Page 40 of Stray

“It’s different. The scars down there… they aren’t covered.” After what happened to me in that house and then having so many people looking at me down there when I was in the hospital, I wouldn’t let anyone tattoo me in my bikini area.

“Okay, so maybe some more trust-building exercises need to happen before you two get to that part. What about the act of sex?” I scoff at her question.

“What do you mean? You know why I can’t.”

“Ozzy, it’s important for you to voice it.” She says patiently, and I groan while rubbing my temples.

“Besides the fact that I’m mutilated down ther–”

“Try again,” she snaps, refusing to let me say it. I sigh in annoyance.

“Besides the fact that I haven’t come to terms with how I look down there, I fear having someone inside me again. Especially since I know it will feel weird for them.” I whisper, looking at myself in the mirror.

“This isn’t a race, Ozzy. You aren’t going to be okay just like that. Intimacy after trauma isn’t always easy, and like I said, this isn’t linear. You may find yourself okay with intimacy one day and triggered the next, and that’s okay. But you have to be okay and supportive of yourself just as much as your partner needs to be, and it sounds like Jackson wants to try. He doesn’t seem scared from what you’ve stated previously, which I understand can, in turn, amp up your anxiety.”

I roll my eyes at the ridiculous statement, “How can someone not being scared make me anxious?”

“You know exactly how. If Jackson is willing to work with you and not shrink away, that means you don’t have the excuse that you will be a burden on him. Now, I will email you some exercises and resources to help him understand, along with some exercises for you to try and modify the thought process you’re going through. Now, are you ready to discuss how you plan to cope with Morris?” Cold washes over me, and my heart begins to constrict.

“No,” I say shortly. “Actually, I need to go. I have to get ready to get him breakfast. Bye.” I disconnect the call before staring at myself.

“Goddamn it,” I growl before grabbing my clothes for the day. I take off my pajamas, trying to ignore the growing sadness in my chest at the thought of not only having to disappoint Jackson but also coping with Morris. Why would she say that to me? I know he’s not going to be around much longer. I also know that I’m not ready to “cope.”

I walk to my mirror and run a brush through my hair. I really need to get my dark roots touched up. Staring at my bare breasts, I look at the dark floral design running over them, the flowers, lace, leaves, and vines wrapping around me with a large bat under my belly button. It’s as far as I allowed my tattoos to go. Taking a shaky breath, I pull my panties down and look at my pubic area, a sob wracking me.

The crude scars make it impossible for hair to grow and cover it. My brand, marking me forever as his.

BRUMBY

* * *

“Hello?” I say through a yawn as I answer the phone, not bothering to look at the caller ID. I’m too exhausted to care. Between helping the guys load up this morning for the fair, therapy, Morris, and trying to move some of his stuff to the living room while helping Dorothy with chores, I’m ready for a nap.

“Hey, Ozzy,” I furrow my brows at Carter’s nervous voice. It’s a tone I’ve never heard before, well, that, and he didn’t call me hellraiser. “I need help. We’re at the fairgrounds, and something is wrong with Wyatt. I… I don’t know what to do. I’m freaking out, and Jackson is trying to get everything packed up. I want to call 911, but they’re–”

“I’m on my way. Is he breathing?” I ask as I run to Gretchen and turn her on before speeding off towards the fairgrounds.

“Y-yeah, please just hurry.”

* * *

I whip into the vendor area at the fairgrounds and barely throw Gretchen into park before getting out and racing over to Jackson’s truck. I see Carter in the passenger seat, ghost-white and holding his sleeping son to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” I pant as I run my hands over the boy’s head. He whines, and I can feel he’s warm.

“I-I don’t know. He was extra fussy this morning, but I figured he was still adjusting to everything. We got here, and he was okay for like half an hour, and now he won’t stay awake. He’s coughing and burning up.” Relief washes over me as I look up and smile at the panicked man. “Why are you smiling?” he snaps. “Something is–”

“Carter,” I laugh lightly. “I think it’s just a cold. Babies and kids get them a lot. Jackson just got over one, and he’s living around people and germs he hasn’t been exposed to before.” Carter seems indigent at my response.

“I’m not an idiot. I know what a cold is. This is different, though! Look at him!” He shouts in a way I’ve never heard from the playful jokester that is Carter Rowe. It’s actually a bit intimidating.

“Hey,” Jackson’s voice is calm but authoritative. “Let her look at the kid. We all told you it’s a cold.” Carter glares at his brother before allowing him to take the small boy. I walk to the back of Jackson’s truck with him as he grabs his coat and lays it on the back hitch before laying the small boy on it. I grab my bag and go to work, check his temperature, listen to his heart and his breathing.

“Is he drinking and urinating?” I ask Carter, who is pacing back and forth. Carter stops moving as he looks around frantically.

“I- his water cup. I filled it this morning, but did you refill it?” He asks Jackson, who shakes his head. Carter brings the nearly full cup to me as worry and shame fill him. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “I didn’t make sure he was drinking…”

“Hey,” I say calmly. “It’s okay; kids don’t always drink when sick. He’s dehydrated and has a high fever, but higher fevers are normal for smaller kids. Give me a second,” I say as I put my earbud in to make a call.

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