Pretty Little Dreams (11 page)

I pull my mouth from his, look into his eyes, “Luke.
I want you.” I want him to help make the memories go away; to cover the pain and fear with love and passion.

He stares into my eyes for a moment and I can see the internal battle going on inside of him, “I don’t know, angel.
Your leg and your arm – I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please, Luke.
I need you right now. I don’t want you to treat me differently. I know that he… please,” I whisper. I swallow and let him see the pain and uncertainty in my eyes, “Don’t you… don’t you still want me?”

“Oh angel, I couldn’t want anything more.
It’s not even a question of that.”

“Prove it.
Please. I need you to show me.”

He looks at me again for another beat and then, in a flash, his lips are once again on mine.
His tongue is begging for entry and I immediately give it to him. I relish the taste of his mouth, his lips, and the heat they create in my belly and between my legs. Just his kiss makes me feel like I’m on fire.”

Tearing my mouth from his, I take his hand and place it on my breast, “Touch me.”

He wastes no time answering my request by kneading one breast in his palm while he trails kisses down my neck, across my collar bone, then down to one breast. Taking my nipple into his mouth, he teases it into a hard point and releases it with a loud pop. Then he moves across to the next breast, giving it the same attention. I can’t help the moan that escapes my throat. All I want is him, all I feel is him. He’s removing the memory of the touches and fear from another on me, and all I see is Luke.

“Now, Luke.
I need you now.”

Luke groans, and positions me like the weight and awkwardness of my cast are nothing, placing his mouth at my neck and bites down gently while he slowly eases into me at the same time.

“You feel so good, Livvie. So wet, so tight. You were made for me.”

“Yes, you.
Always you, Luke. Only you,” I pant in response.

He slowly starts moving in and out and I have an ache deep in my belly that is begging me to meet its demands.
I want more. Luke moves his hand between our bodies and starts rubbing the part of me that is aching to be touched.

“Oh god, yes.
That feels so good, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

That ache moves through my body like a song reaching crescendo and before I know it, I’m falling off the edge and losing sense of everything, other than riding out my body’s screaming demand.
I never want this to end. My release wracks my whole body, and makes tears instantly come to my eyes and fall down my cheeks. I feel amazing, but want to cry at the same time, so many feelings are inside of my body and heart that I can’t even make sense of.

Luke is unaware of my tears, with his head buried in my neck, and is moving faster now.
I tighten my good leg around his hip as tight as I can encouraging his pace, wanting him harder, wanting him faster, wanting him to show me with every pound how much he wants me. Needs me.

He cries out with his release, the sound muffled by my neck, and we stay with our bodies pressed together, trying to catch our breath without moving.
I want to stay like this. Safe, loved, secure in his arms. There’s no danger here; no fear.

“You okay, angel?”

I smile, “I’m perfect.”

Luke chuckles, the sound making my heart skip a beat.
He eases out of me, helps me recline in the bed, removes the towel that somehow has remained in place, and helps me tidy up. His touch is gentle, his eyes full of love, and I want so much to return his smile and pretend that all is right in the world. But I can’t, because deep inside of me, scratching at my throat and pushing behind my eyes, is the need to scream and cry.

11.

TRYING TO CONTAIN A VOLCANO

Olivia

I
’m propped up
in bed with a fluffy pillow elevating my leg. My Kindle is on my lap, a drink sitting within easy access on an adjacent table, and the remote control snuggled next to me in case I get a yearning to watch TV or listen to my favorite music. Luke has been waiting on my every need, ensuring that I have anything and everything I could possibly want or need. I’m snuggled and wrapped like a cocooned butterfly, all nice and warm in my comforter and I’m finally wearing a pair of my favorite pajamas. They are kitschy pink and patterned all over with shoes, purses and lipsticks. It’s a nice change from that stupid, ugly hospital gown.

Speaking of which, I have an idea about those.
I look at my laptop and read through my post again about the evilness of hospital gowns. I seriously think I should start a petition about the need for new hospital attire designed with a trendy look. I mean come on, yes people may be sickly, but it’s not as though they don’t know what they have on and a stylish gown might go a long way towards making them feel better. Add that to the fact that no item of clothing - well, perhaps except those drop seat pajamas for children - should ever be designed that allows ones ass to hang out. I definitely think I’m onto something.

It’s nice to feel content for the first time in days.
At first, it was tough walking back into the condo. As soon as we came through the door, my mind flashed back to the terrifying moment I realized Pyper was tied up on the couch. I saw Deacon standing in the living room with a gun again and I couldn’t move past the doorway. Fear made me completely immobile. It wasn’t until I felt Luke’s reassuring hand on my back that the visions faded and my pulse started to return to normal.

Pyper and Luke are nervous.
It’s written all over their faces. And they pace a lot and keep fidgeting and asking over and over again if I needed anything and if I’m okay. Sometimes I feel like they are waiting for me to either break down or lose my mind or stab someone or worse… stab my favorite dress or handbag to pieces. I finally made my way to the bedroom to get away from their weighted stares.

I’m dealing with it.
One minute at a time. I figure eventually I’ll work myself up to one day at a time, but I’m not there yet. My mind doesn’t allow me peace for long. Just as I begin to engross myself into some activity, a memory from my time with Deacon assaults me. I keep hoping if I just keep pushing them back into the box in the back of my mind, eventually they’ll just quit trying to take over. I simply want to forget.

Luke rarely leaves my side, not that I mind, but he has a life and job he needs to get back to.
He can’t put his whole life on hold for me - nor should he. It isn’t realistic. Or normal. And I need normal. The problem is I’m not sure that he understands how much I need that. Crave it. But, he shuts down any conversation I venture to have with him about it, saying that none of that matters more than I do. And this is his new normal – at least for now. I’m going to have to make him understand and I’m dreading that conversation.

I love Luke with every part of me, but I find myself getting frustrated, aggravated with him easily.
Why doesn’t he understand that I just need things to be the way they were before? Why do I have to spell it out for him? I have so much anger inside of me. Fortunately, I keep catching myself before I blow. Rationally, I know Luke isn’t the source of my anger, he’s just an easy target. And that’s not fair to him. So I keep it inside.

Interrupting my thoughts is the very man at the center of them, “Wow, just when I think I know everything there is to know about you, I’m reminded that I still have some things to learn?”

I absently look at him as he walks out of the bathroom, “Huh?”

He nods towards the TV, “What are you watching?”

I glance at the TV and quickly do a double take when it dawns on me what he means. The screen shows a glassy, wide-eyed deer lying on the ground, tongue protruding from its mouth, bleeding, obviously having just been shot by a hunter. It’s awful. “OH MY GOD, what AM I watching?”

Luke laughs, “Have you decided to take up hunting?
If so, we can go get some gear and start planning a hunting expedition. I mean, it isn’t what I would expect from you, but I bet you’d look hot holding a rifle. Oh!” He stops and places a finger on his chin.

“What?”

He stares off for a minute and then looks at me at last, “Oh nothing, I was just imagining how hot you’d look holding a shotgun, wearing nothing but stilettos.”

“Ha.
Very funny,” I tell him as he comes back to bed, making himself comfortable next to me. “I was flipping channels and then got distracted.”

“Distracted by what?”

“Oh nothing in particular, just thinking.”

His brow furrows and he looks away from the gruesome sight that’s still on the television and into my eyes, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“No. It wasn’t anything important. Just thinking about how I’m happy to be home.”

His face registers disappointment so fast, I’m almost sure I imagined it.
He grabs the remote and starts flipping the channels, not commenting on my statement.

Turning back to my computer screen, I put the finishing touches on my blog post.
I even included pictures of the horrible hospital gowns and made a list of suggested solutions. I bet I could even find gifs from movies where the old guy walks down the hospital hall with his low-hanging ass exposed, just for effect. My post includes ideas like how the gowns should be a nice light weight cotton, or silk. And perhaps cut a bit more shapely and offered in a selection of short, three quarter or long sleeves – or perhaps dolman sleeves to cover up equipment lines and such. Female gowns should have cute patterns like roses or sunflowers, with calming colored backgrounds. For men, an attractive flannel, or just a plain color, like tan, sand, or a nice green might be appropriate. Anything other than little blue dots. And perhaps matching short jackets or robes with non-skid socks.

“Livvie?”

I look up at Luke, and while I know he said my name in some imploring way, he isn’t looking at me. His attention is still focused on the TV. “Yeah?”

“Do you… do you want to talk about what happened? “

I grab my glass of water off the table and take a sip, as my mouth suddenly feels dry. “Talk about what?”

His eyes meet mine for a beat, and then he looks away.
“About what happened when you were with Deacon. The doctor, well he said it would be good for you to talk about it.”

“No offense, Luke, but how could a medical doctor know anything other than the condition of my bones?
I’m fine. Really. I don’t have anything to talk about.”

“Livvie, how can you not?
You were held against your will for four weeks. God only knows-” he stops for a moment, runs his hand through his hair, “I want to be here for you.”

“The best thing for me is to get my life back.
I want things to go back to normal. I want to get back to blogging, writing, and enjoying life again.”

“But…”

I snap, “NO LUKE. NO! I refuse to let that man take away any more time from my life. Can’t you get that? I will not allow him to take away what makes me happy, and talk about what he…” my eyes fill with tears and I look away from him. I take deep breaths, trying to slow my heart that’s suddenly racing in my chest.

Luke puts the remote down and scoots his body closer to me so he can hold me, but I don’t want that.
I don’t want comfort; I don’t want to be held. I don’t want to be treated like a sick child. I’m not fucking broken. I’m not. And I don’t want to be treated like I am.

As soon as Luke’s arm wraps around my waist, I push my computer off my lap, and as quickly as I can, I swing my legs over to the side of the bed.
“Babe, what do you need? I can help you.”

“I’m just going to go to the bathroom.
I can manage.” I just need a few moments to myself. Time to calm down before I let my anger boil over and explode. And say something I will likely regret. Must keep control.

I grab my crutches that are leaning against the wall and put them in place.
They are stiff and hard and not at all comfortable. I know they said not to put all my weight on my armpits, but I think the guy who wrote those instructions never really had to use the things, as not doing so, is nearly impossible. You would think they would make the pads puffier or something. Trying to calm down, I give extra attention to my crutches and assuming that rhythmic swinging-like motion with my body to make my way to the bathroom. Touch down, swing, touch down, swing.

Once in the bathroom, I sit on the toilet, aware that I did not have to lift the seat.
Thanks, Luke, is it really that hard to put down a lid? I grab a tissue from the box on top of the tank lid, and dab at the tears, sitting in my eyes. I just need a moment to cool off before the emotional bomb ticking inside me detonates and Luke becomes collateral damage. I hate feeling like I may erupt at any time and that I’m communicating like some cold-hearted, angry bitch. I hate it. But when he brings up what happened or looks at me with hurt and sympathy, I can’t help it. . I see that he blames himself, it’s written all over his face and the pure torture is evident in his eyes. But his overbearing nature right now and his somewhat somber mood are all more than I can handle. I have enough of my own emotions I’m trying to work through, I can’t take his on too. And besides, this – these emotions and what I went through - is not about him. It’s my story. He needs to get over it, just like I am.

Feeling better, more determined and in control, I leave the bathroom after doing a fake flush of the toilet and washing of my hands.
Luke looks at me with those sad puppy eyes – sigh - as soon as the door opens, “Do you need help?”

“No, I got it.”

He doesn’t listen, and as I get closer to the bed, he comes to my side and just stands there as I lower myself to the bed. He takes my crutches and puts them back in place and tucks me in like I’m a toddler. I want to scream, but I bite my tongue. Hard.

Reaching for my laptop, I place it back on my lap and open Google docs, determined to add a survey to my blog post.
All those in favor of new hospital gowns can vote and weigh in with their opinions.

I hear Luke sigh and it immediately puts me on edge.
I can see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. I turn my body slightly, attempt to concentrate even harder, doing my best to ignore him, but he isn’t going to take the hint. Dammit. This isn’t going to be good, I feel the anger rising in me again like hot lava. The last thing I want is to argue with him.

Easing himself closer to me, and slightly moving the computer from its positioned place, he says, “I’m trying to talk to you about this Livvie, and I don’t have your attention.”

Something in me snaps. It’s intense and sounds like the crack of a bat against a ball. “Tell me something Luke, what the hell do you not understand? Have you forgotten the simplicity of the English language? What will it take for you to understand that I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS?” Oh shit, I’m getting mean and I’m yelling and I can’t stop it now. “I REFUSE, absolutely REFUSE to let what happened take over my life. What do you not understand? Please, for the love of GOD, tell me, because I will do any damn thing it takes to make sure you GET IT.”

I’m breathing hard and sweat has appeared on my forehead.
I can practically feel the production of hormones being secreted keeping pace with my emotions. I want to count to ten or a hundred, but can’t. Neither can I control this. Exhaustion and rage engulf me and despite my internal alarms, my entire countenance radiates my feelings. I’m acutely aware of the internal turmoil contributing to this outburst. On one hand, I’m struggling with having not been totally honest with Luke, yet I am holding him culpable for trying to pressure me to talk, to tell him…and simultaneously I am enraged at myself, both for shouting and for my attempt at deceit. Trying to gain a semblance of composure, I again make eye contact and the look on his face is pure shock. His eyes that became widened and fiery during my rant are accompanied by a new speechlessness. He’s taking deep breaths and I realize it’s likely that he has found the benefit of silently counting to ten before responding to me. Probably smart of him.

“I’m just trying to help.”

I take an extremely deep breath and look him right in the eyes, “I do not want your help. I do not need help. I want us to move on with our lives.” I say each word slowly and with distinctness and clarity. “And, speaking of which, you cannot sit here and babysit me day after day. You have a business to run and you need to get back to it.”

“It’s fine.
I will just take a brief leave of absence. I’m the boss. I can do this-“

“Oh, hell no you won’t.
You can’t. Absolutely not. I will not be babysat like I’m some invalid. No fucking way. What I need… how you can help… is by listening to what I just said. Go back to work; try understanding that I just need normalcy. Be normal. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

He looks so torn, devastated.
And defeated. He is clearly battling what I’m asking – no, telling - him to do versus what he wants to do. I’m not dumb, I get it. I know he blames himself at least in part for what happened, but I cannot continually reassure him. I must move on. Tears fill my eyes and I rapidly work to blink them away, because on the tip of my tongue are words to soothe him, to give him what he needs and wants and to tell him to stop blaming himself, but I can’t.