Break My Heart (The Heart Series Book 2) (8 page)

In romance novels, the hero doesn’t leave the toilet seat up for the heroine to fall butt first into toilet water in the middle of the night. The heroine doesn’t have to ask the hero over and over, even under the threat of bodily harm, to put the goddamn toilet seat down, or so help her God, she’ll shoot him and dump the body in Lake Michigan.

And, the princesses in fairy tales don’t have to threaten to withhold sex from their prince to get him to load the dishwasher, pick up his dirty socks off the living room floor, stop drinking from the milk jug, or stop putting empty cereal boxes back in the pantry…among other things.

It took me almost the entire week to work through his boxes. The shit he was bringing over? Junk. Grade-A, one-hundred-percent junk.

Old ACUs, boots he never wears, old workout clothes, socks without matches, and MREs. Dozens of unused, expired, MREs. What was he getting ready for? Some apocalypse where he needed pre-packaged Army meals and old sweats? Is he planning to live his days out in the woods like a recluse? I mean, I always knew he hated to cook, would eat pizza for breakfast and cereal for dinner, but MREs?
Ugh
.

Oh, and if he thinks I’m doing his damn taxes again, he’s sadly mistaken. Even as busy as he is, he sent me a text last night telling me where he left his W-2s, complete with a selfie, grinning like an idiot with no shirt on, as a thank you.

I’m not doing his taxes, and I told him so. I’m serious this time.

I didn’t wait for him. I salvaged what I could, and tossed the rest. I’ll have to hear his bitching until I die, but I’m willing to risk it. I’m not having him use my guest room as some local storage rental.

Surprisingly, I found some sentimental items among a pile of important papers. He had pictures of us during our early days, pictures of us back in Afghanistan, and even a picture of us at Chris and Nelson’s wedding.

I bought some frames and hung a few of the photos around my apartment.

I finally finished last night. I reorganized the entire closet and drawers to accommodate the few clothing items that were usable, and four Rubbermaid bins now house the rest of the salvageable items from the dozen or so boxes.

And this morning, my appointment with Dr. Matthews is upon me.

She waves me in, and gestures for me to take a seat on the couch. Her trusty box of tissues sits next to the end table. I’ve been in this office almost fifteen times in the past three months; I haven’t pulled one of those damn tissues, not to even blow my nose, and it will stay that way.

She sits across from me, her pen and clipboard already in hand. She’s perfectly put together, as she always is: clothes pressed, nails faultlessly manicured, not an auburn hair out of place.

“How is the journaling going?” she asks.

“I’m writing.”

“And?”

I shrug. I don’t know what she wants to hear. “I thought you said I didn’t have to talk about what I write.”

“That’s correct, you don’t. But I would like to know how you feel about it.”

What
? About writing?

She must read the question on my face. “Do you feel it’s helping, writing, journaling?”

I think about it for a minute. I’ve written about how much I hate coming here, but I’ve also written about my “memories” of the time I was gone, about the fact that it was all in my psyche.

“I guess so.” Mental illness is something I can’t contemplate right now, so I’m back to short answers.

She’s going to tell on me. Teague warned me already, and if I don’t get my shit together, I’ll be on desk duty until I retire. Not to mention, I’m still dreaming about Will.

Fuck it.

“I’m dreaming about the past.”

“Tell me about that.” More scribbling.

Part of me hopes these dreams of the past are an elaborate coping mechanism to help me deal with trauma. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it, as long as it’s confidential.

“So, anything I tell you has to stay between the two of us, correct? Or are we just talking?”

She perks up, a satisfied smile gracing her perfectly painted lips. “Absolutely, complete confidence. Everything you say to me in this room is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality.”

I might regret it later, but for right now, I need to discuss these “memories” out loud, work through them. Otherwise, I’ll go insane. “Well, I do have these dreams…”

قلب

During the past couple of sessions, I’ve told Dr. Matthews about some of my dreams.

I’ve talked about 1944, about the farm, about seeing Will at my front door. I omitted Doc’s name because if she knew they were connected to family? She’d make me see her twice a day.

She finds them absolutely riveting. And the real people in them? According to Dr. Matthews, names I probably read at some point in my life—whether working some case or in the news—and they stayed buried deep within, manifesting through “dreams.”

Or what I really think: through some injury induced time-travel neurosis.

“There are some things we can actively do to help you sleep. Medication is an option. We could try a prescription sleep aid, and some others to help your mind rest as well.”

She knows I’ve been reluctant to medicate, but since I’ve opened up, she’s pushing her way in a little.

“Okay.” Not my favorite method, but better to have the prescription in case I need it.

Our time is up, so I take my leave and she walks me out of the office.

“We’ve made significant progress, Agent Harper. You’ve chosen to become active in your recovery. That’s key to getting you back on track.”

“Thanks. Until next time.” I nod her way.

I grab some more notebooks from the supply closet to take home. Better to rid that poison through ink onto paper, than to carry it around with me, eating me up inside bit by bit.

And tonight, I know what I’ll be journaling about.

I’ll be writing about how much I miss Tommy.

CHAPTER 8

Tommy

It’s been three weeks since her birthday. And nearly as long since I’ve seen her.

Driving away from the restaurant that night, I felt like a lowlife scum, leaving her alone with whatever was plaguing her—jealousy, insecurity, loneliness—and to make things worse, I never even made it back to her.

Since then, every time I told her I’d try to make it to her place, I’ve had to cancel. I’ve apologized every time, and Lil’s assured me it’s no big deal. She’s always happy to hear from me, says she’ll wait for me however long it takes.

I don’t know how long I can do this. I can’t lose her again.
Not again.

Those one hundred eighteen days she was gone were hell on Earth. That wasn’t living. That was penance for my sins. I can never go through that again. I won’t survive it.

Over the last few months, I had been busy laying the groundwork for this assignment. After getting some street cred with Marcus, they have welcomed me into their clique. I made some significant connections working undercover, going as far as getting employed by one of the biggest drug contacts here in Chicago—Raul Briggs. But it’s not enough. I’m about to go deep undercover, which means Tommy Colton doesn’t exist. I can’t carry any personal belongings; even having my personal cell is a huge risk, but it’s the only way I can still contact Lil so I’ll try to get away with it as long as I can.

I’ve spent part of my undercover work doing what I used to do best. Partying, clubbing, and screwing around—the last one only in the metaphorical sense. I guess Lil was right in that regard: there’s a bad boy deep inside Tommy Colton, and he’s none too glad to help out in this case.

Funny that we’re at The Mudd tonight. Last time I was here with Lil, I almost lost my senses and let my feelings for her carry me away. We were supposed to be working, and instead, I was in pure heaven: holding the girl of my dreams in my arms, touching her, inhaling her scent. It was as close and personal as I’d gotten with her in years. My head was a sea of lust, my love for her drowning in it.

Until reality slapped me in the face and reminded me why we were here: work.

Never in a million years would I have foreseen what was in store for me less than twenty-four hours later.
Pure hell.
A hell that continued into months. I came close to ending it all. She doesn’t know how close I really came. No one does.

Getting back into the game, I follow my mark. This latest mark gets around. I have to rely on Intel from Marcus in order to show up in the right place at the right time, only to run into her, make eye contact, and then ignore her. Deep down, I can tell she likes the challenge. So, I’ve waited. Marcus is becoming impatient. I told him to hold on; she’ll come eventually. They always do. Getting women was never a problem. Getting the woman I wanted, well, that was another story altogether.

قلب

Around midnight, I call it quits and head over to Lil’s. Lurking in some corner for a two-minute phone call while I’m working won’t cut it anymore.

Marcus isn’t happy, and I don’t give fuck. Tonight, all I could think about was Lil. How I haven’t seen her in eighteen days. How she looked at me the last time we saw each other, the way she smelled, the way she tasted. That night she beamed at my gift, yet she still doubted how much I love her.

I wish I could make her feel all that’s inside me, somehow make her understand that without her, there’s nothing. That without her,
I’m
nothing.

After finally reaching Lil’s building, I lean my tired frame against the wall as the elevator crawls up to her floor. All I want to do tonight is lie next to her, feel her around me.

I miss her so much it hurts.

The elevator doors squeak open, breaking the silence. Walking toward my place, I search my keyring for my key.

A blood-curdling scream rips at my calm like a jagged knife cutting through flesh…
Lil
.

I become pure instinct, hauling ass straight to Lil’s door.

Rushing in, I stop dead at the sight of a frazzled, unglued Lil rushing toward me, wearing one of my old t-shirts and fiddling with her iPhone.

“Lil?”

She jolts at the sound of her name, blinks up at me in confusion, and her expression morphs into realization as she registers I’m here.

“Tommy!” she screams, dropping the phone and running into my arms with such force she almost tackles me.

“What is it? What’s
wrong
?” I hold her, looking around the apartment. Did someone try to break in? “What happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her hands frantically search my chest. Her cheeks are wet with tears as she inspects my torso, intent on finding whatever she’s looking for and muttering incoherently. That’s when I take in her tortured expression.

“Lily?”

She’s shaking like a leaf. This is what terrifies me: my Lily unraveling, coming undone. Whatever it is, it’s pulling her further and further into a fucking abyss. Pain seizes my chest like a vise over the fear that I might not be able to reach her.

“Harper!” I grip her shoulders, and the stern bark of my voice gets through, snapping her back.

“I,
ah
, I had a nightmare…about you.” She’s panting, her voice breaking. She swallows thickly, her hands clutching my biceps. “It was so real….”

“Hey,” I try to get her to focus, “it was a nightmare. That’s all.”

She’s probably sleepwalking. PTSD isn’t a new thing for us. We’re familiar with the Army’s debriefing, counseling, and decompressing periods after returning to the world. She’s been through hell. Anyone experiencing half the shit she has would be in a padded room already.

But not Lil.

She bears the scars, carries it all with her, like a soldier carrying others who cannot go on.

“I know what I saw.” She tries for conviction, but her voice betrays her. She sounds so broken.

“Hey, whatever it was, it wasn’t real. I’m right here.” Grabbing her face, I make her meet my eyes. I wipe away leftover tears with the pads of my thumbs and smooth her hair back. “Come on, say it.
It was just a nightmare
,” I coax, attempting to piece her together, ease her pain.

After a few beats, she regulates her breathing.

“It was just a nightmare,” she says, tentative, but grants me a reassuring nod.

Good
. “That’s right. It was just a nightmare,” I whisper against her hair.

“It was…not real,” she says between sniffs, more assuredly, as she pulls back and stares up at me. Her lips curve up in a bittersweet smile, like she’s satisfied I’m here, and that I’m fine.

“That’s my girl.” My voice is raw, as if I swallowed gravel, and I choke on the lump in my throat.

She wipes that little upturned nose I love so much with the back of her hand and tries to put on a brave face for me. She’ll get there. Lil is the strongest person I know. It will take time, but she’ll get there at her own pace. In the meantime, I’ll do my part. I’ll just love her. It’s all I can do.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers with a hint of elation.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

She guides me to her dimly lit bedroom and once there, she peels her t-shirt off, eyeing me like I’m a prize she just won.

Aw, hell.

I slip my suit jacket off, and quickly undo my belt and pants. Before I can unbutton my shirt, she stops me.

“Wait. I need to touch you.” Desire pours from her as she opens my shirt, one button at a time.

All I can do is watch in awe.

This amazing, complex woman could have anyone she wanted, but she chose me. Welcomed me into her amazing world and gave me unrestricted access to her heart, her body, and her soul.

I thank my lucky stars that we were brought us together in this lifetime.

I take in her expression as she strips me naked. Her eyes devour my frame one morsel at a time, exploring every inch of me. Her hunger is palpable, and when she licks her lips at the sight of my erection? My cock twitches in approval.

She hooks her thumbs into her bikini underwear, shimmying them off until she’s completely naked, wearing nothing but my necklace. The caveman inside me cheers and pounds at his chest proudly.