Page 20 of The Darkness Within

Mandy tugs harder, and I stumble after him, calling out over my shoulder as I steal one last glance, “Good to meet you, Brewer.”

“What the fuck was that?” Mandy hisses in my ear.

“What?” I ask, truly confused.

“You and him making eyes at each other. You suddenly forgetting how to speak.”

Oh, that. “We weren’t making eyes at each other.” I won’t mention the way his glisten.

“Yeah, you were. Look, this isn’t about liking guys, I couldn’t give two fucks. This is about Brewer. That guy has been through some shit, and it took him a long time to get it together and come out the other side. He’s in a good place, and you’re not. Your head is a fucking mess, and your life is a shit show right now, and neither of you needs that kind of distraction.”

“Chill the fuck out, Mandy. All I did was introduce myself. You’re the one that dragged my ass here against my will.”

“You’re right, I did. Because I care. Which is why I don’t wanna see you get in over your head with a guy like Brewer. Or any guy, for that matter. Right now, you just need to focus on yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” I sneer with a mock salute. “Trust me, I’m not thinking with my dick. It probably doesn’t even work thanks to all these pills and stress.”

But my imagination works fine. And I can’t help but think I’ll be imagining Brewer for days to come.

“Take a seat, and I’ll get you a drink.”

Attending these functions isn’t high on my list of entertaining ways to spend my weekend, but when a patient asks for help, I can’t say no.

She squeezes my hand, her gold wedding ring glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Thank you, Brewer.”

Then again, I knew Nash would be here.

Yesterday, when the gorgeous G.I. Joe look-alike introduced himself to me, I knew who he was right away. But I wasn’t prepared for the awareness between us, the way his eyes stuck to mine, or how his hand became sweaty in my grip. He brushed his thumb across my knuckles, like he was caressing my skin. It felt intimate. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat of his touch.

Unfortunately, I can also see the way his eyes looked, unfocused and glassy, with dilated pupils. Most likely his clammy hand was a side effect of the pills he’d taken, and not the spark between us that I probably imagined.

As I stand in line at the buffet table, my eyes make a circuit of the room, trying to pick him out in the crowd. Bypassing the fruit and cheese platters and a bowl of something I can’t identify, I load the paper plate with fried chicken and pasta salad, and as I make my way back to the table, I spot him. Nash isn’t among the crowd, he’s sitting alone in the corner. Either he’s resting his eyes, trying to find a moment of peace among the noise, or he’s passed out.

With years of experience under my belt, both professional and personal, I can spot an addict a mile away, and without a doubt, Sergeant Nashville Aiden Sommers is an addict.

Not that that surprises me. Considering all that he’s suffered through, I can understand him looking for an outlet to cope with his pain. The mind can only endure so much before it turns on itself or shuts down. Nash had found a way to shut it down before it turned on him, but abusing that crutch was a slippery slope to addiction, and Nash is sliding headfirst in that direction, if he’s not already at the bottom of the hill.

Sliding the plate in front of my companion, I take the seat next to her as she looks over the food I chose.

“It all looks delicious, Brewer. I can’t thank you enough for joining me today. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to do this alone.”

“I would never have asked you to do this alone.”

My eyes stray to the solitary man in the corner, the man doing it alone. This day is just as tough for him as it is for my patient, yet nobody is holding his hand, or propping him up, lending him their strength.

God, he’s so fucking strong and brave and incredible.

He probably doesn’t see any of that, but he has to be to even sit here.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say to my patient before pushing to my feet.

As I’m crossing the room, a child approaches him, a little boy no more than seven or eight years old. So far, he’s the only person here brave enough to approach Nash, not that I blame these people for not knowing what to say to him. His presence is a reminder of the risk their spouses are exposed to every day. Quickening my steps, I get close enough to overhear their conversation. Nash looks panicked and confused.

“Do you know my daddy, sir? He dresses just like you do. Do you work with him?”

“I don’t know. W-Who’s your daddy?”

“John. John Whittemore.”

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