Before There Was You Read online

  Before There Was You

  Denise A. Agnew

  Published 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-081-1

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2014, Denise A. Agnew. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Kidnapped in a foreign country, Lana Burns’ faith in herself and the world has been shaken to the core. Once home, she finds her world mangled by nightmares and depression. Refusing to give in to fear and torment, she searches for answers. Now she must escape a dark mental place before it swallows her whole.

  Former Force Recon Marine Aaron MacPherson made it through war without a scratch, but he doesn’t count thick scars carved into his mind, threatening to unhinge his happiness forever. His equilibrium teeters on the edge, his battle moving from combat to everyday life. One wrong word from a total stranger sends him on a path to destruction.

  Both Lana and Aaron have seen hell, and group therapy might show them the way out. Forging a link between them could prove perilous to their hearts. When danger strikes without warning, Aaron and Lana must use their bond to create a way to survive the night.

  Dedication

  Before There Was You popped into my head one day in July 2013. I had been working on another project. Lo and behold, the idea for Before There Was You refused to listen to reason and chill out or go away. I never tell story ideas to go back in the box when they scream at me that loudly. This idea was bellowing, “Write me now!” So I did. This tale burned up the pages and was easier to write than many other books I’ve written. Sometimes that’s how it works.

  More amazing was how strident the hero and heroine were as they formed, demanding that I create their torn up, fragmented, and hurt lives. These are not perfect characters, and they warned me that while they were redeemable, they might take some stumbling steps trying to find their way back to themselves, to who they truly are. I’m happy to report that while these are flawed characters with big challenges, I still gave them a happy ending. That’s the way I always roll.

  I dedicate this story to all those who’ve suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and in particular to the active duty and veterans of the Armed Forces who have in the past and continue to give their all for our country. May you find comfort, peace, and healing.

  Chapter 1

  April

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Aaron. Aaron?”

  Aaron MacPherson jerked out of the fog and recognized his father’s voice. Aaron realized he held a fork in his hand, and the meatloaf he’d speared remained on the plate near the mess of mashed potatoes. The entire room came into focus, the meat-and-potatoes scent drifting up to his nose. Dishes clanged, voices echoed in his ears like a low rumble. He wondered if he needed to have his hearing tested.

  Sometimes things were just too fuckin’ loud and other times muffled. He blinked under the harsh restaurant lights. Sometimes the lights were also too damned bright. He jammed the meatloaf into his mouth and chewed. His stomach growled and he ate faster, suddenly hungry as hell. He chewed as if the food would sprout legs and run away.

  “You all right?” Fred MacPherson stared at Aaron across the booth.

  Aaron swallowed hard. He looked at the fake wood tabletop. “This restaurant might be one of the greasiest spoons in town, but they know how to make the best damn meatloaf outside of Mom’s.”

  “Aaron.” His father’s voice had an old-school edge he’d used years ago when Aaron was a kid.

  The older man’s gray eyes squinted, and Aaron saw himself reflected for a moment in his father’s glasses. His Dad’s jowls still had a strong cut to them and his face remained remarkably unlined. He hadn’t gained an ounce over the years, his body still wiry and fit. His graying hair had receded more in recent months. He wore his standard uniform—perfectly ironed polo shirt—this one red, and go-with-everything khaki pants. But those eyes held a seriousness and worry he’d never witnessed in his father’s gaze before. Dad had finished his meal in record time, a salad and water.

  Aaron blinked and speared a forkful of potatoes. “Sorry Dad, what did you say?”

  “Where the hell did you go? You’ve been gazing off into nothing like a zombie.”

  “I feel like a zombie.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Drunk?”

  Aaron’s gaze locked with his father’s. “What? Hell, no. Do you smell alcohol on me? I had one beer at the picnic last week. That’s all the drinking I’ve done in…months.”

  Those eyes blinked behind eyeglasses, studious and filled with disapproval. “You’ve just been…distant the last few times your mother and I have seen you. Your mother is worried about you.”

  Not this again. “Tell her not to worry.”

  Dad smiled. “Like that’s going to happen, Aaron.”

  “Look, I’m okay. I just retired. I need to chill out for awhile.”

  His father’s skeptical look remained. “Two months. You’ve been loitering at your apartment, watching television, not doing what you said you’d do.”

  Aaron kept eating, partly in avoidance. He didn’t reply to his father’s concern.

  Dad cleared his throat. “I’m worried too. This isn’t like you. You’ve always been a go-getter.”

  Irritation rose inside Aaron, a slow burn. Still, he held back what he wanted to say. What he felt. He plastered on a smile. “I’m thirty-eight, Dad. I’m not a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year-old.”

  “Right. You’re thirty-eight. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  The burn rose. “I’m tired. I need a break.”

  Censure returned to his father’s eyes and wiped away his pleasant expression. Though his Dad didn’t speak, Aaron had thirty-eight years of experience with that face.

  “Always thinking about the right thing, the proper thing to do, eh Dad?”

  “What?”

  “You’re always thinking about how things look. Not wanting things to appear wrong or messy. That would mean things aren’t in control, right?”

  Dad’s eyebrows lowered. “Your mom wanted me to ask you something…she was afraid to ask.”

  Aaron was surprised. “Why would she be afraid to ask?”

  His father’s mouth tightened into a sharp line. “She says you’ve got an edge. It…scares her.”

  Aaron almost asked if this was a joke. It had to be. “Why the hell would she be afraid of me?” The very idea made him crazy. “Do you mean she thinks I’d hurt her?”

  Dad shook his head. “No, I don’t think you would. But you make her nervous.”

  Aaron finished his last bite of food and shoved his plate aside. Suddenly the room was loud again, the sounds way beyond what they should be. Dishes clanked, utensils rattled, laughter held a hard edge, violating his comfort like a dentist’s drill on bone.

  He crossed his arms and glared. “Maybe she’s the one that needs help.”

  The table next to their booth erupted in laughter. Aaron glanced at the two men and took in their appearance in a heartbeat. Guys with white shirts, ties, and that clean-cut ex
ecutive façade. Maybe in their thirties, with soft hands that hadn’t seen a day of hard labor.

  The pilot light went up on the slow burn.

  One guy’s voice was loud. Too loud. “Yeah. Those military guys think they’re all that. Town is full of them strutting around, taking all the women.”

  A year ago—hell a month ago—he would have blown this off. Other people’s ignorance and big mouths wouldn’t have dented him by a centimeter. Now the man’s words slid over him like a knife dipped in acid.

  “Yeah,” the man’s friend said. “Guys like that—”

  “Guys like what?” Aaron said as he rose slowly.

  “Aaron, what are you doing?” his father’s anxious voice asked.

  Aaron took the very few steps it took to arrive at the shirt-and-tie pussy table.

  “No, I want to know. Guys like what? Me?” Aaron asked.

  The suits looked up at Aaron, and he savored the oh-shit expression in their wide eyes. They’d figured it out quickly—they’d made a huge fuckin’ mistake.

  The first guy to speak held up his right hand. “Sorry, dude. I didn’t know you were a marine.”

  For a half second Aaron forgot the Semper Fi tattoo on his left bicep. He’d gotten it fifteen years ago, way before it was fashionable to ink a body until no hint of original skin was left. Usually the tattoo and Aaron’s considerable size did a lot toward controlling assholes. All he had to do was give them a single look and they suddenly got religion.

  The second suit said, “We were talking about the army and the air force, dude. Marines are cool. Besides there aren’t any marine bases around here.”

  “Christ,” Aaron said softly. “That isn’t the point. Only peckerwoods show disrespect to any branch of the military.”

  Aaron felt his father to his right. “Aaron, leave it alone. I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it.”

  The burn rose yet another notch inside Aaron, tearing away at his control.

  Aaron clenched his fists at his side, the compelling need to do violence rising with a potency so urgent he had to swallow hard to choke it down. The other man at the table smirked, and Aaron’s desire to wipe the floor with the man boiled under the surface. Everything receded until all Aaron could see and hear were the two men at the table.

  First Suit said to Second Suit with an arrogant smile and tone, “Don’t talk to the gorilla in the cage, Banks. He’ll just piss on you.” First Suit glanced up at Aaron, eyes calm, self-satisfaction written all over him. “This isn’t the war zone, marine. Get some help.”

  Get some help. Jesus. H. Fuckin’—God he was tired of assholes like this. Tired of…everything.

  Rage popped. Aaron reached down, combat reflexes in motion, and grabbed First Suit’s shirt collar and tie. He lifted the man straight out of his chair and hammered the dipwad with one fist to the stomach. Released, the guy doubled over with a satisfying what-the-hell-just-happened expression laced with pain and suffocation. The man fell on the floor like a beached fish, mouth opening and closing like a trout.

  Vaguely, on the edge of his awareness, Aaron heard other sounds. Screams echoed in the room, chairs turned over, shouts.

  His father grabbed him from behind. “Aaron! Stop!”

  “Call 911!” Someone else called out.

  Aaron straightened as reality came back with a horrible snap. The red across his vision dropped away like a curtain. One table not so far away held a young woman with her two grade-school age kids. A boy and girl. The children looked at him as if he were a monster, a lion in the cage ready to spring loose and eat them. The young mother’s face registered horror. Stark fear. They were afraid of him. Terribly afraid. A shiver went through his body and wouldn’t stop. Horror and self-disgust brought a sting to his eyes, moisture threatening. He swallowed once. Twice.

  What have I done? God. What have I done?

  * * * *

  June

  Manetti Therapy Associates

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  As the big guy in the plain brown T-shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes walked into the group therapy room, Lana Burns went on alert. Her skin prickled and her breath shortened. She hated the reaction, automatic, like the flip of a switch. The man swaggered into the room with an air of total self-confidence and competence, and maybe a small order of arrogance on the side. His military-short, light brown hair was shot with red highlights as the overhead lighting glinted on his head.

  One part of her reacted to his virility like most other healthy young women would. His clothes betrayed a lean, muscular body built for action. He was over six feet tall and moved with an animal male grace that screamed power and purpose. And more than all that, his face had a brutal sort of masculine beauty. No one would call him handsome. Scary, maybe. Intimidating, most certainly.

  Before she could spend much time admiring him, she noted the way his watchful gaze scanned the room, as if he expected an attack from all quarters. Fear returned with laser intensity inside her.

  She was alone in here with him. The soothing baby-blue room with six hard plastic chairs formed in a circle didn’t comfort her. She’d thought she was safe with other people at one time, a busload of people to be exact. She’d been wrong. Dead wrong.

  Though she couldn’t prove it by his actions, she literally felt the jumpiness inside the man coming toward her, the ugly need for violence. He could be lethal, unwavering in his need to capture and conquer. He didn’t smile. He was all hardness.

  Struggling with a desire to jump from her chair and run, she closed her eyes, and for a second she sat on a cold, damp dirt floor, the smell of filth in her nostrils and hunger growling in her stomach. Her body tightened, muscles betraying her. She cursed in her head, her mind filled with obscenities. A man’s cruel words cutting her like a knife.

  Bitch. Whore.

  Leetle girl, what kind of cunt do you have? I’ll bet it’s real tight. Come here.

  “Stop.” The word was out of her mouth like a gunshot as she opened her eyes.

  Halfway across the room, the big guy halted and stared at her with curiosity. “What’s wrong? You all right?” he asked.

  His voice rumbled deep. One of those incredible voices that mixed a soothing quality with sexual undertones. Against her will, her body betrayed her, tingling with an odd, disturbing attraction that shot through her like lightning. Oh, now I know I’m screwed up. Terrified and aroused? All at once? She’d heard it was possible, but she’d never believed the two reactions could occur at the same time. The harsh look on his face disappeared as he stared at her, and even though her face burned, she couldn’t look away from him.

  Surprised by the concern in his voice, she couldn’t speak. Before she could find a response, Addy Linden, counseling therapist, strode into the room from the opposite direction. Middle-aged and short, she wore frumpy formless tops with long sleeves even in summer and long pants too big for her. Her make-up free face and long gray hair put her around fifty-five perhaps, but Lana couldn’t judge age worth a damn.

  “Hello, Lana. Welcome, Aaron. Good to see you again. Come in,” Addy said, her huge smile a ray of sunshine.

  Relief flooded Lana. She’d met with the therapist once last week before she was placed into the group therapy session. It was nice to see a friendly face. Mrs. Linden seemed genuine and competent.

  Lana smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Linden.”

  “Addy please. Don’t stand there, Mr. MacPherson. Have a seat.”

  MacPherson didn’t smile, but he lowered himself into the chair across from Lana. Good. She didn’t want him anywhere near her. He sat with his legs spread wide and his arms crossed. She caught a glance at a tattoo on his left bicep, but from this distance she couldn’t read the insignia and lettering beneath it. It looked military. Her father had been in the Army for four years way before she was born and her parents had moved to Montana. She hadn’t had much contact with the military until she’d moved to Colorado Springs. This city had military out the wazoo. The Air Forc
e Academy, Fort Carson, Schriever Air Force Base, Cheyenne Mountain, and Peterson Air Force Base. The city bristled with testosterone.

  The guy cleared his throat, and Lana realized he’d caught her staring at his tattoo. When her attention shot up to his face, she didn’t see one hint of softness or welcome in his eyes. Green eyes of startling emerald stared right back. Had she imagined the softening earlier when he’d asked if she was okay?

  What type of post-traumatic stress could he possibly suffer? A big, intimidating man like him? She reminded herself that anyone, no matter who they were, could find Post Traumatic Stress Disorder on their doorstep in the right situation.

  She tore her gaze away as Addy pulled another chair into their circle and sat.

  Addy smiled. “You’re both early.”

  “I’m always early,” the man called MacPherson said quietly. “Almost always.”

  “Good.” Addy held a large notebook, and she opened it and started making notes. “What about you, Lana?”

  Lana didn’t know why the therapist asked. “Usually I’m early. Too early, really.”

  “Sometimes it makes sense to be arrive ahead of the pack. Scope out the enemy ahead of time,” the man said.

  Lana’s mouth dropped open. “Enemy?”

  A hint of a smile, a tiny quirk of his mouth, came before he said, “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  “Lana Burns, this is Aaron MacPherson,” Addy said with a wry smile. “Aaron was in the marines twenty years. Military speak is in his bones, right, Aaron?”

  Aaron stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. He slouched and folded his hands over his flat stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Addy snorted. “Oh, Lord, please don’t call me ma’am. I feel like an old woman.”

  Aaron nodded. “Yes, ma…I mean Addy.”

  He stood and walked across the few feet between Lana and him. He held out his hand as he towered over her.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Burns,” he said.

  She didn’t get the chance to rise to her feet before he was there. As he towered over her, that little spike of fear roared to life. She shook his hand, and as his palm and fingers encircled hers, a tingle raced up her arm. His expression was neutral, but curiosity burned in his eyes. The tingle also danced in her lower stomach, and she recognized it immediately as purely primal.