Shane (Damage Control 4)

“Then fuck him, too.”

His lips quirk, a smile barely there and gone. “Yeah.”

Okay, poor choice of words. What’s wrong with me today? Oh… caffeine. Lack thereof. How am I supposed to think without coffee running through my veins?

“Fact is,” I prop my jaw on my hand, and my elbow on his solid thigh to look up at him better, “this is bullshit. That was a shit therapist who told you those things. Men,” I poke a finger into his stomach, swoon a little at how hard his abs are, then realize I don’t know if it’s a trigger and pull my hand back. “Men are human, too. You are human, and can be hurt. As for making anything up…” I clench my hand into a fist. “Fu— I mean, to hell with the asshole therapist. He obviously has no frigging clue.”

I’m afraid to look at Shane’s face after my rant, but a quick glance shows that the faint smile is back—a little amused, a little pensive.

“So I’m human?” He asks this seriously, as if a lot depends on the answer.

“Definitely. And what do you know...” I lift a brow at him and trail my hand over his stomach, down to the bulge between his legs. “Definitely a man, too.”

The smile deepens, becomes less of a ghost and more of a real shape. Plus, he’s hardening under my palm.

Win. Because pleasurable distraction never hurts when about to plunge into the fires of hell, right?

I lick my lips and lower my head back on his legs, hiding a little behind my hair. “So… you slept with me last night. That didn’t trigger any nightmares or flashbacks?”

“No flashbacks,” he confirms, although he says nothing of nightmares.

Another question answered through silence.

“You always draw after a flashback or nightmare?”

A shrug. “Most of the time.”

“Does it help?”

A nod.

“Kissing alone doesn’t cause flashbacks?”

A shake of the head.

Okay, then. He’s withdrawing into himself, bracing for my questions. Let’s rip this Band-Aid off then and be done with it.

“What are the triggers?”

He reaches up in a now familiar gesture to tuck his long hair behind one ear. His hand shakes, a tiny tremor.

God, he’s brave. Playing pool with him and drinking beer all this time I never knew I was standing next to a fighter. A warrior, battling monsters every day and every night.

“Lying on my back,” he finally says, not looking at me, his gaze turned to the wall. “Lying on the floor. Something snagging in my hair, pulling. Someone pressing me to the wall.” He hesitates between each sentence, each word. He clenches his hand, his fingers digging into his palm—into the self-inflicted wound there. “The smell… the smell of old sweat, and bleach, and fucking cinnamon.”

His eyes dart to the corners of the room, and his breath stutters. When I lift my hand to his chest, he recoils.

“Dammit,” he hisses, his breathing harsh. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” He looks torn between walking off to smash something, and curling up in a dark corner, so I wrap my arms around him and keep him down.

Keep him together.

“You know some people get pets to help them when they have a hard time,” I whisper. “Like, emotional support animals. Dogs, mostly.”

“You want me to get a dog?” He sounds out of breath, and his hold on me is shaky.

“No, silly. Me.” I sigh. “I want you to keep me.”