CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Billboard had been angry for days.

Now he was both angry and conflicted.

O’Shea wanted to move out? Hell no . Well…maybe.

Would it make things worse, or better?

If O’Shea did move out, it would give them both space, which might afford a better prospective on what was happening between them. On the other hand, if she left, would he ever figure out exactly where his head was at?

With her around him almost constantly, getting to know each other had been going pretty smoothly, and had followed his unwritten agenda that before anything physical happened, they needed to know what made each other tick.

He and O’Shea had managed to chum around, swap interesting info regarding their lives, and they’d gotten along extremely well, hanging out together. True, they hadn’t gone near anything controversial, but he could almost see a moment coming where he’d be able to let his guard down and share…at least some things.

Then he’d blown it.

The minute he’d thought of O’Shea as “his” during the kidnapping situation, he’d become…bewildered. He’d floundered. He’d had questions. Was feeling proprietary toward a woman healthy?

Billboard scoffed.

O’Shea certainly wouldn’t think so. Being labeled as “belonging” to anybody would go against her nature. That had been easy for Billboard to figure out. He understood she’d probably be amenable to a partnership; one where she and her man of choice were equals, but the whole possession thing? She’d hate it. And Billboard didn’t know if he had it in him not to feel overly protective where she was concerned.

And of course, his confusion over what she’d think had leveled out to a low, resonating anger. At himself for being a clueless dick. He couldn’t figure out a better way to channel his emotions.

Now O’Shea was ready to leave, and it wasn’t helping his rage.

If she left, things between them would probably never be resolved. There’d be physical distance going against them, which would mean no more heart-to-hearts. Which meant that Billboard would never feel truly whole again, because he knew, deep down, that O’Shea was it for him.

But how could he pull himself out of the fury-pit into which he’d fallen; berating himself for wanting O’Shea when he wasn’t worthy to worship one ounce of her?

Sure, he’d managed to pretend, for the latter part of today, to tamp down the raging fire in his gut while he’d laughed and joked with the kids and his guys. He’d even managed to show a better face to O’Shea after she’d called him on his boorishness. But the need to beat himself up had never gone away, and he was concerned that once they got back to his house, she’d start packing and be gone before he could verbalize why he was being such a prick.

He glanced over at O’Shea, sitting supposedly relaxed in the passenger seat. But he could feel the waves of anger and uncertainty wafting off her.

Billboard had opened his mouth, two, three…maybe half a dozen times, wanting to assure her that she was more than welcome to stay with him; that he wanted her to stay with him, but he couldn’t get the words out. And that inability to communicate when things got rough, would inevitably drive her away as it had Peggy. In Peg’s case it hadn’t felt so earth- shattering. In regard to O’Shea…? It was the last thing he wanted.

He cleared his throat again, but they were just pulling into his driveway, and…maybe opening up could wait until they got inside.

O’Shea was out her door first. “I’m hungry. All that talk of hotdogs made my stomach growl. I still have all the ingredients I bought earlier to make that étouffée.”

Billboard grunted. “You don’t have to cook. I know you’re still mad at me,” he managed.

“ I’m mad at you ?” she scoffed, and snorted. “Let’s get real here, Billboard. You’re the one who’s been nastier than a dog with its tail shut in a door for the last couple days. I’ve just been responding to your mood.” She didn’t give him a chance to rebut. “Now, do you want food or not?”

There was only one answer. “Yes, please.”

“Good. Now if you’ll feed the cats while I get our dinner ready, that would be very helpful.”

Billboard almost went off again. He didn’t want to be “helpful”. He wanted to be the man she looked to for anything she needed. Hell, everything . He’d take a bullet for her if that’s what was necessary. But somehow, he managed to swallow all the inappropriate responses that sprang to his tongue, and instead, agreed. “Sure. I’ll feed the cats.”

Those five words shouldn’t have been so difficult.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Billboard had an epiphany. He was never going to figure this out on his own. He needed to call his therapist. Doctor Ed had told him if he found himself in a mental emergency, he could contact her using her private number. He’d never been tempted before, but tonight, he needed backup that only she could provide.

As he and O’Shea walked into his house, both cats greeted them with meows and purrs. Billboard squatted down and patted the pair, as did O’Shea.

Why couldn’t human interaction be as simple as a scratch behind the ears?

Without another word being spoken between them, he and O’Shea walked into the kitchen where O’Shea started pulling things out of the refrigerator and cupboards. Billboard grabbed the cat food, opened the can, and spooned food into bowls while both cats wove around his ankles. Once he’d placed their food on the mat O’Shea had purchased, he stared down at them, gulping their supper, until he could form words.

“I, uh, need to go make a phone call,” he finally scraped out.

“Take your time,” O’Shea said breezily. “Food will take at least a half hour.”

Billboard grunted and headed for his office where he closed the door. He looked at his phone contacts, gazing at the one saying, Doctor Ed, private . Could he really do this? Reach out for help at an unscheduled time?

Trying not to overthink things, he hit her number.

“Billboard,” the answer came swiftly and cheerfully. “I didn’t expect you’d ever use this number, but might I say that I’m happy you have?”

“Why?” he grunted.

“Because it means you’re learning to reach out when you need help.”

Billboard figured she had a point. “Yeah, well… I need your help.”

“Okay.” Doctor Ed got down to business. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Billboard described the clusterfuck of the last few days, leaving nothing out, and not whitewashing what he’d done. When he was finished, telling her that O’Shea was ready to move to a different location, he waited anxiously for her to give him a solution.

“Why do you think you’re angry?” she asked.

He should have figured the doc wouldn’t just bail him out.

Billboard huffed. “Because I behaved cluelessly. I have no right to consider O’Shea as mine.”

Doctor Ed laughed, which is the last thing he’d expected. “Billboard, you know I’m married, right?”

It was a strange question, but he answered it. “Yes. I do,” he replied, perplexed.

“Well, my husband and I, neither of whom have an overbearing bone in our bodies—at least I don’t think we do—always refer to each other in the possessive.” She went on. “ My husband. His wife. It’s a normal part of being in a loving relationship. You can’t help but feel that your partner is your other half, and for whom you are in a lot of ways, responsible.”

Billboard digested that, quietly.

“Just because you want to keep O’Shea safe, doesn’t mean you want to put her in a cage and control her. So, I ask you again. Why are you angry?”

“Because…? Shit. I’m mad at this whole situation. O’Shea is the most independent woman I’ve ever met,” he posited, “and even if she gives me a chance, I don’t know how well I’ll deal with that.”

“Okay. What if I told you to look at your anger, and see if it might not be an emotion you’re taking on to disguise another.”

“Like…?” Billboard scowled, looking out the window at his back yard. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

“Let me put it another way,” she stated firmly. “What do you think O’Shea will do if you go what you consider all ‘caveman’ on her?”

“Uh, leave?” Billboard queried, floundering.

Without missing a beat, Doctor Ed called him on his assertion. “Which she’s already contemplating. And how does that make you feel?”

“Sad.” Once that word popped out of his mouth, Billboard knew it wasn’t exactly right, and he quietly amended it. “Scared.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. Yes, I’d say you’re scared. But you’re channeling your fear into anger so you feel as if you have more control over the situation.”

Billboard blinked. He… Shit.

That’s exactly what he was doing. Anger was a hell of a lot easier to digest than fear. He knew that well, from past experiences.

“Great. How come I couldn’t come to that realization in two days, when you figured it out in less than three minutes?” he grumped.

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” she quipped back. “The better question becomes, how are you going to fix it?”

“I… I’m going to try to be nice again?” he postulated.

“Well, there is that,” she agreed. “But don’t you think O’Shea is due an explanation?”

“You mean…tell her I’m scared?”

Billboard suddenly felt appalled. Fear was an emotion to which he’d never been able to admit.

When he’d been young and his father had died in the line of duty, Billboard had held things together for his mother, even though he’d been scared out of his wits. When he’d been tasked with doing certain things for his Force Recon unit while in the Marines, he’d never admitted to anyone that he’d come away from those…sessions to puke his guts out; his legs having turned to jelly once his dirty deeds had been accomplished. And when he’d joined SOS, no matter the job to which he was assigned, he did it without complaint. Always.

And now Doctor Ed was telling him to…

“Do you mean I should tell her why I am the way I am?” he asked, his horror over that suggestion digging into his gut.

“It’s not the first order of business, Billboard, but eventually, yes,” she agreed. “What I think you need to do now, to salvage whatever relationship you’re trying to build with O’Shea, is to reveal that you putting all your hopes into what might be growing between you, is truly terrifying.”

That’s exactly the word Billboard would use. Terrifying .

But it was equally as daunting to think that if he didn’t open up, he’d lose O’Shea altogether.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Okay, what?” Doctor Ed came back.

“Uh, okay, I’ll tell her I’m afraid, but then what?”

“Just see where it goes from there,” his therapist answered evenly. “Understand, this is a big step for you. During your last relationship with Peggy, you never came close to sharing your real feelings, nor did you want to. If that woman had put up with your grumpy, reticent ass for a year, you would have just bumped along, oblivious. But with O’Shea, I sense there’s a lot more going on. This time, you’re vested in a positive outcome. That’s why you need to crack your locked door open just a bit, let a little of your angst through, and see what else might slip out.”

“What if I scare her away?” he questioned.

“Aren’t you already doing that by being non-communicative?”

“Touché,” he sighed. “Damn. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“A lot of things worth having, aren’t,” she confirmed.

Billboard agreed. “Listen, if I call you again in a half hour, be ready. It’ll mean everything blew up.”

The doctor’s voice turned soft. “I’ll be here for you, Billboard, but the optimist in me thinks that you opening up will make things better.”

Billboard prayed that would be the case, too. “Thanks, Doc,” he finished up.

“Any time, Billboard.”

They disconnected, and Billboard stood still for a moment before drawing in a deep breath. It was now or never.

Walking back into the kitchen, the smells coming from the stove were divine. They were smoky, spicy, and his mouth watered despite the conversation he’d been tasked to initiate.

“Perfect timing,” O’Shea told him steadily, but without the warmth he’d become used to from her. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

“I, uh, think maybe it’s time we had a talk, instead.”

She raised her brows, and her mouth flattened into a stern line. “ Now you want to get serious? When food’s about to go on the table? Not happening, Billboard. I do not like dinner-time drama.”

Those words sounded like they came from a dark place, and Billboard immediately retreated. “Okay. After dinner, then?” He didn’t want to put things off too long, although digesting his dinner with so much on his mind might be difficult.

“Deal,” she said.

Billboard took a seat and O’Shea dished him up a pile of white rice on his plate before ladling on some black liquid that was packed with pink shrimp.

“Give it a try,” she urged, watching him carefully.

Billboard scooped up a forkful and put it in his mouth.

Onions, spices, and the best kind of burnt flavor he’d ever tasted exploded in his mouth; all the pungency offset by the sweetness of the firm shrimp. It was…amazing.

“This is good, O’Shea,” he praised, shoveling in another bite. “Really good.” He could almost forget his disquiet.

“I told you,” she preened, serving herself up an equal sized helping. Sitting down across from him, she attacked her plate with vigor, and within a short period of time, they’d both cleaned their plates. O’Shea sat back, her hands resting comfortably on her flat abdomen.

“That hit the spot,” she said, then changed her posture to sit forward, eyeballing him as if she thought he was about to run away. “I’m ready to chat now, if you are.”

Red lights flashed behind his eyes. “Uh, how about we take care of the dishes first?” Yeah, he was a chicken, but he was hoping the extremely normal interaction of clearing the table would eventually lead to his confession.

“Fine. I’ll wash, you wipe,” she said.

“Umm, I have a dishwasher, O’Shea.”

She gave him a “duh” look.

“You might not know this, but good conversation often happens over the kitchen sink,” she told him. “When my brother and I lived together once he came back from the service, I swear we solved the world’s problems when my hands were in the suds.”

She’d said that she and Cedric had lived together. Billboard had wondered where that fit in the trajectory of her young life, and now he knew. Maybe after he dared tell her what an idiot he was, she’d share more of her younger days with him. He’d always longed for a sibling, and hearing how close O’Shea was with her brother, he’d really enjoy knowing details about those interactions.

More companionably than he thought possible, they worked side-by-side, clearing the table and stacking the dirty dishes in the sink. It didn’t take them long to establish a rhythm where she’d wash a piece, hand it over to him, and he’d dry. Halfway through, though, she prodded him again.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

Try as he might, Billboard still couldn’t form the words he needed. “Uh, can we wait until we sit down?” he prevaricated.

Dammit , when had he turned into such a coward?

O’Shea took one step back from the sink and speared him with flashing gray eyes. “Seriously, Billboard?” A spark ignited in her pupils, anger and something else mingling in the disbelieving look she sent his way. “How many times…?”

It seemed she thought better of her words, because she amended her question, making it a statement. “Fine. That’s it, then. I’m done.”

Before he had a chance to get his head around how to respond, she put her hands in the water, scooped the very soapy sponge from the sink, and flung it directly into his face.

It hit his nose with a splat, bouncing off him and falling to the floor.

A hand flew to her horrified mouth. “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to…”

Billboard stood shocked as the suds slowly dripped down into the collar of his t-shirt, disappearing to mingle with his ink.

That’s when O’Shea broke down.

Laughing .

“You… I…” The gleeful snorts that emerged from her nose were cute as hell as she doubled over in hysterics, and…

All the tension that Billboard had been harboring magically disappeared as if the dirty dishwater had rinsed it away. His chest suddenly filled with an impish mirth he hadn’t felt in years.

“You threw a sponge at me,” he growled, pretending ire as he took a step in her direction.

“I…I didn’t mean to,” she guffawed, wiping her hands on her jeans and backing up.

“Oh, I think you did,” he said, slowly dogging her retreat.

“Okay.” She held up her palms. “Maybe I did. But I’m sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry in the least.

Billboard moved forward, one large foot advancing for every retreat by her much smaller one.

He grinned, evilly.

“I think there might have to be some form of retribution,” he warned with a gleam in his eye he knew had to be apparent to her.

O’Shea tuned in to his playful determination, and perhaps spun scenarios regarding his intent.

The back of her legs hit the sofa, and without further room to retreat, she let out what sounded suspiciously like an “eep”.

He gave a lively roar and charged.

With a panicked squeal, she spun away and ran.

“I’ll get you. There’s nowhere to hide,” he warned her with a howl.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” she taunted.

Hell, yes. The chase was on.