHECKING my watch as I hurried out of the building, I knew I had at least an hour of travel time ahead of me in order to make it all the way across town to meet Brynne at Dr. B’s. Highly doubtful I could manage it. I patted my pocket for my mobile, and remembered I didn’t have it on me. I’d been so distracted about my first visit to the Combat Stress Centre, I’d left it somewhere. Bloody shitting hell. This was precisely the sort of crap I did not need right now—my number-one worry. Distraction. The motherfucking worst thing in my line of work. I absolutely could not allow for distractions, or I wouldn’t be able to function at my job. Impossible. All of this dredging up of phantom memories was fucking with my day-to-day routine. I should have my mobile on me right now so I could contact Brynne. I needed let her know I’d be late, or she would worry.