Phoenix (Flames & Ashes Book 1) Read online

  Pushing back, I let the cushions hug me tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I see the mutilation every day. You have any idea what it was like to see it, and not remember how it got there. It’s like trying to balance while standing in the center of a teeter-totter.” And now I’d lost my footing and slid into a black abyss. “For twenty-five years, I’ve worn the evidence with a warped sense of blissful ignorance. It never gets easier to see. It’s always shocking. But the lack of context helped me accept what I couldn’t change. Why now?”

  “Could be a number of reasons, but you’ve been getting better since they started. I hope you can at least acknowledge your progress.”

  Dr. Rhodes kept me grounded in my safe place, as psycho-babbly as that sounded, even to me.

  My head became too heavy and I let it fall against the back of the couch. “My career is going well. Teaching self-defense on Saturdays makes me feel like I’m helping in some small way.” I met her gaze. “You were right about going back to a public gym. It’s become my solace. I have friends there now. I know you consider that progress. But the nightmares . . . ”

  She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. “That is progress. We’re not looking for perfection. It’s a process. However, when I suggested you go back to the gym outside of your Krav Maga training, I didn’t mean for you to go at two a.m. Your body needs sleep.”

  The sigh slipped out before I could stop it. There wasn’t one person in my life who didn’t harp on my lack of sleep. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping. Even before the nightmares started. Besides, they—ah, the episodes—come more often now. Sometimes when I dream, I get snippets of the . . . event. But they’re like disjointed and obscure movie trailers. Now this—full on Technicolor details complete with sensory awareness?”

  Digging my fingers into my temples for a second, I tried to lessen the pounding inside my head. I shoved my arms through my jacket sleeves and retrieved the pillow. Small, fluffy feathers floated about my face. I peeked down at a small rip in the material under my white knuckles.

  Dr. Rhodes sat forward. “You’ve experienced a form of psychogenic amnesia called ‘situation-specific psychogenic amnesia.’ It’s related to PTSD. There is no statute of limitations on when you remember a trauma, Toni, especially since you did suffer a serious brain injury at the time of the attack.”

  “I realize that, but I rehabilitated well. I was lucky.”

  “You were, but you did sustain cognitive and social-emotional effects—in your case, significant memory loss, anxiety, and depression. Memory retrieval decades later isn’t a surprise, especially since you were immediately given a new life far removed from all associations attached to the attack. Every person who experiences physical and mental trauma responds differently. You repressed the memories. As for why now? You eventually got married—”

  “Wait.” I bolted up, interrupting her. “I’m sorry, but what does he have to do with any of this?”

  She regarded me patiently in a manner that reminded me of my mother.

  The only man I’d ever cared for had thrown me away like trash. Like I was nothing. I’d had trouble seeing through the fog of worthlessness, self-loathing, and un-lovability that comes when you watch the person who vowed to love you grow disgusted at the sight of you.

  A lot of people had to deal with bad divorces—I was no different in that way.

  But abduction? Mutilation? A botched murder attempt? “I don’t see how one situation has anything to do with the other.”

  “Distractors, Toni. You got married for the wrong reasons and that has everything to do with deflecting the past. The emotional abuse in your marriage functioned as a constant distractor. You dealt with that . . . not the attack. Now you aren’t as distracted as you were and parts of your past are coming back to you.”

  I sat up straighter. “I see what you’re saying in theory, but I knew what happened to me before I was married—way before. So why not then? I knew and I had no trouble functioning, even with the ramifications of the divorce. I was fine until two years ago.”

  Even knowing what had happened to me, I wasn’t an unhappy person, and I didn’t view myself as a victim. Wrong place, wrong time. End of story. But this? “Memory retrieval?” Contaminating a life I’d worked damn hard for, which was now fracturing around me? I could have lived with knowing the story—a vast difference from having to experience it.

  She shook her head. “Before has become irrelevant. After the divorce, something eventually triggered the repressed memories. Time heals, yes, but time can also allow specific memories we compartmentalize in the psyche to creep up when the subconscious is at rest.”

  I couldn’t reconcile any of this logically—I couldn’t. Gray areas weren’t my forte. Give it to me in black or white and make sure it’s something I can buy into. This kind of talk made me want to go to a mountain and chant, or something.

  “So . . . you’re suggesting my divorce and its aftermath kept my past buried?”

  “We get consumed with our present. Our present happiness, our present pain, and the rest gets stored somewhere in the mind. For some people, the most present emotive event takes precedence over anything else. You experienced extensive physical and psychological injuries very young—injuries that should have killed you. Psychological trauma heals differently than the physical. You can’t cut it out or sew it up. You have to confront it. Before the nightmares, did you remember anything? Feel anything that made you uncomfortable?”

  “Nothing besides a few unexplained oddities.” Tingling exploded through my already numb fingertips. My heartbeat double-timed. “A—a few German phrases I don’t remember hearing before.” I glanced up to see her nodding in encouragement. “Barking—most people get upset when dogs bark. I never have. It calms me. Since moving here, I’ve been leery of large men. I don’t remember feeling that way before—And— and being strapped down. I don’t know why. But the thought of being strapped down to anything . . . ” Every tiny hair on my arms raised and I shuddered the thought away. “That—that’s all. Until now.”

  “So now, we deal with the new memories. As for you functioning, as you put it, you function well in the environment you’ve created . . . a safe, low-risk environment.” I knew this lead in. Here it comes. “It’s been four years and you haven’t dated once. Don’t you want to meet someone and experience a healthy relationship?”

  As if I could? I yanked off my jacket again. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

  Healthy relationship. The suggestion was almost cruel. “How did we get to my love life, or lack thereof, Dr. Rhodes? I’m not writing off men, but do you genuinely think now’s the time for me to date? Who’d want to deal with me . . . like this?”

  Talk about baggage.

  “I wouldn’t want you using this situation as an excuse to shut yourself up again.”

  “I think this is more than a ‘situation,’ don’t you?”

  Her lips pursed, clearly disappointed as she leaned toward me. “I’m not trivializing what is happening to you, but I’m also not going to justify you putting your life on hold. I’m asking that you push your boundaries, even with the flashbacks and nightmares. You’re strong enough to do that. Endure the discomfort. You deserve a full sexual life . . . one without shame or fear. While you’ve made progress, you’re reclusive. You don’t go out—”

  “I am not reclusive and I do go out.”

  “The gym and the grocery store don’t count. I mean out. Work on going out in public. Mingle with different people.”

  Mingle? My forearms burned, stung, like I’d shoved them into a red anthill. I eased some of the itchiness, dragging my fingernails over my damp skin. “How am I supposed to get to know someone when I’m—not right? I’m not normal.”

  I’m—broken.

  “Your past hasn’t made you abnormal; it’s left you with scars that need to heal and memories you need to confront. Getting out of your comfort zone is the goal. Tolerate the pain, the fear, in order to heal. I
n order to have a better quality of life. No excuses.”

  And there it was, the gauntlet. I had a problem with the word “excuses.” I didn’t do them. No top athlete did. I don’t care how many decades had passed . . . no excuses.

  Dealing with myself right now was bad enough. How was I supposed to deal with a man, or a man’s needs? I mean it wasn’t like I didn’t want to experience a healthy relationship or good sex. I wasn’t a nun, for fuck’s sake, but I was a realist. Men tended to like physical perfection, and perfect I was not, nor would I ever be. That was fact. Not an excuse.

  “You haven’t met anybody?”

  “No.”

  But then he popped into my head.

  The gorgeous new guy at the gym . . . the Redwood.

  I didn’t know his name, so I thought “the Redwood” was an accurate and amusing nickname, since he was about that tall. I had never spoken to him, but if any man could make me wish I were normal, he’d be the one. Then again, he was massive, and in my world, aesthetic beauty did not trump the size and strength of any man who could bench-press an SUV.

  “You’re flushed.” Dr. Rhodes sat back with a calming grin, which usually set me at ease.

  Fanning my face, I shrugged the comment off. “It happens all the time.”

  With a raised eyebrow, she stopped what she was doing and the full impact of her astute gaze fell on me. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to share with me?”

  “There’s nothing to share.” I hadn’t met the man. Besides, I already didn’t like him. I hated the way my entire body heated the second he walked into the gym and my heart rate took off at light speed. I hated that I thought about him at all, because as a rule I did not waste time on the unattainable. I shouldn’t feel . . . tingly . . . about a man I didn’t know. I was smarter than that.

  “Have you met someone, Toni?”

  I shook my head. “Nobody new. We have a few new faces at the gym.”

  Crossing her legs, she placed both hands around her knee. “You can’t be afraid of interacting with available men.” She tilted her head.

  The sympathy that crept into her gaze made my stomach contract and my skin crawl—sympathy from anyone made me physically ill.

  I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. I don’t want a man in my life. What’s the big fucking deal?

  Not wanting her to see the rage I knew would be all over my face, I glanced down at my hands. “Fear isn’t the right word. Besides, my workload is heavy right now. I don’t have time for men. Oh, and that little problem of my past coming back whenever it damn well feels like it.”

  “Your past, we can handle.”

  Glad one of us was so confident . . .

  She looked at the little clock to my left. The sign that time was up.

  Thank Christ! Flashbacks, men, and sex—all things I didn’t need to think about. I had bigger demons demanding my full attention.

  One breath at a time, one day at a time. One breath at a time, one day at a time . . .

  “Toni, one last thing.”

  “Of course.” I frantically searched for my keys in my black hole of a purse. The urge to dump my purse out in a flat-out panic was almost uncontrollable.

  “The ‘new faces’ at the gym you mentioned . . . any particular interest in any of them?”

  I stopped digging and met her gaze.

  To my utter horror, I could admit at least to myself that I was interested the first time I’d seen the Redwood. More . . . fascinated. And scared to death. A slow heat burned down my chest, over my arms and lower just thinking about him. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?

  His eyes. He has warm eyes and a kind face.

  I shrugged a shoulder, brushing her comment off. “Some look friendly enough.”

  She held the door open and followed me out to the small lobby. “Friendly is a good start.”

  2

  Valentina

  The bite of disinfectant mixed with remnants of colognes generations of males who still hadn’t learned to correctly apply it. Why was that? What was it with men and too much cologne? Was scent application something mothers instinctively taught girls, but fathers just blew it off? It really should have been a coming of age discussion, right up there with condoms in the wallet. At least at this hour, it only lingered instead of overwhelmed.

  Traces of sweat permeated the rubber floor mats and the vinyl of every workout bench in the room, which, being a freak, I thoroughly disinfected before using. The strange thing, though, was this place—even with its musty, uncirculated air—had become my sanctuary. My gym qualified as the only other place where I felt relatively calm outside of my house.

  I picked up the twenty-pound dumbbells and set up in the same spot I did every morning.

  Four sets of twenty hammer curls. Here we go . . .

  Jesus. When did twenty pounds start feeling like fifty? No weakness—push harder.

  A quick burn shot through my biceps with each agonizing repetition. Not even halfway through the first set, I instantly regretted not running out last night for pre-workout. The coffee I’d substituted wasn’t coming close to getting it done. Sleepless nights had manifested in a systemic lethargy. Most weeks I worked out seven days, unless my body genuinely rebelled, which it seemed committed to doing right now.

  Hardwired not to do anything half-ass, I pushed through all four sets, dropped the weights after the last rep, and collapsed on my bench. The terrycloth towel scratched at my tender face as I wiped my wet cheeks. And damn it to hell, I couldn’t fight the impulse to glance up at the wall-clock.

  3:45 a.m. He should walk in any time . . .

  Checking the clock now? That’s what we’ve resorted to, huh?

  I jerked my head back and forth.

  No men. No men. No men!

  Arms—check. I heaved my bag over my shoulder and moved to the free weight leg press. A hard leg workout it is. My legs needed the work, anyway, and I hadn’t maxed out on leg press in over a week.

  Two weeks were all I had before my third Krav Maga black belt test. My blood pressure skyrocketed when I thought about failing the first two times. The attack from behind. The millisecond of paralysis always set in before instinct, and damn it, I was better than that. Despite acing the rest of the exam, Instructor Kovov had still failed me, and rightly so. In my world, ninety-nine percent didn’t get rewarded.

  What happens when you fail? Work harder . . . failure gets you hurt, or worse . . .

  Warming up with 270 pounds on the leg press, I slowed the reps down. My quadriceps strained, heated, and the pressure of the weight up top settled deep into my muscles. The right amount of overexertion got my head straight.

  Everyone yelled at me for spending too much time in the gym. But they didn’t understand. Since last week’s meeting with Dr. Rhodes, I hadn’t had another flashback, and I planned to keep busy enough to keep that streak alive. My past needed to stay dead or repressed. I didn’t care which one, as long as it stayed gone.

  Finishing my warm-up set, I stood and walked around, letting the blood return to my muscles before I racked one more plate on each side. As I got situated back in the seat, a tall figure in a navy blue hoodie penetrated my peripheral vision. I checked the clock on my phone.

  He’s late. 4:10.

  A sound similar to tires screeching on the asphalt blared through my head.

  Seriously? You actually realize he’s late?

  My heart pounded like a double bass drum. Despite this, I was about to deal with 360 pounds up on the press. Time to get focused. Concentrating on pushing from my heels, I began a methodical set of twenty reps, but could still make him out across the gym.

  Somehow, just knowing he was in the gym calmed me. His presence—his monstrous, intimidating presence—ironically evened me out. Calm, chaos, calm, chaos. The man turned me into a fucking paradox of emotion—each one stronger than the one before.

  Don’t you dare look at him!

  But seeing him was un
avoidable. He towered over everyone else in the gym and most of the equipment. At least six-foot-six, maybe six-foot-seven, he was just so damn tall—like a redwood. Well done, on that nickname.

  He dropped his gear at the squat rack, his shoulders and back taking up most of the square cage. The man was simply mammoth . . . and beautiful. Those were the only two words worthy of him. I tirelessly reminded myself of the mammoth part because it was the important one. The one I couldn’t get around. No matter how stunning he was.

  In all my years, I’d never been as fascinated with a man as I was with the Redwood. The contradiction of anxiety and attraction jolting through my body whenever he was within ten feet of me shot all logic straight to hell. My head ached from trying to figure out why my body went nuclear in his presence. I hadn’t experienced anything this intense ever, and I’d been married to a good-looking man for ten years—a first-class dick, yes, but a good-looking one just the same. Not like the Redwood, though.

  He wore his mid-shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair in a man-bun at the nape of his neck under a faded blue baseball hat. What man had hair that long and looked that good with a man-bun? And when he turned the hat backwards for certain machines, I lit up like a damn groupie at a concert—humiliation at its best. A tight beard framed his strong jaw and full, sensual lips, which often turned up in the sexiest grin when he said good morning.

  I locked the rack back in and dropped the weight with a loud thud before jumping up out of the seat. No. The Redwood was so far out of my league my internal musing was comical. I couldn’t reconcile why someone so wrong for me, whom I’d never met, had taken up a significant portion of my thoughts ever since he’d walked into our gym a few weeks ago. I wanted nothing to do with him. He was too big, too gorgeous, and I had no time.

  Men like him don’t want women who look like you without clothes on. Just a fact. For confirmation, see divorce papers.