Page 69 of Color of Love

The drive was mercifully short and when they pulled up outside her house, he got out and helped her out of the car, gripping her so tightly, he never wanted to let her go. He helped her inside and into her kitchen, dropping her keys on the table and scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You can leave, if you need to go and check on Rebelle,” she muttered. Was that jealousy in her voice?

“I’m not leaving until we’ve had this out,” he said firmly, stopping in front of her.

“Had what out?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” he roared. She jolted, her eyes blinking rapidly in shock. She opened her mouth to reply but he wasn’t done.

“You only had to do one thing, Justine! Stay in the goddamn car, and you wouldn’t even do that!” She tried to talk again but he held up his finger. “I’m not finished,” he stated, and she raised her eyebrows at him, a sassy look crossing her face. He knew he was overstepping the line, but he had never dealt with his emotions well and he needed to get this out.

“Do you even know what could have happened to you? What it looked like they were planning to do? You just got caught in the crossfire and look what happened to you!” He jabbed a finger towards her injuries. His breathing became ragged as he took in her face again and he fought back all the scenarios of her getting hurt that tried to bombard him.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“No,” he said gruffly, tugging her to him, cupping her cheeks gently before pressing his lips to hers. He was trying to be mindful of her wounds, but his kiss was urgent. His lips pressed firmly against hers like he was trying to seal them together, to keep her in his arms. As long as she was in his arms, he could keep her safe. His kiss was his apology for letting something bad happen to her, for not protecting her better, for failing her. His kiss was a promise that nothing bad would ever happen to her again. His kiss was everything he could offer her, and she took it.

She met his urgency with her own, nibbling at the seam of his mouth to get him to open up and let her in. Their tongues stroked together, and his breath huffed out of him. When they drew apart, chests heaving with their breaths, he brushed her hair behind her ear and stared down at her. He watched as her eyes filled with tears and his chest ached as they spilled over.

“Don’t cry, honey, I’m sorry,” he murmured, swiping at her cheeks, catching the droplets.

“I was fine until you yelled at me!” she cried. God, he could be a dick sometimes, he needed to learn to control his emotions better. That was one of the reasons he had to see a psychologist in the first place. He tried to reach for her again, but she stepped back, bumping into the kitchen table.

“No! Now it’s my turn, don’t you dare come into my house and shout at me!”

He didn’t have the guts to point out that she was shouting at him for shouting at her.

She wasn’t done. “I came after you because you were in danger and I wanted to warn you. How could I leave you out there with someone who had a gun? I didn’t want you to die, jeez what a terrible person I must be! Pinche estúpido!” she yelled, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“Okay, I get it, I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her again. She reluctantly let him take her hand. “It’s just, when you screamed, and the gun went off, I thought I’d failed again…” he trailed off, looking away. The sound of her scream replaying in his ears, so similar to another scream that haunted him, both echoing in his mind. His throat constricted and his chest started to tighten. Oh no, not now, please! He gripped at his chest, his breathing becoming more labored. He knew what was coming.

“Blake?” Justine stared at him with concern. He turned away from her, trying to overcome the attack. He tried to walk but his legs turned to jelly, his vision began to cloud. He felt hot, his palms dampening as his breath sawed in and out of his chest. His stomach churned as the panic took over. He tried to fight it, but his mind turned to mush.

He stumbled out of the kitchen and into the hallway, not wanting Justine to witness his meltdown. He needed to break in private. No, remember your techniques! His brain shouted through the fog. He tried to think. There was the five to one technique but that was no use, he was too far gone, he couldn’t breathe, and his sight was shot to shit from his panic attack.

“Come on Blake, you know what to do.” Her calm voice penetrated the fog. He tried to recall a positive realization but couldn’t think of anything. He tried ‘then and now’ but he couldn’t focus.

“Come on!” he growled in frustration.

“Come back to me, I know you can do it, you’ve done it before, remember?” she said. She was right, what was it last time? He’d focused on listing objects, picking a color. Okay, you can do this, he chanted. His stomach lurched, and his chest burned from the struggle to breathe properly. He opened his mind to pick a color and the color orange slammed into his brain again. Orange…basketball, Justine in that orange slinky dress, she looked so beautiful in that. Those silly orange earrings she wore that dangled delicately, teasing her neck, making me want to kiss it, she does have a very kissable neck.

Images filled his mind, and his stomach began to settle. Justine’s orange heels digging into my shoulders while I made her fall apart after our first disagreement, the sexy orange pajamas she wore when I pulled her over that night, she looked stunning in the moonlight…his vision began to clear and the tightness in his chest eased up slightly. The orange bra and panty set she wore when we had sex for the first time, God, that night was amazing, she was amazing. The orange candle that flickered on the table that same night when we ate our first dinner together, her eyes shining at me across the table as she called me courageous, and thanked me for my service.

As he came back to himself, he was aware he was crouching down in her hallway. She crouched beside him, stroking her palm across his back in soothing circles. He turned to face her, his embarrassment at suffering another panic attack in her presence written all over his face.

“There you are,” she whispered, a soft smile playing on her lips. He nearly broke, then and there. This woman was incredible. She was open, honest and fearless. What had he done to deserve her help? Her kindness and care were unparalleled. And he’d shouted at her like a cabrón and then had a meltdown. Fantastic. He stood up, shaking out his legs.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize, don’t you see the progress that you made? You pulled yourself out of it!” she gushed and tugged his arm, pulling him back into the kitchen. “How did you do it? Which technique was it you used?” she asked excitedly.

“Uh, it was positive realization,” he lied. He couldn’t tell her he thought about her, she would probably think it was crossing another boundary and her ethics would put another mark against her name.

“That’s amazing, you’re amazing. This calls for a celebration!” She hurried over to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of champagne, their argument forgotten. Opening the cabinet and snatching up two glasses, she came back to him.

“It really doesn’t,” he said, feeling embarrassed again but also enjoying her happiness.

“Every win counts and needs to be celebrated accordingly,” she said, popping the cork. She poured a glass and held it out to him, waggling her eyebrows. He chuckled and accepted the drink, she held hers out.

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