The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

then the rifle is pointed at him, and I shout, “Sergeant Colton, don’t do it!” Then there’s a hand grabbing my arm and shaking, shaking hard. My mind is fogged, I think the hand is trying to pull my rifle away and I scream and kick, and I hear Carrie scream.

My eyes jerked open as I heard her scream followed by a loud crack. Disoriented, I looked around the still dim room, the lights not quite off. In a fraction of a second my eyes focused and found Carrie.

She was nude, her back against the wall where ... I’d thrown her? Her eyes were open in shock, staring at me. Dazed.

That shocked me back into the present, my senses suddenly sharp. I yelled, “Carrie? Oh, shit!” and jumped out of the bed and ran to her. She raised her arms—as if to ward me off—and I said, “Oh, God, baby, I’m so sorry!”

She seemed too shocked to react. With effortlessness born of adrenaline and fear and that awful nightmare, I scooped her up into my arms and laid her gently on the bed. “Carrie ... I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, shit, shit, shit.”

She shook her head, still not talking, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. I traced my fingers along the back of her head, checking for bumps, bleeding, head injuries of any kind.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Not hurt.”

Oh, God. The fear swept out of me, all at once, and I wanted to collapse. What the fuck just happened?

She shivered, goose bumps appearing on her arms and breasts, and it hit me then how cold it was in here. I leaned over, grabbing the blanket off the floor and swept it over us. “I’m so sorry, Carrie. I was asleep ... I didn’t mean to do that. Jesus Christ.”

I was shaking, and she was too. I slid under the blanket next to her, gently pulled her into my arms, and whispered, “Seriously, are you okay?”

She slowly nodded, then turned toward me. “I’m fine ... are you? That must have been some dream.”

“Carrie ... I’d never hurt you. Never.”

Christ almighty, what the fuck had I done?

She touched the side of my face and looked me in the eye. It was dim, but I could see the worry and fear in her eyes. “I know that, Ray. I know.”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said, my voice rough.

Her face twitched, fear flashing across her eyes. That quickly morphed to anger. “Ray. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“But ... what if I’d seriously hurt you?”

“Shut up. Kiss me.”

I swallowed and pulled her to me. Not a kiss. An embrace, trying with all my might to reassure, to wash away the fear, to bring our souls together, to memorize the feel of her body, the brush of her hair, the scent of her skin. I was still shaking. Then we repositioned, Carrie laying against my side, her head half on the pillow and half on my shoulder.

It took her a long, long time to fall back asleep.

That was okay. I waited patiently, as her breathing steadily lengthened, slowed. Once I was sure she was asleep, I continued waiting. Watching her, studying her face, the curve of her cheek. She had a slightly upturned nose, and in her sleep she looked closer to seventeen than twenty-seven. I knew from our long talks that she was a mature, levelheaded, experienced woman. But I also knew that she’d never experienced anything like the gulf of pain and anguish that came along with a war.

Part of me thought I should just walk away before it got too serious. But I knew that was no answer.

Once she was finally in a deep sleep, I slipped out of the bed, pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, and walked out to the balcony. She had two cast iron chairs on the balcony, and a small table. It was bitterly cold outside, but I welcomed that. I wasn’t in any space to go back to sleep right now. Instead, I lit a cigarette and looked out at the traffic winding through the streets of Houston far below. From her fourteenth floor balcony, I could see Park Plaza Hospital across the street, and the campus of Rice University spread out to my left. It was a beautiful view, even if it was ice cold out here.

How many weeks ago had I said to Dylan Paris that he was a fucking idiot for stepping back from Alex? Because of his worries about the war? Because he was afraid of hurting her? Not that many.

All right ... I wasn’t going to go there. But I wasn’t going to hide it either. Because no matter how much joking I did, no matter how much good friendly advice I doled out to friends? I hadn’t talked with anyone about what happened. I hadn’t told anyone. And if tonight was anything to go by, that silence was taking its toll.

I’d talk with her. And let her make a decision. If she wanted to walk away at that point, at least she had a choice in the matter.

The problem was ... I really wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wasn’t even ready to think about it. I carefully crushed my cigarette against the bottom of my shoe then lit another one. I’d been smoking too much lately. I didn’t smoke at all before the Army, but when there are people trying to kill you, cancer risk just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.

I needed to talk with Dylan about it, too. I’d known that since I’d come home. But he’d been so screwed up—over his injury, over Alex—I didn’t want to mess with his head any more than he’d already had it screwed up. He’d said it more than once: Sergeant Colton was a father figure to him. And there are few things worse than having your father destroy everything. Dylan had a right to know. Fact was,