Some Day Somebody (46 page)

***

He watched her undress from the comfort of his spot, regretting the all-too-soon end of the free peep show. He mourned the loss as she covered her long legs with denim. But he’d damn near groaned aloud when those full, pale breasts disappeared from his sight. He smiled, thinking of the Special Forces slogan, tattooed across his shoulders...so fitting in this situation.
De
Oppresso
Liber
...
To Liberate the Oppressed.
His mouth watered at the thought of liberating that pair of thirty-six D’s.

This situation was tricky, but as any adrenaline junkie would admit, the bigger the risk, the higher the pleasure factor. Besides...that dog of hers had wounded his Green Beret pride. Before the night was over, he’d even up the score with that shaggy mutt.

***

When Carrie rejoined the others in the living room, Sam watched her try to shake off her obvious uneasiness. He saw her send Nick a look of apology.

“Sorry about this, buddy.”

The teenager shrugged. “It’s not a problem.”

She pointed to a bedroom door. “Somebody can stay in there since the girls both fell asleep in Gretchen’s room.”

Nick shook his head and laughed. “After griping about how they had to share a bedroom all those years?”

“That’s my girls,” Carrie said, trying to smile as she gave his shoulder a gentle pat.

Sam recognized her effort for what it was...effort without success. The smile hadn’t reached her eyes, but he loved her more for trying.

He stepped up and spoke quietly to his son. “Nick, you go ahead and take the bed. I’ll be on the sofa.”

Nick nodded, and lifted his hand. “Good night, everybody,” he said, as he disappeared into the room and closed the door behind him.

“I’m going on home too,” Doug told them.

Sam handed him one of the two way radios. “Carrie has one here, so you hang on to mine. Batteries are fresh so it’s good for the night.”

Doug stepped through the door with the radio. “Y’all stay safe.”

Sam locked the door behind him and faced Carrie, who stood, attempting to ease her tense shoulders and neck by rotating her head in a slow circle. He walked behind her and began to massage her neck. After a few minutes of thorough manipulating, he wrapped his arms around her from behind and held on tight. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He turned her around, saw tension and fear reflected in her face, and began to massage her tight shoulders. “Try to relax.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.”

It wasn’t the words, but her tone that worried him. Tight and hard...no trace of the freedom she’d worked so hard for. She’d always had to be the one left standing.
Not this time,
dammit
.

“Let go, Carrie,” he murmured softly into her ear.

“What?”

He leaned forward to search her eyes beneath the furrowed brow...eyes shadowed with concern. “I said let go, let me worry about it for awhile. Let go.”

One stubborn shake of her head had him repeating himself. “Go ahead, I’m here. Just this once, let somebody else do the worrying for you.”

At the first sign of tears, she covered her mouth with one shaking hand. “Come on,” he said, giving her shoulders a gentle shake. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Another forceful shake of her head, and she turned to face the wall.

He placed both hands gently on either side of her shoulders and turned her so she faced him again. Felt the steel grip of her hands on his wrists, and watched her squeeze her eyes shut in denial. “I’m here, Baby. I’ll always be.”

As Sam crooned words of comfort to her, he knew the tears came ever closer. One quiet sob escaped, then another. She finally dropped her forehead onto his chest and let her emotions spill out like water over an overflowing levee, first a trickle, then gaining speed and strength with the rush of emotions.

Sam held the woman he loved, terrified for her, but so proud she had allowed herself this moment of weakness in
his
arms. He let her cry until she stopped on her own, all of two minutes later.

“Feel better?” he asked, snapping two tissues from the box on the counter top and handing them to her.

She nodded, sniffing as she wiped her eyes. “I think so.”

“Good, let’s sit down for awhile. Are you still going to work in the morning?”

Carrie let loose with a loud groan. “I have to. I only have a few days of annual built up.”

“Take a sick day.”

“If I do that, sure as shit, I’ll get sick and need it.”

“Then you need to get some sleep.”

“Please, not right now, Sam. I need to be here, close to you.”

Sam settled himself on the sofa and pulled her down next to him as they watched thirty minutes of the news with no sound. When he noticed the droop of her eyes as she fought to stay awake, he pulled himself away from her and stood.

“Okay, that’s it,” he said, punching the remote’s off button and drew Carrie to her feet. “It’s time for bed. Give me a blanket and a pillow and I’ll be fine.”

“Grant’s futon is empty in his room,” she said, her tone quiet and insincere.

“I don’t want a wall between us tonight. The sofa will be fine.” Her look of relief made him want to pull her in his arms again, but he restrained himself. Sam waited for her to gather the items from the linen closet and took them from her arms. He dropped them on the sofa, and walked her to her bedroom door.

“I’ll tuck you in. You want to change into your pajamas again?” She shook her head and he pushed her gently toward her bed, made her get in so he could tuck the thick quilt around her. He kissed her forehead and walked to the door.

“Leave it open, Sam.”

“Definitely,” he said, walking over to the couch and settling in, if that’s what you called it. As supportive as the cushions were, it was shy a good foot in length to fit his needs as a sleeper. He turned this way and that, unable to stretch out. He heard Carrie in the bedroom, tossing and turning as she fought her own demons of insomnia. After fifteen minutes he heard her soft voice ask if he was awake.

He turned on his side one more time, trying to find a position that wouldn’t leave his back screaming in pain by morning.
“Oh yeah.”

“Come here,” she said, her voice carrying a note of pleading.

Sam rolled his six-foot-two-and-then-some frame off his pallet of torture, grateful to have a reason to stretch out his back. “Is something wrong?”

“I can’t get past this awful feeling that he’s close. I don’t want to be alone in here, Sam.” She pulled the covers aside, inviting him in her bed. “Please stay with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said. The mattress creaked with his weight as they snuggled close, his arm around her shoulders and her head on his chest. “Better?”

She nodded and hooked her foot around his muscular calf, denim to denim. “Better, but I still can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched, like he’s outside my window.” She shuddered, releasing her breath. “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to enjoy this place.”

***

He unfolded himself from the dark solitude of her bedroom closet. The door opened without a sound thanks to the miracle lubricant he kept on hand. He’d worked those hinges as soon as he slipped inside earlier, assuring his moment of release would be utterly silent.

He stood at the foot of Carrie’s bed, staring at the couple sleeping like the dead.
No, not a couple, but
Carrie and...
him
. The fool that was totally unaware of death watching him.

Carrie slept fitfully, looking far from peaceful. Her brow furrowed, even in her sleep. He wondered if she dreamed of being watched. That would be the ultimate turn on, if somehow, Carrie could actually dream that he stood over her...watching her dream...as she watched him watch her...like mirrors facing each other, never-ending. It would be a nightmare of his making...with no hope of her waking.
I’m a damn poet.

He almost felt like laughing.
Almost.
He hadn’t laughed in a long time. Not since he’d stopped believing there was any good in this world, or a God to deliver him from his personal hell.

He walked over to her side of the bed and reached his hand out to move a curl from her brow. She turned away as if she sensed his presence. He smiled, knowing how upset she’d be if she knew he watched from inside her room instead of outside, as she’d suspected. He grew hard remembering how he’d watched her undress earlier. Would it break her?
No
. She’d get angry before she let that happen. He’d known it when he’d chosen her.

He cocked his head slowly to one side then the other, cracking his neck both ways. Take a deep breath, and let the game begin...the one whose rules were known only to him. The
Restrain Game
, he called it. He enjoyed it...both loving and hating at the same time, the act of holding himself back from his victims.

He reached out his hands to touch her, stopping just short of contact. Slowly, he moved his open palms over her face and exposed arms, only a fraction of an inch from her skin. He leaned his face over hers, his lips a mere hairsbreadth away from touching hers. The v-style collar of her sweater stretched down and twisted so that and a good portion of her neck was exposed to his gaze. He brought his nose and mouth near, breathing in her scent. He straightened, frowning when he realized it was some type of scented soap...Not at all what he wanted to smell on her warm skin. Her perfume, that woodsy, spicy, almost musky scent...the one she kept on her vanity. That’s what she should be wearing, always.

He allowed himself the extravagance of touching her hair. Amazed at its softness, he tucked his finger just inside a ringlet that formed on the end of her shoulder length hair. He lightly brushed his fingertips over her tendrils, releasing the scent of her shampoo and conditioner. He lowered his face and breathed in, looking forward to the moment he could bury his face in her hair.