Until one night, when I was thirteen.
That’s the night I had enough and decided that God only helps those who help themselves.
So I helped myself by finally creating my own luck.
* * * *
There’s a part of me terrified by the new and improved George Samson Forrester, the man who survived his own Hell, and what I believe he’s now capable of because of it.
There’s also a part of me even more terrified by how much I want to be apartof it.
Craveit.
To the point that the dark voice, which once counseled me on taking charge of my own destiny, is actually begging me to accept what is being freely offered by the hurricane that is George and Declan.
Yet I haven’t let myself give in. I…can’t.
I’ve envied Declan for so long. For how he trusted me. Then, later, for how quickly he accepted what he had with George, and how he even thrives within it. In such a short amount of time, too.
Whether or not either man understands it, George has healed Declan. From when I first introduced Declan to George, he’s always admired and respected George.
Now? Declan also has George’s full acceptance.
His validation. His respect. His admiration.
His completely besotted love.
Despite being one evil motherfucker of a sadist and Dom, the most powerful man in Tennessee will twist himself inside out to make Declan happy, and I think that’s finally starting to dawn on the boy. It’s damned adorable, at times.
Likewise, Declan has definitely healed George. Probably even saved his life.
I mean, if I’m truly honest, there’s no probably about it. George finally admitted to me what I’d suspected, that he’d considered committing suicide, just to make the sound of the wind and the screaming in his brain go away. Those lovely reminders from the plane crash that almost killed him, and did kill my best friend—his wife, Ellen.
A woman who was my girl, once upon a time.
Maybe George and Declan saved each other.
That’s a good thing, right?
Except…
Who’s going to saveme? There’s an irony that the noises in George’s head have mostly gone away with Declan in his bed every night, while my mental noises have returned louder than ever.
I feel like I’m on the outside of the sweet, loving bubble that they share, and I’m looking in without any way to actually access what they’ve offered me.
Totally my fault, not theirs.
It should be easy, right? To simply open myself and accept what they’re offering me? But it’s never that easy, unfortunately. Not for me.
When I feel like I’ve had too much of it, like I might finally be close to achieving that complete trust I’ve always longed for, terror overtakes me, dark nightmares reminding me of my past. Then I pull back, withdrawing into my shell.
Because every time I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable in the past, it’s nearly destroyed me.
Then I lie awake at night, alone in my bed, while the voice scolds me for my self-imposed isolation, until I’m forced to give up trying to sleep and I turn to reading some of my old favorite pulp mystery books until I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open.
It feels like I can’t win. I’m afraid if these two unique, beautiful men see the true darkness within me that they’ll run in terror.
Or worse, feel disgusted.
