The color wasn’t exactly right, so I added a fingernail size of cerulean blue. A satisfied warmth moved over me as I watched the color blend into the hue I’d set out to achieve.
Slender hands curved around my waist, glided up my ribs to my chest. Long, delicate fingers undid a button, and then another. They dived under the edge of my shirt and caressed my skin. My heart pounded under those wandering fingers. Blood pulsed to my center and my breath left in an abbreviated rush. I groaned.
Lips pressed between my shoulder blades. The heat of her breath warm through my shirt. I turned in her arms and looked down into a set of eyes that matched the color on my palette.
“Aimee.”
“Kiss me,” she asked, and I did.
She finished unbuttoning my shirt and I unzipped her dress. Clothes fell to the floor and we followed. I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top. She kissed her way down my chest, tracing the hairline past my navel. My head fell back and eyes closed. God, her mouth feels so damn good.
That was all I could think, all I could feel. And I wanted to watch.
Lifting my head, I opened my eyes. Aimee was gone and I was no longer in the studio at our house.
Instead, I looked up into the barrel of a gun held by my eldest brother. I watched his mouth move and I barely made out the words.
Get up!
Get up or Aimee’s next.
My face felt like a pile of bricks had landed on it. Nausea roiled in my gut like a skiff bobbing on rough waves. Beneath me, the surface rose and fell. I gripped a thick rope hanging nearby and tried to pull myself up. Pain shot through my shoulder and down my arm. I yelled, dropping to my knees. White sneakers faded in and out in my line of vision. Hands hauled me up. Lips pressed to my ear. “Swim.” And then I was flying, and next, sinking. A coldness like I’d never known before seeped into my bones, forcing my legs to kick. One arm flailed. I had to get to Aimee. I had to get home.
I want to go home.
I woke with a start, gasping.
A dream. It’s just a dream.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there, head buried in my hands. My fingers clawed my scalp as I waited for my pounding heart to slow. I massaged my temples to coax the headache that rarely left, only eased, to go away. It burned, as did the long, thin scar on my hip.
My hand skimmed over that scar, and the last image I’d seen in my dream seared in my head like the thick tissue on my hip. Bullets whizzing past, their long, bubbly wake widening and dissipating in the ocean’s rise and fall. Searing pain in my side as one of those bullets hit their mark.
Fingers slid down my sweat-damp back. Chills raised the hair on my arms and legs.
“Same dream?” Natalya asked in a groggy voice.
“Yeah.” I pushed to my feet, knees cracking, to go to the bathroom as much as to get away from her touch. My heart still raced and my body was damp out of fear for another woman’s life. A woman I had once loved as desperately as the air I breathed.
I popped two aspirin and drank them down directly from the faucet. I caught Natalya’s reflection in the mirror as I swiped the water from my mouth. She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.
“That bottle was half-full when I got here two weeks ago.” She nodded at the container.
I glanced inside before spinning on the lid. Fifteen pills left. I needed to go shopping today. Then I remembered Julian and I were mountain-biking in the hills. I’d have to swing by the store on the way back.
“Have you seen a doctor yet?”
I turned around and shook my head.
“Carlos.” She dragged out my name, coming into the bathroom, and glared up at me. “They’re getting worse. And at the rate you’re going”—she shook the bottle, and the few aspirin remaining rattled inside—“you’ll have an ulcer to match that ache in your head.”
I trapped her in my arms and buried my face in the curve of her neck. “It’s not my forehead that aches right now.” I kissed her bed-warm skin, hoping to distract her. Hoping to distract me and all my aches, because my brain really was on fire. That damn dream got more vivid each time and my headaches were always intense in the hours following.
I scooped up Natalya and carried her to bed. We fell onto the sheets. I could tell from the way she kissed me she was in the mood to talk. I wasn’t. It was three-fucking-a.m. and my head hurt like a mother.
She gently nudged my shoulders and kissed my nose. I sighed and flopped to my back, arms spread wide as I stared at the ceiling fan overhead. Bad idea. The room spun like a merry-go-round and my innards hitched a ride, spinning along with it. I draped my forearm over my brow and breathed through the sourness in my mouth.
“Why won’t you see a doctor?”
“We’ve been over this before, Nat.” I didn’t want anyone prodding my head and administering tests. One surprised hypnosis experiment had left a jackhammer without an “Off ” switch drilling my brain. I had no intention to be a willing—or unwilling—participant in any further psychotherapy sessions.
Natalya flopped on her back. “I could kill Thomas.”
“You and me both.” I lifted my arm to look at her. She tugged a sheet over her breasts and buried her fingers in her hair.
“I can help you find a doctor who makes house calls. You can be examined here and I’ll stay by your side. Just in case, you know?”
“No. I don’t want to be examined.” I got out of bed and paced to the slider door. It was pitch-black outside and the only thing I saw was my reflection, my face ragged and worn with deep tension lines, a train track across my forehead.
“Don’t tell the doctor what’s really wrong. Make up an excuse, like you have chronic migraines or something.”
“I do have chronic migraines.”
“Which means you need prescription medication so you stop popping aspirin like jelly beans.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Maybe it’s stress that’s causing the headaches. Have you considered antidepressants or anxiety meds?”
“No drugs,” I said, slicing the air between us. “They’re too addictive.”
She gave me a look. While aspirin itself isn’t addictive, we both knew my reliance on those pills to manage the pain was pretty close to an addiction.
Natalya lifted her gaze toward the ceiling. She was frustrated with me and I didn’t blame her. I was frustrated with me. She let her hands fall into her lap. “I understand why you don’t travel, and I get why you don’t want to see a doctor. What I can’t figure out is why you insist on living with the pain when you can do something about it. Think of your sons.”
“I am.” I stomped to my bureau where my laptop was charging. “I think of them and their future with a father who can’t remember them every goddamn second of the day. Someone who may always have to be on the run with them.”
“You don’t know that, Carlos. It’s been several years and no one has come after you. I don’t think anyone from that cartel knows who you are, let alone that James is still alive.”
“Not yet.” Phil was still in prison and still believed me dead. What will happen when he discovers the truth? Because instinct told me one day he would.