And I almost ask if I can call him when I get home.
But then I think about how hard I worked to be badass Yara. How proud I was the first time someone actually called me that—badass—because it meant they really respected me.
Ace wouldn’t judge you,a tiny voice in my head whispers.You know he wouldn’t. If you told him you’ve been having a hard time since Tacoma, he would understand. He might even help.
I know the voice is right. But I can’t seem to make myself ask. Not when it means being vulnerable again.
So, once again, I go with the safe response.
I know. You, too.
A gust of cold air reminds me I’m still standing outside the building instead of sitting inside my car with the heat cracked on high. Shivering, I send one more message before pocketing my phone.
Class just ended and I need to get home. Talk soon. Tell everyone I said hi.
Then I pull out my car fob and trusty self-defense multi-tool—it has an alert whistle, a tiny blade, and a small canister of pepper spray—and hurry down the stairs to the parking lot. My phone chimes once more from my pocket, presumably Ace saying good night or something similar.
A glance around the darkened parking lot shows I’m the only one around. Several cars are parked in the row closest to the entrance, which I’m assuming belong to Hank and whoever else is working the night shift. And then there’s my car, four rows back, which was the closest I could get when I arrived at four-thirty to prep for my class. But now that it’s nearly eight, all the evening classes are over and the normally busy lot is quiet and empty.
It’s not a problem, of course. Not with my training. A prospective mugger would be in for an unpleasant surprise if he targets me.
Assuming someone doesn’t drop a giant tray filled with glasses and dinnerware, that is.
Stop thinking about it.
Besides, it’s normal to be triggered by loud noises. That’s what my counselor said when I met with her last week. “You were in a crowded area, first of all,” she reminded me, “which can cause anxiety. At an event with lots of veterans, which could have subconsciously reminded you of your own experiences.”
“But I’ve never had a problem with crowded spaces,” I argued. “Or being around former military. Why would it have bothered me then?”
“If that was all, it might not have. You may have felt some low-level anxiety that you never even thought about. But with the added stress of the man who tried to drug you… that would have put you on alert. Your adrenaline was probably going. So it wouldn’t take as much to trigger you.”
What she said made sense, as much as I’d wanted to think my times of being triggered by loud noises and the scent of blood were over.
Or shouting.
Or the smell of burning.
Or—
No.
As I hurry across the parking lot, I search for something nicer to think about.
Like going home and turning on my little electric fireplace, getting into my coziest sweats, and escaping into my favorite show for an hour or two before heading to bed.
Or the hours I’ll spend in my workshop this weekend, hopefully completing the project I’ve been working on for the last year.
Or Ace in his tuxedo. That’s something more pleasant, too.
Just friends,I remind myself. We’re just friends.
Friends can admire how the other person looks in a tux, though. Can’t they? Just because I’ve memorized the color of Ace’s eyes—the same blue as the summer sky—it doesn’t mean anything, really. I’m just being observant, which is an important skill to have.
Still.
I can’t deny the feeling of rightness when he touched me that night. When he put his hand on my arm, his calloused fingers setting off tiny sizzles of electricity across my skin. And the way his scent wrapped around me; fresh soap and pine with a tiny hint of cinnamon. How his deep voice seemed to magically loosen the bands of tension wrapped around me.
Am I being stupid, refusing his help?
