Page 81 of Plight
“So, you’re afraid of stormsand water, too, huh?” Danielle asked, as she draped her arm across my chest and snuggled into my side.
Her skin was soft, warm and tacky from sex, and I fucking loved how her breasts peeled from my chest every time she shuffled to get comfortable.
Holding her tighter, I admitted what I knew she would understand but something I seldom admitted to anyone. “Yeah. I find it really difficult to be outside during a storm. But at home, twenty-five stories above ground, it’s not so bad.”
She lifted her head and stared at me, comprehension bursting from her sad eyes. “Is that why you live in an apartment? Because it feels safer?”
I didn’t have to say yes; she knew the answer.
“I’m terrified of storms, especially at night. I have to turn my iPad on and listen to Metallica as loud as I can stand just to block out the thunder and sound of heavy rain.” She shuddered. “I hate them. I really hate them. I want to move to a desert.”
“Chile. There’s a port city there that experiences little to no annual rainfall.”
She giggled. “You’re so sexy when you’re all brainy and shit.”
“Really?” I waggled my eyebrows at her. “Want to know what it’s called?”
“Sure.”
I leaned down and whispered, “Iquique.”
“What? Did you just say ‘I’m kinky’?”
“No. E … key key. Iquique. It borders a desert and ocean. We should go live there right away.”
She giggled again and traced a circle around my navel. “I don’t mind rain. Just not a lot of it all at once.”
Nodding, I focussed on the ceiling fan as silence settled over us.
“Lots, do you think about the storm drain often?”
My answer was instantaneous. “All the time.”
“I don’t. At least, I haven’t for a long time. Ever since seeing a doctor about it in my twenties, I’ve managed to keep the horror of our experience out of my head. The nightmares lasted for a while longer, though. But even they stopped eventually.”
“Nightmares?” My heart began to beat erratically at the thought.
“Yeah. They used to be so bad, so debilitating. Dr Emmerson helped, and over time, we found ways of increasing my sense of security, together with thinking less about the experience.” She shrugged and drew another circle. “The nightmares eased. I haven’t had one for over a year.”
Hearing Danielle open up about her posttraumatic experience tore a hole in my chest, or more accurately, tore the one I already had, wider. If it hadn’t been for me, she’d never have endured those nightmares in the first place.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, kissing her head.
“Lots, don’t.”
I didn’t say anything, and yet I felt as if I needed to say everything … not that there was much I could say. It was one of those moments where you held your breath and hoped by the time you needed to exhale that you would. So, instead, I just quietly absorbed the moment of her in my arms, where I’d always wanted her to be.
“I mean it. Don’t,” she repeated, her voice noticeably more stern.
It made me chuckle. “Okay. I’m not … doing anything.”
“Good. Now, can we go to sleep? We have a fence to paint tomorrow.”
I stopped fighting the pull of my heavy eyelids and smiled the type of smile a man smiles when he finally has the woman of his dreams.
“NO! DON’T!”
I jerked awake to Danielle’s desperate pleas, my eyelids shooting open, my heart pounding so hard it hurt my chest.
