Beloved

Chapter Twenty

I’m spent.

Completely and totally useless.

I’m lying against his chest, still unable to catch my breath. He runs his fingers lightly against my back before shifting me to go clean up. I groan and stretch as my muscles loosen from the aftermath of our intense sex session. The tightness reminds me of the obstacle course and how much my body ached afterward. But this is the kind of physical workout I welcome.

Jackson returns and flops on his stomach, giving me a view of his perfect ass. He really is magnificent. I kind of want to pinch myself—surely this can’t be real. He turns his head toward me with a smile and I place my hand on his back. I’ve never gotten a good look at the art on his shoulder. It’s really remarkable, so intricate, and has so many different parts to it. In the center are the bones of a frog. Its body wraps around from the front of his shoulder and ends with the head facing down on his back. In the frog’s hands is the trident of Poseidon, only the three spears of the trident aren’t spears, they’re names. Brian, Fernando, and Devon are written in an elegant script and the number four serves as the handle. It’s surrounded by black tribal ink. My finger grazes the frog and the labyrinth of tribal markings around it. Below it is the most beautiful quote.

We have this hope as an anchor for our soul, firm and secure. – Hebrews 6:19

It’s profound and speaks to my heart. There’s meaning behind each word. Hope is something we all have, and it’s often the only thing we can grasp when our world is shattering. I hoped for my father to return. I hoped for Neil to be faithful. Neither of those things happened, but that hope is what kept me going every day.

Jackson rolls and faces me with sad eyes, so different from just moments ago. I reach up, placing my hand on his heart, and he pulls me in, close enough so I can see the front of the tattoo. “What does your tattoo mean?” I feel him tense.

“It’s the tattoo you get when you lose someone on the team,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Is that the loss you’ve mentioned?”

“Some,” he replies and laces his fingers with mine, holding our clasped hands between us.

I want to push him to tell me. I want him to share with me—more like I want him to want to tell me. I’m just not sure I should try to force it.

“Why a frog?” My curiosity gets the best of me. I don’t understand some of his world.

“SEALs are referred to as Frogmen.” He smiles and squeezes my hand gently. His eyes are warm and he continues on, “I got that tattoo to remember my three friends who died on a mission.”

My heart swells that he’s opening up, but aches for the pain of his loss. “I’m so sorry.”

He removes his hand from mine and wraps his arm around my middle. I scoot closer and return his hug, placing a small kiss on his chest. My mind begins to wander as the silence persists. Do I push again?

Jackson takes a deep breath and begins to speak. His voice is low, pain threading through his words. “It’s my fault.”

Pulling back, I look in his eyes. The agony there is evident. “What’s your fault?”

Jackson struggles to hide his emotions, but I watch each one play like a movie—sadness, anger, guilt, hatred—before his expression goes void. “Their deaths—I was in charge of the mission.”

“Jackson, I doubt that,” I say softly, hoping he’ll hear the disbelief in my voice.

He tugs me back against his chest. I’m not sure if he’s done talking or if he wants to hide from me. Giving him what he’s silently requesting, I wrap my arm around him and stay quiet.

Right as I’m starting to drift to sleep, feeling safe and content in his arms, I hear his deep voice. “When we were in Iraq, we got into some heavy firefight. I was in command of my team.” He pauses and runs his fingers up and down my spine methodically.

I look up and his eyes are closed tight as if he’s fighting an internal war. Every part of him is rigid and tense. I bring my hand to his face, brushing my thumb across his cheek. “Hey,” I whisper.

His eyes are vacant as he speaks. “There were six of us and we had bad intel. Something wasn’t sitting right, but I had my orders.” He takes a deep breath and his voice is distant. “So we deviated a little, hoping it would give us the element of surprise. I split the team in half. Mark, Aaron, and I took to the left.” He pauses again and I watch as pain lances through his features. Every single bone in my body is aching for him, but I stay still and quiet as I wait for him to go on.

“Brian, Fernando, and Devon took to the right of the village. I knew something was wrong. I had that sinking feeling but we didn’t have a choice. We had to fucking go and do our job. When we split up, it made it easier to pick us off. I heard the gunfire, but we couldn’t get to them quick enough. They were shot and killed. I was in charge—it’s on me.”

“Oh, Jackson.” I gasp and pull myself up.

I want to comfort him. I’m just not sure what to do. The pain in his voice, the torment in his eyes, it’s lashing through me. I want to take it from him, carry the burden so he’s not hurting, but he keeps going.

“By the time our extraction team got in, it was too late. They were already dead. Mark and I were both shot. Aaron was the only one who got out without getting injured. Mine was on my arm.” He points to a faint scar on his bicep. I lean over and kiss him. He smiles weakly at me, but there’s nothing but sadness in his eyes. “I carry their deaths on my shoulders.”

I can’t imagine how much the tattoo hurt, but the agony of reliving that memory while someone permanently etches it into your skin …

“I’m sure no one blames you. I mean Mark works with you and so does Aaron. Surely, they know what an amazing man you are.”

Anger flashes in his eyes at my statement, like it couldn’t be true. “They don’t need to. I blame me.” He bangs his fist on his chest. “It was my call. Their wives had to bury them, Catherine. They had to go to their funeral. They had to tell their kids that their dads would never come back again. Had we stuck together, we all would have lived.” He shuts his eyes on the memory and me.

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that if you stuck to the plan, or together, that all of you wouldn’t have been killed.” My voice is small but strong. I’m trying to give him the other side of things.

He doesn’t respond. I know it’s futile to try to argue. Ashton tried to tell me hundreds of times that my father probably had a reason to leave, and how Neil might not be the best guy for me. Sometimes it doesn’t matter because you can’t see past the image in your own heart.

We lie here together, unspeaking. Two broken ships trying to find a way through rough seas. I close my eyes and settle back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart as he tenderly holds me. And though I feel for his loss, I’m grateful he was spared.

He kisses the top of my head, and I move back so he can see the truth in my eyes. I need him to really hear what I’m saying. “I think you’re a wonderful man. From what I’ve seen you’re kind, loyal, trusting, and wouldn’t purposely put anyone in danger. You’ve comforted me and I saw how worried you were over the situation at your company.”

I grab hold of his face, forcing him to look at me. He shouldn’t carry guilt over something that wasn’t his fault. “You, Jackson Cole, are a man worth following. Those men wouldn’t want you to carry their deaths on your shoulders.”

“Those men should be alive,” he says almost inaudibly. Then he tries to move his head out of my grasp, but I’m not having it. I’m not done.

“True, they shouldn’t have died. No one should have to die, but would you have taken the bullet for them?” I raise my brow, already knowing his answer.

Without hesitation, he responds forcefully, “In a heartbeat.”

“Well, don’t you think they would do the same for you? I know loss too, Jackson. I’m living it now.”

I know he’s upset and hurt, but he’s failing to see that he wouldn’t want them to suffer if the situation were reversed. If it were Ashton and, God forbid, something happened and I was gone, I wouldn’t want her to live with that kind of guilt. I would want her to pick up her life and live on.

“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard before. Bottom line—I was there. I lived it.” His eyes narrow in anger. “I watched it happen and I couldn’t stop it. I fucked up and no one is going to tell me different. Their blood is on my hands. Did you kill your dad? No. So don’t compare.” His voice is cold, fused with frustration and defeat.

“You didn’t kill them either,” I whisper and drop my hands. A tear forms and I try to choke it down and hide my face from him.

I’m hurting for this entire situation and for my own guilt. No, I’m not responsible for my father’s death, but I never tried to find him either. I wrote him off. Some may think I was justified. Whether I was or not, I’ll never get that chance now. And now I’ve brought all of Jackson’s pain to the forefront. Regret is a shitty thing to live with and it seems both of us have an entire truckload of it.

“I’m sorry.” I feel him shift and his strong arms encase me.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You’re crying.” He releases his hold and turns my head to look at him.

What else is new? I’m emotional. With all the stress of the last few months and my lack of sleep, I’m a little frayed. The impending reading of my father’s will is wearing on me too. I want to get past all of this so I can get back to who I once was.

Swiping the tear from my face, I smile and retort, “No, I’m not.”

“I didn’t mean to be an asshole and ruin our night.”

“You didn’t, Jackson. I’m sorry I pushed.” I smile and place my hand against his cheek. “But I’m going to keep telling you how incredible you are, okay?”

His smile is soft, placating. It’s clear he doesn’t believe me. I wish he could see what I see. I shrug and give him a quick kiss. I’m not giving up on him.

“Come on, let’s go to bed.”

I put my finger up and hop out of the bed. “One minute. I just need to brush my teeth and all that good stuff.”

Seeing Jackson’s shirt on the floor, I grab it and throw it on, then enter the bathroom. I try to fix my now disheveled hair and quickly brush my teeth. I take a few extra minutes to get my head under control. He’s seen and been through so much. Are we both too fucked-up to work? No, if I think like that, I’m doing exactly what I always do. He’s not fucked-up, nor am I. We just have some healing to do.

Climbing back into bed, Jackson pulls me against his solid chest. “You look good in my shirt.”

I chuckle and smile at him. “You look good in your shirt too.”

His voice is low and oozes sexual promise. “You look even better out of my shirt.”

I laugh and shake my head. He effortlessly lifts me so we’re eye to eye and leans in to kiss me. It’s a slow, easy, and careful kind of kiss. It’s the kind of moment your heart will never recover from because you’re both saying so much. My head is spinning. I try to hold myself back. Between all the details tonight—the dinner, the earth-shattering sex, and then him finally opening up to me—Jackson has obliterated my walls.

He finally releases me, settling me into the crook of his arm. “Good night, baby.”

I smile even though he can’t see me. “Good night, Muffin.”