Red, White & Hers Read online

  My brother stares at me intently with dark eyes that are a mirror of my own. “Why won’t you give this a chance, Tru?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t take that risk,” I say and walk away.

  He is right about me feeling better: cognitive-behavioral therapy really helped me a lot when I was dealing with the worst of my PTSD stuff.

  All the exercises and the talking I did and especially gradually getting exposed to my most upsetting thoughts and feelings on purpose really did wonders to make me see how distorted and irrational some of my thinking was and I managed to replace those ideas with healthier, balanced kind of things, but even if the worst right now seems to be behind me, I’m still not entirely over it.

  I still have nightmares from time to time and the stupidest thing, like a noise or even a smell, can trigger me and send my heart slamming against my rib cage, my hands shaking and my blood pressure spiking up as my body tenses all over, ready for a combat situation that’s never going to happen again and then there’s the fact that I’m always on edge, hyper-vigilant and jumpy, which is great for my job, but not so much for my social life.

  Right now I’m okay, but it means nothing.

  I can’t be sure it won’t come back: this kind of shit just sneaks up on you.

  After all, it’s exactly what happened in the first place.

  I mean, I was relatively okay for months when I returned to Philly from deployment after my last MAGTF mission in the Middle East.

  I was fucked up because of the shit I’d seen over there and I was grieving for the comrades that had lost their lives, one of my closest buddies hadn’t made it, and survival guilt was plaguing me day and night, but I was dealing with it.

  Quincy and my cousins insisted I go talk to someone and I did.

  I had a thousand questions running in my head non-stop —they still come back sometimes.

  Why didn’t I get hurt?

  Could I have done something to prevent what happened?

  Was it my fault that Robert hadn’t survived?

  Therapy made me review my role in the events so that I could assess my responsibilities honestly, so that I could see there was nothing I could have done, that my own death could have not prevented other lives from being lost and that my friends wouldn’t have wanted for me to kill myself over their deaths.

  It took me a while to accept the truth of these statements, but when I did, it made my thoughts shift from self-loathing and guilt to what I could do to always remember them, what I could do to honor them and their memories, so I started volunteering, helping other veterans, putting my money to good use and stuff and I was getting better, or so I thought.

  And then my stupid brain just self-destroyed or whatever is it called.

  Immobilization, that’s the word…

  My nervous system was having a delayed reaction to the huge amount of stress I’d been under during my last missions and that’s how all the crazy shit started.

  The nightmares, the vivid flashbacks, the insomnia, the fucking panic attacks in the middle of the day and even worse: the changes I could perceive in myself: my inability to really experience positive emotions, my desire to shutter myself away from the world, the anxiety, the irritability, the loss of interest for anything that didn’t involve keeping my family safe.

  I’ve really been trying, especially for the last year or so and I’ve done it all: meditation, special breathing techniques, martial arts training, running, swimming, punching the bag, rock climbing until I was so bone-tired there was not a single muscle in my body that wasn’t sore and, like Quincy said, I am better, I know that, like I know there has been no trace of my emotional numbness since I first saw Ivy —if anything, I feel too much now—, but it’s not good enough for her.

  I’m in control right now, but I could just as easily not be.

  I know what it feels like, not just to me, but to the people around me: I know how painful it was for my family, how hard it was on my brother and sister particularly and I’m not about to put the woman I love through something like that.

  So yeah, I’m scared: I’m man enough to admit it, but it’s not an irrational, easily dismissed fear this time; some stuff could really come back to haunt me and I don’t want for that shit to touch her, not now, not ever.

  Chapter 2

  IVY

  I look down at my tablet and I feel my face heat up when I realize what I have been doodling has nothing to do with the latest design I should be working on and everything to do with the impossibly hot and totally out of my league man that has been capturing my attention since I made the move to Cox Enterprises’ main office.

  I wrote down his name in the exact way I think of him: in all capitals, bold, large, dark, angular and hard-looking letters with shades of black and bursts of light here and there.

  Truman Cox.

  Crap, even his name is sexy and I so need to get a grip around him!

  Every time he steps into a room, my eyes are riveted to his large, muscular form, so well defined under the elegant cut of his fitted suits.

  I swear I don’t even need to be looking his way for it to happen. He just walks in and even if I don’t catch it, my entire body becomes super aware of everything: I feel him all around me, my skin prickles, my mouth dries up, my hands shake, my heart picks up a mad pace and my fucking glasses steam up sauna-effect then I start to turn around and I just know my eyes will meet his unrelenting gaze and I’m lost.

  I cover my face with my hand as I surreptitiously steal another glance, looking sideways.

  God, why does he have to be this sinfully sexy?

  I gulp as I stare at the Holy Grail of male hotness —possibly looking like a total dumb ass in the process.

  Over six-five feet tall, larger than a mountain and just as rugged and hard, broad shouldered and serious-looking with deep, dark eyes that glint like melted bitter chocolate in the sun, brown hair with a little wave to it, blunted by an almost military-style short cut, that I just want to grasp in my fingers and then there’s his beard...

  Man: God help me with that beard of his!

  Dark, trimmed, but still looking full all over his squared jaw, slightly lighter than his dark hair and impossibly connected through an invisible wire to my nipples and my clit.

  He could put any romance book’s hero to shame.

  And on top of all the majestic, swoon-worthy raunchiness of his ripped physique, I know for a fact that he’s a wonderful guy to boot, couldn’t he at least be bad so that I could fall out of love with him?

  Rumor —and all my social-media stalking— has it that he’s been taking care of his little sister, alongside his older brother, since she was six, this aside from providing the best security on the planet for the company, to the point where even the government consults with him on defense strategies and then there are the many charities and funds he’s financing and the several free centers for veterans’ rehabilitation that he put up all over the country. He seems like he’s the best boss, the best brother, the best cousin. Everybody talks nothing but wonders of him. There’s no falling out of love with someone like him.

  He’s standing with the other execs of the company.

  Yeah, because, not only Mr. Cox is older than me by almost a decade and so tall and built he towers over my plump 5.2 frame, he’s also the boss around here.

  Well, one of the bosses.

  Cox Enterprises is a family tech company: the uncle is the CEO, his cousins are COO and CFO and his brother is the big boss in my department: the VP of marketing.

  And who is Truman?

  He’s the one that keeps everything running smoothly across all the offices all over the world, the one who keeps us all safe, the head of security.

  So this crush I can’t seem to shake is way more inappropriate than simply mooning over a coworker.

  I mean, his last name is out the freaking doors of this huge thirty-five-floor-high building that looks almost
as imposing as him and he’s one of the Big Five around here, a majority shareholder like his brother and cousins.

  He could easily have me fired.

  He would just need to have a word with his brother and the career I’ve been working for since I turned fourteen would just poof disappear and bye-bye recommendations: if I even tried to look for a different job it would have to be oh… in Antarctica where maybe the Cox family doesn’t have this much clout like they do around here.

  Besides, I don’t want to look for another job: I love it in here and not just because I’m in love with Truman. Cox Enterprises is the company that drafted me straight out of college on my second year.

  At first, it was for an internship in my home town, Washington, and then it was a permanent position of assistant in my dream field: graphic design applied to marketing.

  It was amazing and then it got even better because my manager pointed out that there was an opening in the main headquarters for a full-fledged graphic designer role. She encouraged me to send my portfolio and résumé, but I didn’t hold much hope.

  I mean, I’ve always put all of myself in what I do and tried to do my best —I love designing too much to do anything less—, yet I had so little experience, I didn’t think it was possible, but then it did happen.

  Sometimes I can still barely believe it did.

  One moment I was living in a shoe-box apartment in DC, attending college there and trying to put as much as I could aside for a bigger place, and the next, I was hauling a million boxes around —I have a thing for collecting ballerinas and sneakers and way too many paperback romance novels are in my possession to even attempt counting—, moving to Philly, enrolling here to finish earning my degree and starting my dream job in one of the largest and most technologically-advanced companies in the world.

  My life changed completely last year in November —also because I met Truman, but that’s not the point here since this is pretty serious stuff, and I so should stop with the whole drooling over his yummy body and gorgeous face thing, but do I stop?

  Do I freaking stop?

  No, of course I don’t: I can’t.

  And does he help at all in calming down my raging hormones and my crazy-in-love heart?

  No, he doesn’t.

  He just stands there, always close, too close and not close enough at the same time; his presence both a comfort and a torture and his stare always inexplicably on me and I can’t tear my gaze from him.

  I never could, not since the first time my eyes met his dark ones and certainly not after what happened in December.

  We were at the company Christmas party and I was basically in lurking-mode in the darkest corner, probably looking like a loser to all and sundry but there was little I could do about it: I might be many things —hopefully not all bad—, but a social butterfly I am not. I’ve always had a hard time making friends and I’m uncomfortable in larger crowds if there’s not at least one person I know with me.

  So there I was standing, thinking about my parents’ disappointment that I could not go home for Christmas —something I was pretty cut up about as that was the first Christmas Eve I did not spend with them— sipping spiked eggnog I was barely legal to drink in the first place, when some guy decided to come over.

  At first I was pleased, thinking it would be nice if I actually made a friend, but then he showed his true face: he had no friendly chat in mind and tried to make a pass at me.

  I attempted to make him understand I was not interested, politely at first and then more firmly, but I don’t think the words ‘No, thank you’ meant to him what they did to me, I don’t know if he was simply that creepy or just that drunk.

  One moment I was backing away from him, and the next he had me against the wall and my heart was lodged in my throat as he tried to lift my dress up.

  I was doing my best to pull my arm away from his clutches, but he was too big for me to fight off and the corner of the large reception room was dark enough, and the music loud enough, that I didn’t think someone would see or hear what was going on.

  Eggnog splashed all over my pretty new silver ballerina shoes —the fact they were a present my parents’ sent over a few days before Christmas only adding to my upset at the jerk—, the glass shattering on the marble, polished floor, when Truman strode up to us with a murderous look on his face.

  By then I was half in love with him already and what he did that night just sealed my fate.

  Truman pulled him off of me, jerking him backward and smashing him face-first against the wall.

  He didn’t even have to say a word to the jackass: he just turned him back to him and stared at him long and hard and the guy started to shake on the spot, blabbing an apology; his face turning pale and his beady eyes growing large.

  He took several steps away from me, but it wasn’t enough for Truman because he still lunged for him, pinning the idiot to the wall and actually lifting him several inches off the ground, using just a single hand around his neck.

  While he kept him suspended, he turned to look at me and asked in a low, gritty voice if he had touched me.

  I could not talk, I just shook my head no and I saw his large shoulders relax slightly.

  Truman focused again on my assailant, lowering him back on the floor, grasped his arm until his knuckles turned white and the pig whimpered and then he reached out for my hand.

  I instinctively winced, expecting the hold of his fingers to be harsh, considering how pissed-off he looked, but his hand cradled my so gently and it felt so much like home I just wanted to crumple down in relief.

  He dragged us both out of the room and then he let go of me, the memory of his touch burning and buzzing all over the skin of my hand.

  He strode to the elevator, called it and when it opened, he tossed the man in, telling him not to show up after the holidays, not even to collect his things from his office, because if he saw his worthless face again he would not only set all the legal department on his ass, he would personally end him.

  I swear that bastard was so scared, he pissed himself.

  Truman touched his ear and said a few words in what I’m assuming was some type of teensy, almost invisible communicator pinned to the lapel of his jacket and immediately two large guys appeared from nowhere and he asked them to ‘take out the trash’.

  By then I was a total mess, I don’t know what was exactly that made me burst into tears, maybe it was a combination of everything: the fright, the relief at being no worse for wear thanks to Truman, the adrenaline, the admiration at his defense of me and, in large part, the comfort I felt at his very nearness.

  He walked up to me and just held me tight against his hard body until I calmed down; my face burrowing into his hard chest, his manly scent of sandalwood, fire and musk surrounding me.

  I don’t know for how long he held me as my fingers desperately gripped his shoulders and then we slowly separated and he asked if I was okay.

  I nodded and he gave me a small smile, both of his large, warm hands coming up the sides of my neck to cup my face as his head tilted down, my name a whisper on his lips.

  I was sure he was going to kiss me, my heart missed a beat and my breath just stopped, but he never did.

  He left without saying another word and from then on, our interactions have been limited to hellos and goodbyes muttered when we meet in one of the halls or in a lift. No more, no less.

  “Dude, you’re totally spacing out, staring at Mr. Dreamboat over there…”

  I jump when I hear the voice of Ava as she slides on the bench with me, her fingers touching my shoulder.

  She’s a couple of years younger than me and has been working in our IT department doing God knows what —she’s super funny, but when she starts talking about coding and programing and servers, my brain just shuts off— for about a month.

  I met her on her first day actually, and we’ve been close ever since.

  She is the very first frien
d I made here. Took me only eight months this time to find a person I could trust and speak to. I’m getting better at this.

  I smile at her. “You know I can’t help it…”

  She giggles, her eyes sweeping from Mr. Cox, to Mr. Cox, to Mr. Cox, until they stop and linger on what I’m sure she’s hoping would be her Mr. Cox: Theodore.

  “Don’t know about that… I mean: he’s sex on a stick sure, but too much the brooding type for me.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, you’re more into blue eyes anyway,” I tease.

  She grins a little. “Guilty as charged.”

  I switch off my tablet and pick it up. “Anyway, he can brood all he wants as long as he looks my way… is he still—?”

  “Yeah, he’s staring alright! He has been doing nothing else since I got here. And before you ask, it has been a solid five minutes: you’re both too cute to look away, he with his ripping-your-clothes-off-from-a-distance and you with the dreamy-drooly-sighy-trance.”

  I glare at her. “Like you’re any better…”

  She blushes and looks away, her long fiery curls hiding her face for a moment.

  Can’t blame her: all four of the guys, even Jefferson that right now is not around —not surprisingly as that man rarely leaves his office, he’s a workaholic if I’ve ever seen one— must come from an incredibly deep, totally hot genetic pool of gorgeousness or something.

  I sigh. “And he’s… he’s not doing any of that. I… I don’t know why he stares, but it can’t be because he likes me, I told you: I’ve been here eight months and he’s never done anything. I… I’m starting to think that maybe what he gives me is more like a thunderous scowl, rather than smoldering stare: I don’t think he likes having me around very much.”

  Ava shakes her head, laughing. “Girl, you’re so off the mark right now I can’t even, ugh!” she huffs and turns around, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me until I laugh. “He’s shy… that’s all. Go talk to him: girls can make the first move, you know? This is the twenty-first century! Maybe he’s afraid you’ll turn him down or something.”