I made a mistake in the last chapter by calling Kelly, Dylan's sister-in-law, Brandon and Kelly were not married. They were planning to and Brandon goes into it next chapter but that was huge slip up. Kelly is not his sister in law. Not sure what I was thinking. The point is it was easy for Brandon to leave her, it was a break up not a divorce. His sister was missing, anyway wanted to explain. Sorry about that.
Chapter 9
Dylan wakes up with Brenda's mouth pressed against his ear, her light breath warming his cheek. He turns to move, to check if she's asleep, but can't. He and Brenda are anchored hip to hip. Her bare legs tangled with his, one lean thigh of hers tossed over his hip, the other tucked between his knees.
Gently, Dylan untangles himself. He raises himself up on his elbow and stares down at her. After last night's nightmare, he's relieved her face is finally peaceful. Brushing a thumb across her full bottom lip, Dylan drinks in his wife's delicate features. The light freckles over the bridge of her nose that are only noticeable if she is free of makeup. The high arc of her cheekbone. The small scar over her eyebrow where, years ago, she butted heads with a foal. He remembers Brenda laughing when it happened saying…if the baby horse had better aim, they could have had matching eyebrow scars.
Dylan runs a hand over the slight curve of her hip. Places a protective palm against her dark mop of disheveled hair. God, she's gorgeous. He can barely believe this moment. Nine months ago, Brenda was gone, presumed dead, leaving Dylan's world destroyed. Today, he's got the woman he loves in his bed, lying in his arms, looking too beautiful for words. God, he's a lucky man.
Dylan closes his eyes at the memory of last night. Brenda's soft curves, her sweet lips pressed against him like the two of them were unbreakable. Unshakeable. Dylan can't deny that Brenda wanting him had made him all kinds of crazy. The way she responded to his kiss, no hesitation, all insistence. Her fingers clutching at his hair, her porcelain skin, her needy whimpers, her heartbeat pumping with life. He was a saint last night. Not that he'd minded. Brenda was exhausted from her migraine; he was still reeling from her question.
Do you love me, Dylan? He swears softly under his breath. God, how could he have been so stupid? All this time he thought he was giving her space, when she was doubting his love for her. He told himself that would never happen again. And so, in answer to her question, he kissed her. Roughly. Desperately. He needed her to believe that. To prove to her what she meant to him. He only hopes she knows that he can't possibly love a woman more. Hopes she knows that he'll wait until she's ready. He'll go slow, take his time. Anything Brenda wants, he'll give it. Just having her near is enough.
Sitting up, Dylan swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He checks his phone and groans. Missed phone calls from an unknown number. Missed calls from Marshall. He doesn't want to spend the day away from her again.
As he goes to rise, there's a soft hand on his back. A silvery voice saying, "Don't go."
Dylan turns. Brenda's curled up in bed, catlike and lazy, her blue eyes drowsy with sleep, fixed on him.
"Good morning," he says, leaning down to kiss her gently on the lips.
"Morning." She pulls back. Her mouth kicks up at the corners. "No nightmares."
"No nightmares." He smiles. "Glad I came in handy for once."
Brenda laughs. "I'd say more than handy." She sits cross-legged in bed. The thin T-shirt slips low on her chest, giving Dylan a flash of light tan, pert nipple. He has to swallow the groan from escaping. From burying his face between them, inhaling her, licking her, sucking…reign it in.
Stretching her arms above her head, "So, what's on the agenda today?"
The mischievous smile on her face tells Dylan there's nothing she'd like to do more than spend the entire day in bed. With him.
Shit.
Dylan smears a hand through his hair, grips the back of his neck. He hates to be the buzzkill, but he has to. Ever since Brenda's been home, he's been meaning to bring something up to her. The worst time, hell yes, judging by the way Brenda's looking at him, but it has to be done. For Brenda's sake, he can't wait any longer. A saint. Like he said.
"Listen. I've been wanting to talk to you about something." He takes Brenda's hand in his, inhales a steady breath. "I think you should see a doctor. Someone you can talk to about what you been through."
Her eyebrows lift. "You mean, when I disappeared?"
Kidnapped, Dylan thinks, and his fists curl in unbidden anger. Taken.
"I got some numbers for the best doctors in Nashville. They'll see you whenever you're ready." Brenda's silent for a long moment, her blue eyes distant and wary. "But only if you want that," he continues. "It's your choice. I won't push. Tell me what you need and I'll get it."
A little line appears between her brows. "Okay. Sure. I guess I can talk to someone if you…" She sags back against the pillows. Her voice trails off, lost, helpless.
Dylan's eyes widen in stunned surprise. She thinks he's done dealing with her problems. She isn't believing that. Not for a damn minute.
"Baby, you can absolutely talk to me." He clasps her hand to his chest. He gives all his focus to Brenda, his eyes never once leaving her face. "Whatever you want to tell me, whenever you want to say it, I am here for what you need. And I will hold it with you. But I also think you should talk to someone. I'll give you everything I can, but it still might not be enough."
Brenda nods. Her lips, pressed together in a thin white line, tremble.
"What do you think?" he asks. "I'll go with you. Waiting room, or beside you on that couch. I'll be there."
"Thank you." Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. She curls her fingers into his palm. "I couldn't do this without you."
"Yeah, you could." He grins. "But you don't have to." He runs a hand down her shoulder, gently cupping her elbow. "I won't push you, but maybe in a week or two—"
"No. Today." Dylan blinks. Brenda's expression is eager and determined. "I want to go today, Dylan. I want to remember. Especially you."
Dylan takes Brenda's face in his hands. Her eyes flutter closed and she tilts the curve of her cheek into his palm. With a soft sigh, she moves brushing silky lips over his tattoo on his wrist. His heart jerks. Last night's kiss wasn't enough. He has to say it out loud. He can't wait anymore. Anytime Brenda has given him another chance has been a gift, and he'll be damned if he wastes another breath.
"I love you, Bren." Her eyes open. The words linger in the air between them. A memory. A promise. "I love you," he repeats. "I love you more than anyone or anything, more than my life." Brenda smiles, then sobers, worry creasing her pretty features. "Dylan, I—"
"You don't have to say it back. You're not there."
She places a palm against his cheek. "I will be."
"That's good enough for me." Dylan stamps her lips with a kiss. Brenda wraps an arm around his neck, tugging him back toward the bed. Dylan drapes his body over hers as they lengthen together. A small sound escapes Brenda as he drags his lips across her collarbone. Then, Brenda's hand finds his cheek as she brings his mouth up to hers.
He listens. Obedient. What his wife wants, she gets. At the sweep of Brenda's tongue against his own, Dylan lets out a growl. He kisses her roughly. And Brenda moans. Arcs into him, her breathing ragged. Her body on fire. Telling him she wants more. More of him.
Dylan hooks an arm beneath her back, hauls her into his chest, and—A tapping on the door. "Bren? You okay in there?" Dylan groans at the sound of Brandon's voice. The blissful moment broken, peace shattered. Brenda freezes guiltily beneath him, looking like a teen being caught in the backseat with her boyfriend.
Rolling off Brenda, Dylan flops back into the pillows and shoots the bedroom door the finger. "Bren, your brother…Valerie, they're family, but they're killing me. Killing me absolutely dead." A laugh bubbles up in Brenda. She presses her face into the crook of his arm, trying to muffle her giggles.
Another voice now. Dry. Pissed off. "Damn it, Brandon. Give them some fucking space."
"I will not…she's my sister."
"I know that…but…"
"What you think they're…"
"Maybe."
"No way…get your head out of the gutter Steve. Not everyone is as concupiscent as you."
"I don't even know what that means."
Dylan smothers his face with a pillow as he listens to Steve and Brandon bicker in the hall. They need a bigger house. A purging of people. Too many interruptions making Dylan a weary man. At this pace, he's gonna have a hard-on for Brenda for the next five fucking years.
He peers out at his wife from beneath the pillow. Her cheeks are red with embarrassment. "They're gonna have to move out soon."
"I one hundred percent agree." Brenda yanks the pillow away from his face, her smile teasing. "I mean, if we wanted kids, we would have had one, right?"
Dylan freezes. Before he can respond, Brenda slides off the bed. Her step a lazy swagger, her smile dreamy as she disappears into the bathroom for a shower.
Dylan closes his eyes. Brenda needs to know. Now he just has to figure out how to tell her.
Brenda balls her hands up into small fists, keeping them in her lap. Across from her, her newfound therapist, Dr. Carter, smiles in sympathy.
"Go on. Take your time." Brenda shifts on the leather couch. She's a ball of nerves and anxiety. All she wants is to shed her skin and run. She's been talking to complete strangers ever since she miraculously came back from the dead. So why is this so hard? Dr. Carter crosses her ankles. The space-egg chair she sits in has Brenda feeling like they're in a galaxy far, far away. "We were talking about Dylan," Dr. Carter nudges, as if Brenda needed a reminder.
Dylan.
Her mind practically overheats on his name, and she glances out the window to where her husband waits in the car. He had offered to come in, but Brenda wanted to go at it alone. At least this first session. Despite his reassurances this morning, she doesn't feel it's fair to keep dragging him through her bullshit.
"Do you feel supported by your husband?" Dr. Carter's question cuts through Brenda's thoughts.
Her lips curve, her stomach a slow roll of a crashing wave. "I do. Dylan…he's been wonderful. He makes me feel safe. He loves me."
"And that's important to you?"
"It is. I know my life now. My real life. It's not some lie Vince fed to me," Brenda bites out bitterly.
All along, Brenda had love. She had a home she'd made. A family she was missing. The idea that Vince kept it all from her pisses her the fuck off.
Dr. Carter stares at her thoughtfully. "You feel frustrated."
"Yeah, I am." Brenda leans forward. "Everyone's been great. I just feel undeserving. Like all I am is a fucking spectator in my own life." She raises her eyes to the ceiling, puffs a lock of hair from her eyes. "I want to remember on my own. I want to go back to work. I want to remember my husband."
Brenda's eyes flick to the window. Her voice growing soft, she says, "I don't have time to waste. I've wasted too much time already."
"And that," Dr. Carter says, "is not your fault." Another kind smile. "This will be a process, Brenda. You have been through a terrible trauma. I know you wish there was a magical way to snap your fingers and implant the memories, but there's not."
"So what do I do?"
"What you're doing. Immerse yourself in your life. Spending too much energy on trying to recall your memories is less important than letting the memories occur naturally. It's probably safer to. Less frustrating."
Brenda crosses her arms. "Right. Less frustrating."
Chuckling, Dr. Carter checks the clock on the wall. Brenda blinks. The forty-minute session's flown by. They've barely covered the basics…her name, her strange situation, her migraines—and now it's over? At this rate, she'll be lucky if she can go back to work by Christmas.
"I can give you some hope," Dr. Carter says, and Brenda perks up. "Based on your charts, I believe it's not a traumatic brain injury but more a traumatic memory loss, due to emotional trauma."
Brenda frowns at the lingo. "What does that mean?"
"It means there's a high probability you will remember. The memories aren't lost. They're buried." Dr. Carter closes her notepad. "Your mind is protecting you until you're healthy enough to process it. When you need the memory, it will come to you. I'm sure of it."
Dylan sits in the car, waiting on Brenda. His hands drum the steering wheel. They itch for something to do. Fucking helpless. That's what he is. He should be there. Not because he's worried about her remembering, but because he's worried how it could affect her. What if she remembered something—something bad—and he wasn't there? He'd never forgive himself.
He smears his face in his hands. Christ, he's gotta pull it together. The chirp of his phone calls Dylan's attention elsewhere. Thankful for the distraction, he grabs it off the dash.
"Hello?"
"Dylan?"
Dylan is silent, recognizing the voice in an instant.
"Dylan? Are you there?"
He sighs, "What Kelly?"
"Ive been trying to call you…text you."
"Yeah…I saw that."
"So what? You just ignored them?"
"What do you want Kelly?" Dylan closes his eyes frustrated.
Dylan scans the doors of the therapy center, on alert for Brenda.
"Brenda is alive? Is she okay? David told Donna she has some kind of amnesia. I know about amnesia Dylan, if there is anything I could do…any help I could give…"
Dylan lets out a non-impressed laugh and shakes his head, "You do realize right before our crash, Brenda wanted nothing to do with you right?"
"You don't understand Dylan. You don't know the whole story. I might be able to help her."
Anger wells in Dylan, and he opens his mouth to tell Kelly he doesn't care about the story, she is the half the reason for this to begin with, Brenda doesn't need her help and frankly he doesn't care what she has to say or offer, when his eyes drift to the window. What he sees has his heart leaping halfway from his chest.
First, Brenda, exiting the double doors of the clinic. Then, Jasper Jones the reporter from the Tabloids, making a beeline for her.
Dylan drops the phone. Adrenaline already has him barreling out of the car. Every single muscle in his body tenses as his boots pound across the parking lot. Jasper, his hands tightly gripping his camera, gives Dylan a smirk.
Brenda perks up when she sees Dylan coming, moving faster for him, oblivious to Jasper's approach.
Dylan storms forward. White-hot rage tears at him at the thought of Jasper harassing Brenda, snapping her photo in her most vulnerable moment. He won't let anyone fuck with his wife's mind. Not while she's still so fragile. Not while he's around.
He steps in front of Brenda, blocking her from Jasper's line of vision.
"I'd turn the fuck around if I were you. Now." Jasper's ratlike face twitches.
He grins, shrugging his shoulders innocently. "Just want to talk."
Brenda grips Dylan's bicep. Her voice drifts between them, wary and confused and questioning.
"Dylan?"
"It's okay," he tells her in a low voice. Doing his best to keep Brenda behind him, he turns his attention to Jasper. "You have no fucking business with my wife."
"You sure about that?" Quick as a snake, Jasper sidesteps Dylan. He raises the camera and snaps it right in Brenda's face.
A blinding flash. Brenda steps back, wincing, and stumbles, nearly losing her balance. She presses a palm against the hood of a car to steady herself.
"You goddamn son of a bitch." Dylan lunges for Jasper. His fist a hammer, ready to swing. He slams Jasper back against a parked car. With one quick punch, he knocks the camera out of Jasper's hands.
"Dylan, don't—stop—" Brenda's voice at his back, but Dylan barely hears her. The past has Dylan on a rampage. All he sees is red. All he sees are those long weeks after Brenda was presumed dead. Media camped out at the ranch, reporters snapping photos, Brenda's name hollered over and over again. It was something Dylan hated with a vengeance. Something he never got over.
Brenda's face, beautiful, smiling, in the paper, her death used to sell sorrow. And Jasper—as far as Dylan's concerned, he's as good as dead.
"Let me go!" Jasper struggles under Dylan's ever-tightening grip. Pinning Jasper against the car window, Dylan stomps his boot on the camera. He'll be damned if Jasper gets a picture of Brenda.
"You leave my wife alone," Dylan snarls. "You hear me?"
"You broke my camera, you crazy fuck!" Jasper gasps out, his face pale. "I'll sue you."
"Do it." Dylan curls a hand around Jasper's collar, tightening his grip. He drags him forward, then shoves him to the ground. "You come near her again, I'll give you a story to write about." Behind him comes a soft whimper of pain. Dylan turns, blanching at what he sees.
Brenda, holding herself up, her hand to her brow, eyes squeezed tightly together, a grimace on her face. Instantly, the world falls away, Jasper forgotten.
Dylan hurries to her side. He grips her elbow, gives her a quick once-over. "Baby are you okay?"
Alarmed, he dips his head. Her eyes are glassy and dazed and she stares off into the distance, as if seeing something he can't.
"Bren?" Her eyes shutter, then blink open. Her face breaks into awareness as she cocks her head to the side and smiles wanly.
"Hmm, you broke the rules." His breath hitches at the mention of their bet from last night. Her teasing relaxes him. It tells him she's shook up, but fine. "I'm okay," Brenda places a hand on Dylan's chest and looks up at him. "Are you?"
"Yeah," he says, glancing over his shoulder at Jasper, who's scrabbling to pick up the pieces of his camera.
Brenda lets out a shaky breath, "What an asshole."
Dylan steals a worried glance at Brenda. She's pale, her arms crossed around her midsection like she's trying to protect herself. Regret slaps him silly. Regret for acting like a madman in front of her. For letting Jasper push him over the edge of sanity. The last thing he ever wanted to do was scare her.
"C'mon." Dylan takes Brenda's hand, and she leans into him for support, her eyes still dazed and dreamlike. "Let's get you home."
Brenda stares out the window of the passenger seat. Downtown Nashville and its buildings fly by as Dylan rolls them down the freeway, but her mind's on the memory that hit her minutes ago like a Mack truck. The flash of the reporter's camera zapped something loose in Brenda's memories. She stood like a zombie trying to hold on to the memory while Dylan pummeled the ever-loving shit out of the man who had accosted her in the parking lot. Not that she cared. She cared more about what she remembered. Flashbulbs. No headlights. The curve of a road. A hand held out, stretching, reaching for—what? It's the first clear memory she's had since being home, and now—now she doesn't know what the hell it means. Was it the plane crash? Frustration fills Brenda. She doesn't think so. Something inside tells her no.
"Hey," Dylan's voice, low and quiet. Her memories cloud, evaporate. "I'm sorry."
Shaking herself from her stupor, Brenda turns her head to Dylan. "For what?"
"I freaked out on that guy. When I saw him bothering you, I lost it." He's watching her carefully, worried he scared her.
While he surprised her, he never scared her. He's her rock, someone she knows she can count on. With Dylan, she's the safest she's ever been.
"I think he deserved it. Didn't he?" Dylan nods slow.
"He's been bothering you for some time now. I couldn't let him keep doing it." He shakes his head, angry at himself. "I'm sorry, though. I should've kept my cool."
Brenda thinks about all the questions she could ask. The reporter's name, their history. Then she frowns, remembering the busted camera, the reporter's promise to sue. Her stomach clenches at the thought. "He won't give you trouble, will he?"
Dylan grins. "Why? You gonna break his kneecaps?"
Brenda gives a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe."
Dylan laughs and her heart does a flip. God, how she loves that laugh. Everything about it earnest and passionate and happy. Like fireworks lighting up the night.
Dylan stretches a hand her way. Brenda takes it, dipping her fingers to his wrist to trace his tattoo.
"How was therapy?" he asks.
"Frustrating," Brenda says, and Dylan's brows go up at the admission. "Dr. Carter said I have to be patient and—"
Dylan chuckles. "Yeah, I can see how'd that be frustrating for you."
Brenda smacks him lightly in the chest with the back of her hand. "As I was saying, I'll either never remember or I'll remember when my brain wants me to." She frowns. "Either way, it's nothing I can control."
"Which pisses you off." Brenda nods and breaks into a wry smile.
"Which pisses me off."
"It's not a race, baby," decelerating off the highway and onto the byway that leads to the ranch. "You'll get there."
"Right," she murmurs. Once again, Brenda's attention drifts. She fans a hand against the window. The glass cool and comforting. As she stares out at the scenery, her brain ping-pongs around inside her head, alighting on every little fact she's learned since being home.
A rock type song comes on the radio, breaking Brenda's concentration. Her ears prickle. A man singing about losing his religion.
"The plane crash . . ." Dylan's free hand, about to turn the station, stops midair. He gives her a sidelong glance.
"What about it?"
"The trip to Florida…" Brenda sits up and looks at Dylan, whose expression has flattened. "Why'd we go? Was it for a tour?"
"No. You had been sick." His knuckles grip white on the wheel. Slowly, so slowly, like he's carefully choosing his words, he says, "I thought it would be good for you, for us, to get away."
Dylan snaps off the radio, his face dark and stormy. Brenda stares. "Why was I sick?"
The fury that had darkened Dylan's features only moments ago is gone. His face clears, and he looks soft at her. "You were in a car accident." He sounds like he has glass in his throat. "A month before we went to Florida. You were T-boned by a pickup truck. You broke your wrist and you lost a lot of blood."
"Oh." She sits silently, her brain fuzzy from the revelation. He watches her carefully, with concern.
"Bren—"
"What about you?" Brenda asks, suddenly filling with a worry she's never known. She reaches for him, her eyes scanning him for an invisible injury. "Were you hurt?"
"No." A muscle jumps in Dylan's jaw. Tight. So tight. His handsome face drawn. Tortured, if she had to use a better word. "I was fine, Bren. I wasn't there. I shoulda been. But I wasn't."
Brenda's heart collapses in on itself. The hurt in his voice, the blame. That's the reason for the pain in his dark eyes. He's been holding on to it for such a long time.
"It's not your fault, Dylan," she murmurs, scooting close to curl her head on his shoulder. "It was an accident."
Only the bob of his throat, the clench of his jaw tells her he doesn't believe it. They settle into silence as Dylan wraps an arm around her and tucks her in tight to his side. He cranks the wheel, turning the car down the dusty dirt road to their ranch.
Once again, Brenda's gaze drifts to the window. Her mind to her memory. To this thin slice of her life that's just been revealed. She isn't quite sure what exactly it all means, but its something. Also there is a feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach that things weren't always this blissful with Dylan. That song? Familiar? Meaningful? Had they been fighting? Over what though? He is so perfect and supportive. Maybe her mind is blurring her two worlds, the shit with Vince and her real life? The only thing Brenda knows is that she shouldn't voice it. The last thing she wants is to get Dylan's hopes up. It doesn't make sense anyway. She wouldn't even know what to say. It's only pieces and flashes. Brenda sighs, she has never been this frustrated in her entire life. At least…she thinks she hasn't?
Sorry a shorter one but it was a good place to stop. Next up, Dylan tries writing, opens up to the boys that he thinks Brenda remembered something and Steve and Brandon, have an an emotional chat, giving us more information about Brandon and Kelly and how Brandon's been feeling. Dylan opens up to Brenda about how he was when she was gone and they reconnect in a BIG way. Hit review my loves! I live for those reviews!