Page 11 of Ravaged Hearts
“Face the wall,” I said. “Hands against the tiles.”
Hope tried to hide her disappointment, but I still caught a glimpse of it as she complied with my order.
She glanced over her shoulder. “If you’re too uncomfortable being in here with me, I can wash myself.”
I picked up the bodywash, squirted a healthy amount into my palm, and began soaping her shoulders. “And miss an opportunity to run my hands all over you? No thanks.” As Icontinued along her arms, I leaned in low. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but after everything that happened tonight, I really want to take care of you.”
She nodded, and a sad smile curved her lips. “Careful. A girl could get used to this side of you.”
I wanted to tell Hope that for her, I could be any kind of man she needed. But that wasn’t true. At best, I was half of what she deserved. The constant need for control? The way I couldn’t completely relax when we were together, because I was afraid of hurting her? It wasn’t good enough, and it was no way for either of us to live.
I took my time washing every inch of Hope’s body, enjoying the feel of her soft curves and the breathy little sounds she made when I paid extra attention to her most sensitive areas.
It struck me again how courageous she was. Not only for what she’d done tonight, but for the way she’d handled every difficult moment that had led her to this point.
Hope had every right to be bitter and untrusting because of the brutal violence that had stripped her of loved ones and almost killed her, but she wasn’t. She was a well-adjusted, thoughtful, confident woman. Her trauma didn’t own her the way mine did, and I envied her that.
Why couldn’t I move on from my past? Why did I let it consume me?
I didn’t even have the balls to tell Hope how I’d gotten my scars. It wasn’t a pleasant story, but she deserved an explanation of why I was so fucked-up.
Maybe it was time to be as fearless as my woman.
“I think I’m ready.” My words echoed off the tiled walls, and Hope glanced over her shoulder with her brow creased. Pointing to the scars on my arm, I added, “To tell you how I got these.”
She tried to turn around, but I gripped her shoulders and held her in place. “No. I haven’t washed your hair yet.”
The truth was that I didn’t know if I could tell this story if I had to watch every pained expression on her face. It was easier this way.
I squeezed shampoo into my palm and distributed it over Hope’s scalp and long strands. Then I drew in a deep breath and began lathering her hair. “Once upon a time, there was a cocky pilot who thought he was invincible. Everything in his life had worked out exactly as he’d planned. His four-star general father had taught him how to fly a glider when he was seven, and he’d mastered a two-seat Cessna by nine. After college he became a naval aviator instead of joining the air force, much to his dad’s disappointment. The eager young pilot wasn’t interested in following his father’s footsteps to sit behind a desk. He wanted to fly every day and see the world. More than anything, he wanted to take down the bad guys. For a time, that was what he did. Until one day, the bad guys got him.”
Talking in third person and describing my capture from an outsider’s view was the only way I could tell this story. If these things were happening to the man in the tale, not me, then I could get through it. Dissociating myself was enough to keep the impending panic attack at bay.
“Rinse,” I said, and Hope stepped under the spray to wash away shampoo suds.
Over her shoulder, her eyes met mine. “You don’t have to do this.”
My mouth tightened. “I want to. It’s time.” I made a rotating gesture with my pointer finger, and she faced the wall once more.
“It was a black-ops mission in Venezuela. No uniform. No ID. The aircraft options were limited, so the pilot had to rent a piece-of-shit Sikorsky to take supplies over the Andes to his teammates. He didn’t know that the helo had been retrofitted with extra armor plating, leaving it with a reduced payload. With the supplies on board, it was overloaded, and when hetried to gain altitude to cross the mountain, the thin air drained the engine’s power, and he crashed.”
The conditioner came next. I worked it through Hope’s ebony locks, using my fingers to comb out any tangles.
“Somehow, the pilot survived, and while he was unconscious, a group of rebels hauled him back to their camp. They took him deep into their underground tunnel system and left him in a cage. Apparently, the pilot had been muttering in English as he’d come to, giving away his nationality. The rebels wondered what an American was doing on Venezuelan soil with a helo full of weapons and other military supplies. They figured he was someone important. They had questions.A lotof questions.”
Despite Hope’s hair being knot-free, I continued weaving my fingers through those silky lengths, drawing strength from touching her and having her near.
“When the pilot didn’t talk, the rebels got cranky and came up with fun ways to motivate him. One punch for each question he didn’t answer. One cut for each hour he spent in their tunnel. They held him down with their grimy hands and forced him to watch as they slowly worked their bloodstained blade through his skin. Rinse.”
Hope turned to me, her glassy eyes passing over my scars as though she were imagining the moment the wounds were inflicted.
I didn’t want that, so I lowered my chin and delivered her a firm stare. “I said rinse.”
She pressed her lips together and backed under the spray, closing her lids as water cascaded over her. When she emerged from beneath the showerhead and wiped drops from her eyes, she didn’t turn to face the wall again.
My gaze dipped to her hands, and she said, “I won’t touch you. I promise. But I can’t hear the rest of this story with my back to you.”
Reluctantly, I nodded and, with a sigh, continued. “Days went by, and the pilot kept his trap shut. By that point, he’d been sliced…everywhere. He had more broken ribs than he could count and a busted-up face his own mother wouldn’t recognize. Fingernails were a distant memory. Even the smallest movement caused him more pain than any human ought to know. He begged for death and was certain that if he found a bonfire, crawling into the flames would deliver sweet relief.”