CHAPTER 2

Labor On That Midnight Wire

"I t must be so nice, being surrounded by nature so often. You probably look like Paul Bunyan out there." Tiffany laughs, fluttering her lashes at me. She leans heavily on the front desk, tapping her polished blue nails on the wooden surface.

I force a smile, gripping the counter's edge in an effort to keep myself from fleeing. "I do love being around trees."

She laughs again, like I just told the most amazing joke. "I would love to see you out in action sometime."

I continue to smile, internally cursing Beth for making me do this. "So are there any availabilities for Dr. Krane? I am in need of a cleaning."

She looks as if I've given her some great honor by asking for a dental appointment. "Of course. What days work for you?"

"I'm usually free Saturdays."

Her eyes twinkle. "Interesting."

I ignore that, pretending to check my phone. "How about next Saturday at noon?"

She nods, typing away on her computer's keyboard. "You're all booked in. Maybe after your appointment we could—"

"I'm so sorry," I interrupt, gesturing to the clock on the wall behind her. "I need to leave now if I'm going to make my next client. Thank you for the appointment."

Her shoulders deflate a bit, but she nods. "No problem."

I make my way out of the dentist office, keeping a brisk pace the entire time. I don't want to risk Tiffany or anyone else stopping me. Small talk is my worst nightmare and I hate Beth for making me socialize. Thankfully our office is only one floor down, so I'm back in the safety of our dingy two-room complex in less than five minutes. I make sure to lock the door behind me, just as an extra precaution.

"You look like you might pass out," an amused voice says from behind me.

I turn to find Beth in the storage area, looking through our newest shipment of ammo. She has an iPad in her hand, no doubt perusing over a checklist of everything she ordered. She's always been organized like that, even back in the CIA. Makes her a damn good assistant.

Instead of responding right away, I watch Beth take inventory. I love the little crease between her eyebrows as she works, and the firm line her plump lips make. She's wearing red lipstick today, which is a color I always love on her, though she looks good in anything.

Beth is taller than most women I've encountered, being around five-eleven. Her white skin is peppered with freckles across most of her face and neck, and I can only imagine that her freckles spread lower down her body—and believe me, I've imagined it quite a bit. Her tight blonde curls are pulled back in a ponytail today, making it easy to see her bright blue eyes. She's wearing a red blouse and black pencil skirt today, and the material hugs her pear-shaped figure in a way that makes my dick become lead in my pants.

She's admitted to me before that being a plus-size woman has made her self-conscious in the past, and I have threatened to tear out the eyes of anyone who has ever made her feel bad about her body. She laughs me off each time I offer, but it's never been a joke. If someone can't see how sexy Bethany Reed is, then they don't deserve to look upon her.

I realize I've been staring for far too long, so I heave a sigh and say to her flatly, "You owe me one."

Her bottom lip pouts, and I want nothing more than to sink my teeth in it. "Aww poor Henry had to talk to another person today. It's a tragedy. Shakespeare is turning in his grave knowing he couldn't have written this as his next drama."

If anyone else but her spoke to me that way they'd have a black eye. Probably worse. "You can be a real pain in the ass."

She preens as if I just told her she's pretty. "Yes, but you wouldn't have me any other way, would you?"

There was a time I would have said yes. When we first started to work together, I found her joking, bubbly attitude annoying. I couldn't wait until I could get rid of her. But then I found out what a hard worker she is, how dedicated and passionate she is about making the world better, even if you must break some rules to achieve that. From the beginning, she could always gauge my moods and figure out exactly what I needed. Only my mother has ever been able to do that.

When I asked her to come work for me, I never expected our relationship to go beyond professional. But over late-night dinners, watching several TV shows, and going to a whole lot of therapy, Beth became my friend. My only friend, really. I came to crave her smiles, her smartass comments, her compassion.

I came to crave her.

"No," I reply softly. "I wouldn't have you any other way."

v

"How are you doing today, Henry?" asks my therapist, Kathleen Bennett. She's sitting in a swivel chair in front of me, her hands clasped in her lap, a leg crossed over the other.

I've been seeing her for about six months at the recommendation of Beth. She thought talking to a professional would help me, because even though I've told her little about what keeps me up at night and sends me into random spirals during the day, she knew enough to push me to get help. As much as I dug my feet in the sand at first, I must admit she was right. I can be honest with Dr. Bennett in a way I can't with anyone else, even Beth. Sometimes it's nice to talk to someone impartial.

Dr. Bennett is a very calm and patient person, which I think suits me well. I am the exact opposite of those things; therefore, we work quite well together. She's a bit younger than I am: thirty-three to my thirty-six. She usually dresses in workout attire—she likes to go for runs for God knows what reason. Her straight hair ends just below her ear, framing her round brown face perfectly.

She and I meet at her office once a week, and the office is about as bare as my apartment. Like me, she only has one picture on her wall, one of her wife and son. The picture rests just behind her head, and I tend to stare at it when our sessions become especially tense. Her family looks so happy, so at ease. I envy them that.

"I'm fine." I'm leaning back against her blue office chair, with my hands resting on its arms. It's pretty comfortable, but sometimes its suede cushions make a weird sound when I fidget, no doubt because of the suit I wear that's made of the same material. It grates on my nerves.

She gives me a knowing look. "How have you been sleeping this week?"

"Better with those pills. I got five hours last night," I tell her.

She smiles, liking this news. "Are you still updating your journal?"

"Every morning."

She stares at me, waiting.

With a huff, I elaborate. "I write down the dreams I have each night, even if it's not a nightmare, just like I've done for months. I'm not stopping just because I'm sleeping better."

"How many nightmares did you have this week?" she asks, typing some notes into her computer.

"Four."

Click click click. "Were these on four separate nights?"

"Two were, the other two happened the same night."

She continues to type, nodding along. "Same dream each time?"

I shake my head. "The two separate ones were about the day my mom was taken. The night I had back-to-back nightmares, it was about the brothel. I woke up in the middle of the bloodshed, so I splashed cold water on my face and did my breathing exercises like you taught me, but when I went back to sleep, the dream picked up where it had left off."

Dr. Bennett nods, once again nailing a sympathetic gaze that doesn't come off as patronizing. "What about the other three days of the week?"

"I didn't have dreams two of those nights, then last night I had a dream about Beth."

She stares at me inquisitively for a moment, then says, "I've noticed a pattern, Henry. You never have a nightmare on Fridays, the day you and Beth have dinner together."

I give her a noncommittal hum.

"You talk about Beth half of almost every session, she's your only non-professional relationship, and your subconscious mind is at a more relaxed state after you've spent time with her. Do you think it's possible you have feelings for Beth that go beyond friendship?"

The answer comes out of me with the ease of a wisdom tooth. "It doesn't matter if I did. Nothing could happen between us."

"Because of your job?"

I told Dr. Bennett what I did about a month into therapy. She actually reacted far better than I would have thought, but I did choose her because she specializes in helping military and law enforcement. I figured my best shot at not giving a therapist a heart attack would be a therapist like her. Our only rule is that I don't give her specifics on future missions, because that's when she's legally obligated to go to the authorities.

I shake my head, turning my head into my palm. "Being my assistant and my friend is different than being my girlfriend or wife. If anyone caught wind of what Beth means to me…" I trail off, unwilling to let that scenario play out even in my head.

Dr. Bennett leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I think this all comes back to your mother, Henry. In the six months I've known you, one thing that's become abundantly clear is that she is the driving force behind every action you take in life."

I don't comment, so she continues on.

"Dream journaling and breathing exercises will only take you so far. When we go through something traumatic, our minds shut off and let adrenaline take over. When that's gone and we're safe again, all that trauma is still processing, and when you ignore it or shove it aside, you put a halt to it. And in your case, you not only have unprocessed trauma, but grief as well. The only way to finish processing all of that and finally move on is to face the trauma." Her brown eyes search mine, and I hate how easily she sees through me. "You must let yourself feel, Henry, the good and the bad. And once you've done that, you must forgive yourself."

I nod along to what she's saying, but I don't give a reply, and I don't think Dr. Bennett expects one.

She reaches out, and I watch her smooth brown hand touch mine, showing me what comfort she can as she gives me the harsh truths I've long avoided. "You did everything you could for your mother. Even the most powerful people in the world don't have control over what happens in life, and all we can do in the face of that helplessness is live despite it."

What she's asking sounds impossible, but I give her what she wants to hear anyways, knowing she won't let it go if I don't. "I'll try."

She smiles once again, extracting her hand from mine. "That's all any of us can do."