Naked, they snuggled together front to back, wrapped between the sheets, clean and content. Grant’s cheek nestled over Sophie’s left shoulder and brushed against her long hair, still damp from the shower. He had curved himself around her body with his knees tucked in behind hers and his left arm folded over her. It was not possible to get much closer. They had no need for a blanket as their colliding skin and the summer evening provided more than enough heat. With a satiated sigh, Grant felt his eyelids droop.
Sophie did not feel so at ease. Although spooning with McSailor was precisely the blissful experience she had imagined, her mind would not stop processing an image that had caught her eye in the bathroom. In the act of soaping each other’s bodies under the pulsating shower, Sophie had seen an angry scar on Grant’s lower back. Slightly below his waist on his right side—a line of raised skin, pink and jagged. She figured he would tell her about the scar one day. She really wanted to respect his privacy by letting it go. But her analytical, inquisitive brain would not allow it.
Her faltering voice sliced through the darkness. “Grant?”
“Hmm?”
He sounded so tired. She bit her lower lip, wondering if she should proceed.
“It’s nothing.”
There was silence, but then his piqued curiosity got the best of him. “What is it, Sophie?”
She took a deep breath, deciding to go for it. “I don’t want to be nosey, but … um, how did you get that scar on your back?”
She felt his body bristle immediately and just as quickly regretted her question. “Forget it,” she backpedaled. “I—I, um … I shouldn’t have asked you.”
He felt his face redden as he remembered the sting of the belt on his four-year-old body, snapping and cutting into him frighteningly. But the sting was nothing compared to the words spat out by the drunk, black-haired man. You peed in your pants, you fucking baby! Do you need a diaper? Sarcasm had dripped from the towering tormentor’s mouth. Karita, get the boy a diaper!
Grant blinked several times as he refocused on the bedroom, dimly illuminated by city lights, and realized he had been holding his breath. The scar was where his father’s belt had always found his backside, and though the other welts had faded, that mark stayed. His father had branded him.
Sophie felt Grant exhale slowly, and she waited for him to speak. His voice warbled with emotion when he told her, “It’s okay. You can ask me anything. Our stupid pact is shot to hell by now, anyway.”
Sophie smiled in the darkness.
He attempted to sound nonchalant as he explained. “It happened during military exercises. We, ah, we were doing maneuvers in the Atlantic, and I was, uh, running to deliver coordinates to the radio operator, when I—I slipped and crashed into a pump handle. It had a sharp edge that cut me.” Producing a fake little chuckle, he added, “The lieutenant sure was pissed off at me for getting blood everywhere in the passageway.”
It could not have been more obvious that he was lying. Why he lied was beyond her comprehension, and it instantly frightened her. She was painstakingly crawling back toward dignity after losing it all to the biggest liar and deceiver there ever was, and she did not want to repeat her mistakes.
Her mouth tightened. “Maybe I should go home.”
“No!” he insisted, all signs of fatigue vanishing as he gave her arm a gentle squeeze. Could she tell he was lying? Did she know the shameful truth behind the scar? More quietly, he implored, “I don’t want you to go.”
She lay in his arms quietly, pensively, tensely for several moments. She didn’t really want to go, to leave the cocoon of his warm embrace, but she could not get hurt again. She was terribly frightened of being deceived, of being manipulated, and something about this situation felt oh-so-familiar.
“After the incredible day we’ve had—finding this apartment, the game, dinner, shopping for sheets, um, well, making the bed—”
She couldn’t help but grin at that.
“—taking a shower, you’re going to leave now? You can’t do that. It would be crazy.”
She considered his entreaty. After that mind-blowing sex, how in the world could she think of leaving? It had been magical, the most romantic evening she’d ever experienced. She would probably never find a man like him again.
Bravely taking a deep breath, she confessed, “I guess I’m scared.”
“Scared?”
She swallowed hard. “Scared of …” She hesitated, the words scared of falling in love popping up in her mind. “Scared of getting hurt,” she finished instead.
Grant squeezed her a little tighter in his arms. “I’m scared too,” he said solemnly. “I don’t want to be alone in this new apartment. I’m scared …” He paused dramatically. “Scared of the dark.”
She burst out laughing when she realized he was joking, and it was joyous to feel her body shake with giggles in his arms. He nudged his mouth closer to her ear and whispered, “You can’t leave, Sophie. The monsters under the bed might get me unless you’re here.”
“Well, I’m staying then,” she said. “I can’t leave you all alone in the dark, your first night in an unfamiliar home, forced to fend off the monsters all by yourself.”
He brushed his fingertips lovingly across her cheek. “Thank you, Bonnie.”
“You’re welcome, Clyde.”
Feathering a kiss below her ear, he explained, “It was either Bonnie or McShrink, and I figured you’d like Bonnie better.”
“Mmm, good choice, McSailor.”
His soft touch and melodic voice made her sigh deeply, nestling into him a little tighter, a little deeper. It was okay to let go. It was okay to trust him—he had promised not to hurt her. She felt a drowsy wave roll over her, and her eyes fluttered shut.
Now his eyes were wide open in the dark. Feeling her smooth skin pressed against him, Grant wondered if he would be able to sleep. Disjointed phrases swam in his mind: How did you get that scar? … I’m scared of the dark … Monsters under the bed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to stem the tide of painful memories. With an ache in his chest, he recalled pleading with someone else not to leave him alone in the blackness of his bedroom, lest the monsters emerge. It had not been a joke that time. It had been an earnest plea, and the someone he had begged had been his brother.
A short time later, Grant was dreaming.
They paused outside a thick steel door with peeling dirty paint, and he felt the CO release his arm as the guard whipped out a set of keys. Taking a step toward the rusty lock on the door, the CO instructed, “Don’t move, Madsen.”
“Yes, boss.”
Once the CO unlocked the door and pushed it forward, the hinges groaning, Grant could see the consequence of standing up to his father: a dank, dark hole in the wall. So, this was solitary. The pitch-black space made Grant’s heart thump with terror, and suddenly there seemed to be not enough oxygen in the hallway.
The CO grabbed Grant’s handcuffed wrists and roughly unclasped the metal bindings. “Get in there,” he growled.
Grant’s feet felt glued to the floor as panic coursed through his bloodstream.
“I said—” The CO’s upper lip twitched with anger as he gripped the back of the prisoner’s light-blue button-down shirt, “—get in there!” Grant was shoved forward, and he yelped in pain as his bruised ribs made contact with the doorframe before he stumbled into the darkness.