The other Angels join us as I’m being questioned by police officers in a private room. It’s excruciating. Nurses keep interrupting to stab me with needles or check my vitals, and Matt and Glen won’t stop growling at the officers for ‘pushing me too hard’. It’s driving me up the wall. I have to talk to the police, and the sooner I finish, the sooner I can leave, but they’re both acting like I might break down at any moment.
I eventually send them both out before they get tazed or stabbed with a scalpel, and stay with Kenta. He sits in the chair opposite me, watching me with dark eyes. Letting me do what I need to do. Trusting that I’m strong enough to do it. When I hold out my hand, he comes and takes it, massaging my fingers as I dully recount everything that happened to the police. I feel odd and distant, like someone else is operating my body, and I’m just watching it happen.
Eventually, I’m let loose from the hospital with some painkillers, antibiotic cream, and a diagnosis of ‘two superficial lacerations, and symptoms of psychological shock’. The doctors try to keep me in overnight for observation, which is dumb, since they’ve basically admitted that the only thing wrong with me is a couple of cuts and a case of anxiety. I have to put my foot down, but eventually they let me go.
We drive back to the hotel in silence. I sit in the back seat with Glen’s arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Matt is sitting in the front passenger seat as Kenta drives. He’s frozen in place, staring straight ahead at the road. He hasn’t said one word to me since he tackled me back at the cabin. He hasn’t even made eye contact. He’s ignoring me completely. Because apparently, my day hasn’t been bad enough.
We get a lot of odd looks when we traipse into the hotel foyer. I’m not surprised. We’re all dirty and stained. I’m wearing a hospital gown under Glen’s jacket. Matt’s white shirt is covered in so much blood, he looks like he murdered someone.
We make it back to the suite, and I shuffle like a zombie into the bathroom. I pee, wash my hands, then stand and stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, my reflection looks hard. Sharp. My face is all shadows and highlights, like a mask. I study my expression for any kind of life, any spark of emotion, but there’s nothing at all.
I don’t know how I feel, and it’s scaring me. I should be crying. Or panicking. Or relieved. Or angry. I should be feeling some kind of emotion, but I’m not. I’m just numb and tired. Too tired to even stand.
Slowly, I sink down onto the bathmat. The soft blue fabric feels fluffy and comforting under my skin, so I lay myself carefully down and close my eyes. It feels like gravity is pulling me down. I know I should get up and wash, but I can’t.
I can’t.
I don’t think I can do anything, right now. I’m empty.
I’m just starting to sink into sleep when I hear a knock at the door. “Briar?” Glen calls, in his low, rolling burr. “Are you okay in there?”
I open my mouth, but I’m too heavy to move. I hear the door shove open, then Glen’s sharp intake of breath.
“Briar?” He sounds horrified. Guilt squeezes me. He steps closer, dropping to his knees next to me. “Shit, did you fall? Do you feel dizzy? Oh, God, baby, we need to drive you back to the ER—”
“No. ‘M okay,” I mumble.
“Yeah?” He brushes some hair away from my face, his expression soft. “Did you have another panic attack, love?”
I shake my head. “I just—” I try to think of the reason I’m lying on the ground. “I can’t do it?”
“Can’t do what?”
“Anything. I’m really tired.”
He makes a low noise. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. Here.” Big hands lift me up, hooking under my armpits to avoid touching my hip. Glen sets me gently on the rim of the bath, then gets to work stripping off the hospital gown. I watch him uncover my bloody skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as he picks a flannel out of the basket of complimentary bathroom products, running it under the tap.
“For what, sweetheart?” He kneels at my feet, carefully taking my foot in his hand and swiping it clean.
“Not being able to do it myself.” I’m just sitting here like a sad, naked lump.
He looks up at me. “It’s normal, love. I’ve seen it with plenty of guys after they’ve been fighting.”
I watch as he rubs the flannel up my calf. “Mm?”
“Yeah. Hell, after we got brought back to hospital after our last tour, I don’t think Kenny spoke for a week. Just sat in his bed all day, staring at the wall. Sometimes your brain needs to recover.” He kisses my knee. “It’ll pass. I promise.”
I nod.
Glen cleans my entire body in soft, soothing strokes, then wrings the flannel out and tosses it into the trash. “You want me to wash your hair, sweetheart?”
I think, then nod. My hair is full of sweat and dirt and blood. I let him tip my head back in the sink, carefully shampooing my scalp under the warm running water. His fingers are rough, but almost unbearably tender as he rinses away the grime. We don’t say much. I close my eyes, basking in his touch. One tiny thread of emotion tugs inside me, shining through the big cavernous emptiness in my brain.
“I love you,” I whisper, and he sighs and bends over me, pressing his mouth very gently to mine.
“The feeling’s mutual, lass.”
When I’m as clean as I’m going to get, Glen dries off my hair, then brings me one of his shirts and a pair of joggers. As we head back into the lounge, Kenta is setting out foil takeaway containers on the coffee table.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, wavering. I think of the plate of roast chicken and almost run back to the bathroom to hurl.
Glen squeezes my shoulder, leading me to the sofa. “Just try it. We’ve got a bit of everything. Just grab whatever takes your fancy.”
Matt, who hasn’t changed out of his stained suit, swoops in and grabs a box at random, heading for the balcony. “I’ll keep guard,” he mutters.
“For what?” I snap, my voice cold. “He’s gone.”
He pauses in the doorway, then slides open the glass pane and steps outside.
“You want the black bean noodles?” Kenta offers me a box. “Spring rolls?”
I shake my head, pressing my face into Glen’s neck and sucking up his scent.
Kenta sits down next to me. I might be imagining it, but he looks shockingly pale. “You lost blood, sweetheart. And you threw up everything in your stomach. You should eat something.”
“I still feel sick.”
“Just some plain rice, then.” He leans over to scoop some onto a plate. “It might make you feel better.”
Glen rubs his scratchy cheek against mine, and I feel something tightening in my throat. My lip starts to wobble. Kenta hands me the small portion of rice. I take it, lift the fork to my mouth—then immediately burst into tears.
Glen holds me tighter. “Oh, Briar.”
“It’s not fair!” I shout. It’s like a dam has collapsed inside of me, and I’m suddenly being swamped with emotion. With anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You didn’t,” they both soothe.
I wave my hand at the balcony door. “Then why the Hell is he hiding from me?! Why is he acting like I messed up? Why am I getting the silent treatment?!”
Kenta pauses. “Wait. You mean Matt?”
“I got stabbed and he won’t hold me.” I grit my teeth, wiping my cheeks angrily.
The men share a look. “He’s scared,” Kenta says.
“He’s scared.” I stand up, dropping my plate onto the table with a loud clatter. “This man was in the SAS, but he’s too much of a coward to give me a hug? I’m scared, too, for God’s sake. I thought he cared about that!”
“I think he understands guns a lot more than his own feelings,” Kenta says ruefully.
“I don’t care!” Flicking back my damp hair, I stomp over to the terrace and shove open the sliding door. Matt is sitting in a garden chair, staring out over the skyline. LA glitters below us, full of brightly coloured lights.
“You’re keeping watch on the balcony?” I bite out. “Isn’t that a sniper risk, or something?”
He turns and looks at me. A jolt runs through me as his cool eyes meet mine. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other. I try to sort through the emotions blowing through my mind. Hurt, that he isn’t talking to me. Anger, that he lied to me. Relief, that he’s okay.
Love, drawing me into him like I’m a shell caught in a tide.
I scowl, shoving the feeling down. “I’m really cold,” I mutter.
“It’s an anxiety response,” he says slowly. “Adrenaline forces blood to your internal organs so you can defend yourself more efficiently. The loss of circulation can make you feel cold.”
I snort. “Yeah, thanks, WebMD.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m cold,” I repeat.
“Do you want to go back inside?”
“No.”
He shifts, tugging at his rumpled, dirty tux. “Want my jacket?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No.”
He waits. A couple beats pass. “Then… what are you waiting for?”
“For you to offer to warm me up, dumbass.”
“Oh.” He pauses, then tentatively opens his arms. I climb into them, nestling against his chest. I can hear his heart thumping against my ear. “I thought—”
“I’m still mad at you,” I warn him. “But I can be mad and hug you at the same time.”
“Okay.” He sounds kind of dazed. I burrow my face in him, trying to breathe evenly. We’re quiet for a while. Car engines hum in the streets below, and I hear some drunken shouts spiralling through the night. A light breeze touches my hair. Police sirens wail past, and I start to cry again. He tugs me closer.
“I’m sorry,” he roughs out. “Briar, I’m so sorry. None of this would’ve happened if I’d just been honest with you.”
I clutch my fist in his shirt. “What hurt me most was that you thought so little of me. That you thought I was spoiled and selfish and stupid enough to put other people’s lives in danger, j-just to get back at this guy. I really thought you knew me. That you respected me.”
He frowns. “I don’t think little of you. I was just so scared. So, so scared of losing you. When you’re leading a team, you’re responsible for their lives. And sometimes—you pick wrong.” I hear him swallow. “I tried to play it safe, but it backfired, and I’m sorry. I needed you alive, and in my head, keeping you in the dark was the best possible way of doing that.” He sighs. “I underestimated you.”
“You did. And bombs went off because of it. I put people in danger, because you didn’t give me the full picture. People were injured because of me, Matt. I know you know how that feels. Why the Hell would you make me do that?”
He flinches. “I… I’ve lost people before. Friends. Brothers. I’ve seen them die in front of me. And every goddamn time, I feel a bit of myself die with them. I take their wedding rings home to their wives and look at their babies who don’t have a dad anymore, and I feel a piece more dead than I did before. But I’ve never…” He shakes his head. “A bit of me wouldn’t have died, if you went. I just wouldn’t exist anymore. I’d—I’d be done. It would all just go dark. I wouldn’t come back from it.”
“Mm.” I run a finger up the front of his shirt. “I love you, too.”
His breath hitches in his chest. He goes very still around me, apart from the one hand stroking soothingly up and down my back. I nuzzle into him, feeling the choking knot of strong emotions in my chest slowly loosen and unravel. I’m almost asleep when I feel something warm drip into my hair. “I—are you crying?”
I try to look up and peer at his face, but he just clasps me tighter to him. His chest shudders against me. Another tear splashes onto my cheek.
Behind us, the door to the balcony cracks open, and the others step out.
“Is she sleeping?” Kenta asks. I shake my head, but before I can speak, Matt starts to talk.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I messed up. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I know from the tone of his voice that he’s not talking about what happened tonight. I try to wiggle away, to give the men better access to each other, but Matt grabs at me like a comfort blanket, dragging me back onto his lap.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Kenta says, his face calm. “You know that.”
“Never blamed ye,” Glen mutters thickly, coming to stand by my side. “We’d both have done the same. You were just following orders.” His hand drops to my face, and he cups my cheek with calloused fingers. I tip into the touch.
“I know you don’t blame me,” Matt protests, “but—”
Kenta puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go,” he says gently. “It’s time.”
Matt nods jerkily.
I smile up at him. “Does this mean you’ll finally go to therapy?”
He laughs shakily, nodding. “I didn’t want…” The words catch in his throat. I suddenly understand.
“You didn’t want to forget what happened. You wanted to punish yourself with the nightmares and the flashbacks.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. Glen gives him an awkward slap on the back, and I roll my eyes. These men have gone through Hell together, and they’re slapping each other on the back like fraternity dudebros. I grab Glen’s wrist and yank him down to my level. “Hug him,” I order. He does, wrapping his arms around us both. After a moment, Kenta does the same, crouching next to us and joining the huddle. For a while, we all just sit there, pressed together. I curl up between them, breathing them all in. It feels amazing.
Eventually, though, someone shifts, and I hiss as an elbow knocks into my side.
Like clockwork, the men stand. Matt picks me up and carries me back inside, and the others follow, shutting the balcony door behind them. Someone’s made a sort of nest on the giant sofa, dragged in all of the quilts, blankets, and squishy pillows in the suite.
“We won’t all fit comfortably in one bed,” Kenta explains. “You can sleep in your room if you prefer, but we’d like to all be with you, tonight.”
I nod and burrow down in the quilts, shivering. The guys crowd around me. I fall asleep fast, with my head tucked into someone’s shoulder, and somebody else gently stroking through my hair.
