Page 64 of Rebel Hawke

Atlas glances back at me again. “But what?”

Chewing on my lip, I debate how best to say this without pissing off Atlas any more than he already is. “Well, I have a feeling you weren’t the easiest patient to work with, and he probably wasn’t able to do everything he wanted to because you fought him on it.”

A growl slips from his lips, but he doesn’t exactly object to my statement or try to argue that it isn’t true.

“I know how stubborn you can be, Atlas, and I know how hard it is for you to give yourself over toanyoneand let me try to fix something you want to do on your own, in your own way. And believe me, I know it fucking hurts. But if you want any chance of getting better, we have to keep doing this every day—massages, targeted weights, and traction that will be very painful.”

He presses his lips together in a firm line as he watches me, the unease in his gaze, the disbelief that what we’re doing is actually going to help.

I recognize it because I felt it myself, having given that same look to people who were trying to help me, too.

That ache in my chest intensifies, so I rest my hands on the back of his neck and gently glide my thumbs up along the rigid muscles there.

His eyes drift closed, and he releases a soft groan, leaning into it and relaxing. “Christ, that feels good.” He drops his head back against my stomach and opens his eyes to glance up at me. “How about we do this instead of the painful shit?”

I grin at him and press a quick kiss to his forehead. “Because we’re not going to get anywhere with the easy stuff.” Pausing my hands, I lock gazes with him. “You know, this pain, what you’re experiencing, what we’re going to have to put you through for the next couple months, you can do it. I have complete faith in you.”

It takes a moment for Atlas to react to my statement, and when he finally responds, his voice comes out soft and uncertain. “Why?”

“Because I’ve done it.”

His icy gaze shatters, and he reaches back and wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me around him and settling me across his lap in one smooth motion only someone with his level of strength could accomplish.

I loop my arms around his neck and run my fingers through his hair. “I had this nurse when I was in the burn unit. She was a lovely older woman. Cajun, from the real heart of the Bayou. She had moved to Texas a few years earlier, and we shared a bit of a bond. One really bad day, she told me something that has stuck with me, something I think you need to hear.”

“What’s that, Little Bird?”

“She told me that I had already survived the worst day of my life, so she knew I could survive anything else thrown at me.”

He goes rigid under me, absorbing my words as he searches my gaze. His hand glides along my left arm, across the bumpy, shiny, grotesque scarring. “Wise woman.”

I nod slowly, trailing my fingers down the back of his neck. “And she was right. I did survive the worst day of my life. All those hard days in the hospital and trying to get my life back…” My voice cracks as I fight the sob threatening to come out. “Nothing compared to the day of the fire.”

Atlas squeezes me tightly. “What happened?”

Shit.

I knew I would have to tell him eventually, that he would want to know. Because I want to know all about the shooting and what scarred him so badly, too.

This is as good a time as any.

If I really want him to trust me in doing this, I need him to understand everything I’ve been through, to truly believe he can do it, despite the pain and exhaustion he’s feeling.

I drop my head against his shoulder, pressing my face into his neck. “I was asleep. My dad…he wasn’t a bad guy. He tried, really tried, and actually, things were okay for the first few months I was there. I missed all of you, missed Gramps, but Dad was good to me.” I swallow thickly. “Then he started using again…”

Atlas’ arms tighten around me again, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head. But he doesn’t press me to continue, doesn’t try to force the words out of me when they struggle to come.

“He’d been clean for, God, a long time, according to my grandmother. I don’t know what made him relapse. Maybe it was Mom’s death and my coming there.” Saying those words out loud makes all those feelings come rushing back. The pain and guilt that I may have been what pushed him over that edge.Tears sting my eyes, and I have to force myself to keep talking when all I want to do is shut down and enjoy the feel of Atlas’ arms around me. “It went on for a few weeks before the fire. I knew what was happening. I was old enough and recognized it from seeing it with my mom. That night, he shot up and passed out on the couch, somehow knocked over a candle he was using to cook over, and the whole house went up.”

“Christ…”

Atlas barely whispers the word, but it hangs heavy in the air around us, laden with his anger and disbelief.

“The window in my bedroom was basically painted shut, hadn’t opened in years, and the fire came down the hallway so I couldn’t get out that way. I had been out swimming earlier in the day and still had a damp towel hanging on a hook on the back of my door. I tried to cover myself the best I could with that, moved as far away from the door as possible.” I gulp, the memory of inhaling the suffocating smoke so vivid I can still taste it. “The last thing I remember was the flames reaching me. I passed out from the pain or the smoke inhalation. I’m not sure. But I came to in the hospital in the most intense agony I’ve ever experienced, and they told me my dad was dead, that he hadn’t made it out. Apparently, the firemen came in through my window and got me just in the nick of time before the flames fully consumed me…”

It’s all I can manage to get out.

I can’t explain what it felt like those months in the hospital.

---