Page 30 of The Darkness Within

Take back control, Brewer. Don’t give him the upper hand.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow, you’re mine.” Fuck, way to go, numb nuts. You’re making a bad situation worse.

His roguish smile turns a bit wicked, almost dangerous, and I quickly amend, “Goodnight, Nash.” I’m almost out of the kitchen, almost to safety, before I turn back and add, “And no lump buddies in your bed. You need to sleep alone.”

Oh my God, just stop fucking talking, you fucknut!

His chuckle follows me out of the room, my face heating with embarrassment.

“Rough night?”

I came in search of Nash this morning, and I found him in the kitchen, hunched over the coffee pot, like he was praying to it, watching the machine percolate drop by slow drop.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then stop looking!”

The frustration in his voice tells me he’s had a long night. A bad night. My heart squeezes painfully. He faced it all alone, without his lump buddy, without the drugs and the alcohol. Nights are the worst. That’s when the shadows are the darkest, when the memories creep back in as you’re losing consciousness, and your barriers are down. In your sleep, the nightmares hold you hostage.

I don’t ever want Nash to feel like a hostage again, not for one more minute of his life.

He fills his mug and cradles it in his hands, like he’s trying to leach the warmth from the ceramic into his body. Aromatic steam wafts into his face, and he breathes it in deep.

“It’s gonna be a long day,” he mutters.

He has no idea how long.

He’s in pain. Nash’s leg makes it difficult for him to push himself hard during therapy. I’d love to know the story behind his injury, but I don’t think he’s ready to share that yet. His face is etched into deep lines, the hurt visible in his expression.

“Give me ten more reps,” Riggs demands, counting aloud.

“I don’t have ten more in me,” Nash pants, sweating and breathless.

“Yes, you do, keep going. We’re not quitting until we’re finished.”

“I said I don’t,” he seethes, spit flying from between his chapped lips.

“Seven… Six… You’ll give me five more or we’ll start over from the beginning. Five…”

Navarro Riggs has to be the most hated man in this building. He’s also one of the most respected. He demands a lot from his patients, and he never lets them quit on themselves.

Nash drops his large frame into another squat, visibly struggling to straighten back up. His leg quivers, he grunts, and I’m convinced he’s about to drop the weight bar he’s holding across his back and shoulders.

“You can do it, Sergeant. Straighten up!”

I almost feel bad that I’m going to further torture him when he’s finished here. Almost.

“One more, Sommers. If you hadn’t quit on me at Womack, this might not hurt so bad now. Let’s go, drop all the way down.”

If Nash mortally injures Riggs, I’m going to have to testify that it was well deserved.

“Aagghh!” Nash straightens from his last lunge with a primal war cry of exhaustion and pain, throwing the weight bar down on the ground with a loud clunk. It bounces before rolling to a halt at Riggs’ feet.

Riggs clicks his stopwatch. “Great. Now, was that so hard?”

An ill-timed snort escapes my lips as I try to cover my laugh, drawing Nash’s glare.

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