Just One Moment (Just One Song #4) Page 8

Instead, he simply said he'd love to stay and that if I covered the beer, he'd cover the pizza. Splitting the costs seemed less date-like to me, so I agreed. Although I was paying for the pizza.

  My favorite pizza joint is this mom-and-pop shop two blocks away. They're so local that they only deliver within a four-block radius, because they want to be able to walk the pizzas where they need to go, thus having them arrive hot and fresh without the aid of heated carriers like most chain restaurants.

  They also cook their pizzas in fire-burning ovens, and the pizzas are so authentic that they don't come out in complete circles, but are a little rough around the edges. I love those last few crunchy pieces of the crust and would love the place alone just for those crunchy bits.

  While Lynx took care of Googling a beer delivery service after I requested a six-pack of Angry Orchard ale, I ducked into my bedroom to change into a pair of cutoff sweat shorts and an oversized T-shirt. It hangs off one shoulder, but the fabric is thick and soft. After our sexcapade, I'm craving comfort and not style.

  I've just closed the door on the pizza deliveryman. The beer arrived earlier, and Lynx is sitting on my gray couch wearing only the pair of jeans he showed up in, bare feet propped on my coffee table and the remote control firmly ensconced in his tight grip. Next to him on one of my glass IKEA end tables is his beer, free of a coaster. I almost cringe at the idea of the water spots that will gather on the glass, but don't say anything.

  I chose glass tables because cleaning up is easy even if something leaves a water ring.

  "Do you want a plate or do you want to eat it out of the box?" I ask as I turn and re-lock the front door to my apartment.

  Safety first. I've become so used to being a single female in the city that it's second nature to make sure all my locks are set, even when I have company.

  "I can eat on a plate," Lynx says, humor in his voice. "I'm not a Neanderthal."

  I open the cupboard and pull down two plastic plates before digging into a couple of boxes in my cupboard, pulling out two plastic forks and knives.

  Lynx lifts them up and frowns. "You only have plastic utensils?"

  "No." I shoot him a look. "But I don't like doing dishes unless necessary. Food that comes in cardboard boxes doesn't make silverware necessary."

  He laughs softly and shakes his head. "You might just very well be the most interesting chick I've ever met."

  I stick out my tongue at him before I flick open the tops of the boxes of pizza. I ordered Lynx a large meat supreme like he requested and the overwhelming smell of all that meat is irresistible.

  Almost makes me regret my Tuscano pizza—but not quite.

  Topped with prosciutto, arugula, and goat cheese, it's also covered with crushed red peppers and chunks of fresh garlic. It's spicy and delicious and so freaking good I could eat it every week.

  Which is what I normally do.

  My mouth begins to water.

  "What the hell is that?" Lynx asks, pointing at my pizza.

  When I look at him, he looks as if I’ve just told him I rip puppies apart limb from limb for the fun of it.

  I laugh. "What?"

  "Green stuff. On your pizza?" His aghast expression makes me laugh harder.

  I peel off a chunk of arugula and close my eyes, moaning as I chew it. "It's arugula, and so damn good." I hold out a slice of pizza. "Wanna try some?"

  "No way in fucking hell," he mutters, plopping four pieces of pizza onto his own plate. He grabs another beer from the fridge, and I follow him back into the living room where I take a seat on my couch at the opposite end from him.

  This isn't so bad, eating dinner with a guy you've just had sex with.

  Lynx and I have been quietly eating and watching some crime show and I’m halfway through my second slice when he asks, "How was your visit with your family?"

  I immediately tense, my piece of pizza freezing at my open mouth.

  Lynx rolls his eyes and wipes the side of his mouth with his thumb. "You know, with Kennedy and Grayson working things out, we will be around each other a lot, just like we did last week. We’ll eventually get to know one another. I'm not asking for State Secrets, Sarah. Just making conversation."

  I huff. "I know that."

  He responds by arching a thick, black brow and taking a swig from his beer. At no time does he lose eye contact with me. I can't tell if he's patiently waiting, or daring me to tell him.

  "I run a nonprofit back home. Had to go deal with quarterly staff meetings."

  His eyes pop open. "A nonprofit?"

  "Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of thinking of others," I quip. But damn it, I don't want to talk about this. Just the thought of opening up to someone makes my skin feel like it's shrinking.

  He leans forward, and I see him out of the corner of my eye.

  His brow arches and gets this curious look on his face. I know what's coming next.

  Questions.

  I hate them.

  Despise them.

  "What's it for?"

  So typical I almost roll my eyes. This is when I can fight or flee. Choose to be honest or brush it off. I'm not a do-gooder. I'm a party girl hiding her pain. Unfortunately, Lynx is also right. Kennedy and Grayson are already so close that she's practically living with him. The truth is bound to come out eventually.

  With a heavy sigh, I set my pizza down and sink back into the couch. I shift and tuck one foot under my other leg so I'm facing him.

  "It's for teens. I travel and speak at high schools, talking to students about the dangers of being distracted while driving."

  While I'm talking, Lynx's brows continue to arch. His eyes widen.

  I look away from his shock, knowing what he's thinking: This girl who has sex with guys for fun actually has a heart?

  I can predict his thoughts before he speaks them.

  But his question throws me when he asks, "Who did you endanger?"

  My head jerks back. My skin pulls tight.

  I stare at the television. I don't even like this show. Yet I stare at the pigtailed woman discussing what she just found under a microscope like my very life depends on her findings.

  I can't stop my veins from beginning to pump a little bit faster, and I reach for my drink to try to cool me down, but it doesn't work.

  The walls begin to feel like they're closing in on me and my breathing becomes ragged.

  I can't do this.

  Amazing how I can stand in a gymnasium or auditorium filled with thousands of teenagers and proclaim myself a murderer, but with Lynx in my small apartment...nothing comes.

  I jump from the couch and rush to the bathroom.

  Vaguely, I hear him call my name and I hear his footsteps following me.

  I slam the door to the bathroom and lock it, and then brace my hands on the small vanity.

  I blow out a breath, inhaling slowly and trying to count, but the numbers jumble together.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, I see the results of my freaking out: flushed skin, wild and feral eyes, pale lips. I splash cold water on my face, trying to cool down, when a knock hits the other side of the door.

  "Sarah? You okay?"

  I shake my head and stare down at the countertop. I'm not okay. I never will be. Nothing I do has fully absolved me yet, and if after seven years it hasn't, I doubt anything will.

  "Sarah?"

  Another three quick raps on the door force me to speak.

  My voice is gravelly. "Yeah. I'm good. Just give me a minute."

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I focus on the color blue. It's calming and peaceful and sometimes it helps me. Behind my closed eyelids, I imagine the ocean—something I've never seen in real life, but have always wanted to. I picture rolling waves, in and out as they lap against a sandy beach. The sounds, the birds chirping in the air, a morning sun just beginning to rise and color the sky with pinkish hues.

  With every slow breath, my pulse begins to slow until it feels more manageable.

  I'm calmer. />
  And now, completely embarrassed.

  "Way to go, moron," I scold myself, splashing cold water on my cheeks again. I wipe my face with the towel. "Way to scare the guy away."

  I shake my head and pull my blond hair back into a ponytail. Grabbing a band from the drawer, I throw it up into a messy ball on the top of my head, relishing the cool air that hits the back of my neck.

  I open the door, knowing I need to face Lynx, to either explain what just happened or ignore it in hopes he'll let it go.

  Perhaps he's already left.

  I don't know if that would be a bonus or a negative at this point.

  Relief hits me when he's not waiting for me outside the bathroom, but instead, I hear him in my small kitchen, fridge door slamming shut.

  I head that way, running my fingertips along my temples, and pause when I touch my scar.

  A small mark. Hidden. Yet it's still a vivid reminder.

  I scowl and drop my hand. "What are you doing?"

  "Making some warm milk," Lynx says, his back to me when I reach the kitchen.

  My eyes pop when I see him. He's standing in front of the stove, my small saucepan on the front burner, and he's stirring milk in it with a wooden spoon.

  He reaches over and sprinkles something into it.

  "What?"

  He looks at me over his shoulder, but I keep my eyes glued to the pan. And the way he's slowly stirring it.

  "Warm milk," he repeats. "Find it helps with the panic attacks."

  "It's not—" I immediately begin to defend, and then snap my mouth closed. There's no point in lying to the guy. "Thanks," I mutter and head further into my small kitchen. "That's nice of you."

  He nods his head and turns back to the stove. When he's focused on his task, I grab two coffee mugs from the cupboard just in case he wants one. Not that he needs it, but his response is telling.

  Perhaps I'm not the only one who has them.

  "Still get 'em, too, you know." Lynx's back tightens as he speaks, but he doesn't look at me. "Joined the army when I was just seventeen. Deployed at eighteen. There's shit that happens over there no teenager should ever see. Things that don't get forgotten just because we come back home."

  Still, I can't stop myself. "You ever kill anyone?" I ask through what feels like shards of glass in my throat.

  He's damaged like me. I haven't seen it before, but I should have noticed.

  No man knows the calming powers of warm milk unless he's had to be calmed by it.

  He turns the burner off and removes the now bubbling milk, looking at me over his shoulder.

  One thick eyebrow arches over deep, knowing, dark brown eyes. "Have you?"

  Two words.

  So simple.

  So complex.

  I taste bile in my throat even as I find myself nodding. There's no holding it back and there's no point. He'll find out eventually. Hell, if he wanted to find out on his own, all he would have to do is Google my name.

  "Do you know the singer Zack Walters?" I ask and he frowns.

  "Yeah."

  "His wife, Nicole?"

  A funny look dances across his eyes and I find myself rolling my own.

  She's beautiful in an innocent sort of way. I get it. Still...

  "I killed her first husband and her son."

  "What?" His expression is incredulous.

  I hand him a mug and watch as he fills it, a thick, weighted silence beginning to fall in the cramped space between us.

  I take a sip of the drink and close my eyes. Cinnamon and vanilla. That's what he added.

  It tastes delicious and soothing as it slides down my sore and dry throat.

  "I was sixteen. I was driving home from a day at the mall with a friend and was on this curvy road. I had checked and there weren't cars, but I was running late and..."

  I let my voice trail off.

  The understanding I see in Lynx’s eyes versus the immediate judgment or pity I normally see stuns me.

  "So, yeah." I wave a hand in the air and turn around, heading back to the living room.

  Lynx clatters around in the kitchen, the water turns on and off, and then he walks into the living room and takes a seat next to me.

  I stare into my steaming milk and grip the mug tighter.

  Next to me, Lynx takes a sip of his drink. "Three weeks after we showed up in Afghanistan, we were clearing out the rubble after bombs went through. That's what my unit was—we went in after the heavy ground fighting and finished clearing the abandoned buildings. Helped the innocent get to shelters and safe cities, and took care of the rest." He clears his throat. "Anyway, we're walking down this narrow alley, snipers on the roofs, we're all spread out..."

  I watch as his dark eyes haze over. A part of me wants to reach out to comfort him. I know regardless of where he is, he's seeing what he witnessed. Chills roll down my spine as I watch him distance himself, even though he hasn't moved a muscle.

  "A woman walks out, small little boy in her arm, propped on her hip. We thought she wanted help." His voice thickens.

  "Lynx, you don't have to."

  "Didn't kill her," he says, ignoring me. "Thank fucking God it wasn't me who had to pull that trigger, but as she got closer to us, she opened her coat and her entire torso was strapped with bombs. She wasn't upset about it, either. Played her role fucking perfectly and we allowed her to get within fifteen yards of us before we saw what was happening."

  "Oh my God," I whisper.

  He shakes his head and blinks heavily. "Sniper took her out before she could set the bomb but that shit...that image burns in your brain so you can still smell the scent of burning flesh and fresh blood mixed with the goddamn fucking sand of the desert. I can taste that shit at night, it's so ingrained in me."

  I reach out and press my hand to his thigh. He's tense. Hot to the touch.

  He snaps his head to mine and his gaze softens.

  “That wasn’t the worst of them, either—it was just the first. There were other days, other missions…” He pauses and I watch the muscles of his throat work while he swallows, clearly trying to maintain control. "We're both damaged in a way others don't understand, Sarah. Don't ever think you have to hide that shit from me."

  He reaches out and runs his finger down the side of my face. So gentle.

  So soft and tender.

  So at odds with his coiled muscles and veins popping on his arms.

  My heart clamps together and I jerk back.

  Then I make a split-second decision when he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. Just a ghost of a kiss, but I feel it burn down to my toes.

  Which tells me that whatever just happened here tonight is a bad idea. A very bad, horrible idea.

  "Lynx," I whisper when he pulls back.

  Amusement flashes in his eyes. "Yeah, honey."

  "I think we should end this…thing. I don't think this is just sex anymore, and that's what we agreed to. I don't want either of us to get hurt."

  He runs his lips down the column of my throat. "You sure?"

  Gah. I tremble beneath him. So good...so very, very good.

  "Yes. You need to leave. We're over."

  He chuckles throatily, his laughter vibrating against my overheated skin. "For tonight, maybe, but not for long. Way I see it, we're just getting started."

  He pulls back before I can protest and sets his mug down on the table in front of us.

  Without another word he walks down the hallway to my bedroom, and when he returns he’s fully dressed. He comes straight to me, presses his lips against my forehead, and whispers, “Good night, Sarah. I’ll see you soon.”

  My mouth hangs agape as he turns and strolls out of my apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LYNX

  I KILLED HER first husband and son.

  I scrub my hands across my cheeks and groan. Sitting up, I take in the large open space of my loft. I don't have to look outside to know it's not time for the sun
to rise, and I've barely gotten any sleep.

  I haven't been able to stop thinking of Sarah and last night.

  Leaving her alone was the last thing I wanted to do, but I'm smart enough to know she needed it.

  My dreams during the night were replaced with sounds of metal scratching on metal. The sounds of a man's screams and a child's cries.

  Not once did I dream about Afghanistan.

  I dreamed about how Sarah’s eyes dimmed when she admitted to killing people.

  I dreamed about tears streaming down her cheeks as her car crashed into another.

  I dreamed about her.

  I dreamed about wrapping her in my arms afterward, holding her close, and comforting her in a way she would have needed.

  And as I've tossed and turned, finally sitting up and declaring that sleep isn't going to come tonight, I've imagined myself being the one person who can understand what she's going through.

  What she's been dealing with almost as long as I have.

  We both carry scars from battle, even though it's a much different war.

  It explains why she refuses to get close to people.

  Fuck, I get it.

  I get her.

  It makes me want her more.

  While my nights with Sarah typically help vanquish the nightmares from my mind, nights without nightmares are no longer enough.

  I want to be free of them forever. Sarah might not be the only person who can help me…

  But she's a start.

  ***

  "Thanks for the help, Landon."

  I shift the bags in my arm and adjust the phone on my shoulder.

  Landon's voice is rough through the phone. "I'm just glad you're finally willing to give the guy a call."

  I close my eyes and sigh. Calling Landon this early on a Saturday morning to get the name and number of the therapist he's always told me to call wasn't easy.

  Admitting weakness never is.

  It's still necessary in this instance. I'm done being terrified of the night and the dark. It's time I finally get my shit together.

  "Listen, I gotta go," I tell him as I reach the doorway to Sarah's apartment building. "Got more shit to do today."

  Landon chuckles and I hear a female murmur something on the other end of the phone.