Page 20 of Badd B*tch

"So that's a crash landing, huh?" Jax was using the hem of his shirt to wipe blood from his face—he was bleeding profusely from a nasty-looking cut to his forehead; he sounded shaken despite his casual words.

"Yup." I did the same, but inside, I was fighting one hell of a panic attack triggered by flashbacks from the last time I'd crash-landed.

It wasn't working.

I focused on and identified physical objects around me:

glass shards;

cyclic;

collective;

radio;

a thick cluster of pale white mushrooms growing on the side of a tree trunk a few dozen feet away;

I inhaled through my nose for four seconds, held it for seven, exhaled for eight.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Jax, beside me. Brown hair. Brown eyes.

I saw his penis, and it was lovely.

He has incredible abs.

I want to kiss him.

This train of thought did actually help calm my panic, but then it also sent me into another mental tailspin, because no.

I can't go there with him, or anyone; I don't know how.

Not after Luke.

But god almighty, Jax is a hell of a fine-looking young man, and I’m wildly attracted to him. Physically, I mean. Emotionally? Fuck if I know. That part of me died with Luke.

"Hey." Jax's voice was close, quiet.

"Don’t,” I snarled.

"You're okay. We're safe. You got us down safely, Tea. You did it."

I shook my head. It was all I could manage.

A rough, warm hand took mine. Squeezed gently. "Hey. You're okay, Tea. Look at me, yeah?"

Dizzy. My head was tight and foggy and swimming, my thoughts racing, my heart palpitating, my lungs seized in a hot vise-grip. Flashes of memory seared through me, disordered, out of chronology: Luke and I kissing in secret behind a stack of oil drums in a Quonset hut hangar at a FOB in the Kandahar province, minutes before I inserted his team behind enemy lines; gunfire from the ground, yellow-orange sparks of light down below, sending rounds zipping past us and tinkling on our belly; Luke looking up at me, blood on his lips, goodbye on his lips; limping along a deer track on the side of a mountain, alone, Taliban warriors on my trail, hunting me as I raced for the FOB.

That hand cupped my chin, tilted my head. Deep, warm, concerned brown eyes met mine. "There you are. Hey. I'm here. It's okay."

I wasn't there anymore. I made it home. That's then, this is now. I heard my therapist's voice in my head, telling me to find a way to anchor myself to the present, to the real.

"Jax," I whispered.