Baden (Pittsburgh Titans 1)

Baden graces me with an understanding smile. “Would you like to hear how my last seven months have gone?”

I nod.

“Good. Because I want to hear the same from you.”

CHAPTER 6

Baden

I don’t remember a lot about Sophie Winters, and what I do remember is wrapped in negativity, so I try not to think about it. The first time I saw her came after I heard her scream, and it was so bloodcurdling, I knew something major was wrong. She was at the far end of a dark parking lot, on the ground between a curb edge and a large pickup truck. Two of three men then hauled her up while the third went through her purse.

Sophie came to visit me at the hospital not long after my attack, and while the visit was short, she stood right beside my bed. But it wasn’t until she opened the door just moments ago that I realized she had blond hair, a detail that hadn’t stuck with me.

I don’t remember it being that color of butterscotch, or being long and curly. I don’t remember her green eyes or the freckles over the bridge of her nose.

I certainly have no recollection that Sophie Winters is gorgeous. It wasn’t important back then, and truly… it shouldn’t be important now, just merely an observation.

No matter what, though, I’m absolutely not surprised to find her a hot mess. Detective Gilmore told me she was suffering from PTSD, although he didn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t need to. I remember the look on her face that night. As I was taking in the scene, I knew those men wanted more than her purse. What I didn’t know was if they were contemplating rape, or would their evening have ended with her murder?

Not knowing is what prompted me to act. I caught the men by surprise by jumping into the fray, elbowing one of the dudes and somehow pulling Sophie free. I actually flung her away, and I remember her stumbling across the parking lot a few feet before righting herself.

Her eyes met mine, and they were so inundated with fear, my stomach rolled violently.

I yelled at her to run, and she did.

Thank God.

I once admitted to Riggs that sometimes I regret my actions, but the feeling never stays long. Now that I’m looking at this woman, and I can see she’s still deeply affected, I no longer have a single regret. Better her to be alive and traumatized than very, very dead.

Also better for her to be alive and me paralyzed than very, very dead.

“You’re surprised to see me walking,” I say, initiating the conversation on a light note.

It doesn’t work, and her eyes cloud over with pain and guilt.

Scooting forward to the edge of the chair, I lean slightly forward, fixing my eyes on her. “I’m fine, Sophie.”

Her eyes drop to my legs and then move back up slowly. “How fine?”

I grin and settle back in the chair, lifting my ankle and propping it on my knee, a deliberate attempt to show her a normal move. “My doctors call me a fucking miracle. But honestly, they’re the miracle workers. I just busted my ass to get strong again.”

“How strong?” she asks in a low whisper.

“Very strong,” I say, playing up my recovery a bit. She clearly needs the reassurance.

Some of the tension eases from her shoulders, but her gaze drops. “I’m really sorry I didn’t keep up with you.”

“I didn’t give you any reason to,” I say. Her head snaps up, expression filled with surprise. “You came to visit me, and I was an asshole. I didn’t talk, and it was awkward. When you left, I knew I’d probably never hear from you again, and that was my fault.”

“No,” she exclaims, straightening against the cushion. She shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not on you. You were the one seriously injured. You’re the one who saved me from certain…”

She trails off, and I don’t blame her for not being able to use words like rape and death.

“I owed it to you to be more aware of your recovery,” she murmurs, gaze once again falling away from me.

“You owed me nothing,” I assure her.

“I owe you everything,” she counters.

Sophie then puts her face into the palms of her hands and weeps.

I have no experience with this. Not sure I’ve even been around a crying woman other than my mother when she first saw me in the hospital after I came out of surgery. All my relationships—though there haven’t been many—have been too casual for tears.

It’s instinct that has me moving to the couch. I sit beside Sophie, and she doesn’t shrink away when I put my arm around her shoulders.

She doesn’t lean into me either, but rather keeps a stiff posture while she cries.

When she starts to settle, I tell her the only thing I know to be true. “You have to learn to let that stuff go, Sophie.”