WE ALL MAKE CHOICES.
The message that fucking haunts me. What a dickbag thing to say to a girl you care about. A girl who just put it all on the line for you to, what? Jerk off?
I shake my head.
We all make choices.
Don’t I fuckin’ know it. I should take my own implied advice.
She hasn’t messaged me back, but she’s seen the message. That was last night, and there’s still no message this morning. That’s probably not a good sign. Fuck. Leave it to me to ruin the one good thing I had going in my life. The one thing I actually looked forward to in a monotonous, lonely fucking day. Because she was right all those months ago.
I am lonely. Actually, I don’t even know if lonely really covers it.
I’m numb. By choice. And talking to Pretty_in_Purple was like the one pinprick that was getting through, making me feel something. And I couldn’t even bring myself to fess up about my leg, just put it out there in the open. I was too fixated on keeping it secret. Something that doesn’t even make sense to me, and yet I can’t bring myself to change it. Maybe if she’d known, she’d have been more accepting of my not wanting to go on video. Maybe if she knew I ran a multinational company and couldn’t be recognized as the guy jacking off on the internet, it would make a difference.
Maybe she’d understand. Maybe letting someone in on my secret would be a good start? Someone whose face I couldn’t see when I told them. The pity. The disgust.
This cloak and dagger game I play with my leg is fucked up, and I know it. I never intended to let it get this far. It started out as something I just wanted to process on my own. After all, when I came back from Iraq, I had a lot to process. Apparently, watching your friends get blown to pieces will fuck you up. Never mind coming to grips with losing a limb after spending your entire adult life defining yourself by how physically capable you are. But the longer I went without sharing with anyone, the lower I let myself go. The more I focused on Hilary and her cruel words, the more it just became something I never wanted anyone to know about. The more I believed them.
Hiding it became integral. Like breathing. And now when I think of it, I don’t even know why I do it—but I can’t quite bring myself to stop. I’m stagnant like a swamp.
I pick up my phone and fire her off a message, determined to fix this.
Golddigger85: How are you?
Smooth, Cole. You’ve really got a way with words, pal.
After a few hours, she still hasn’t responded. She hasn’t even seen it. I tell myself she’s probably busy. It seems like her job lends itself to long hours without set weekends. But as the day wears on with no response, I get worried. In a year, we haven’t gone a single day without at least popping in to say hi or mentioning that things are busy. Not because we owe each other an explanation, but because we like each other enough to do it.
Golddigger85: Is everything okay?
Still nothing. I spend the evening closing the app and rebooting it. Uninstall and then reinstall. Hoping that it’s a technical error. Technology fucks up all the time. It’s probably that.
But when I wake up the next morning with my phone in my hand and still nothing from Pretty_in_Purple, dread takes up residence in my chest. I fucked up, and there’s no clear-cut way for me to fix it. Or something terrible happened to her, which is a thought I can’t even handle. I’d rather feel like the shithead I am than imagine her injured—or worse.
I can’t even let myself go there.
All I want to do is make this right.
Golddigger85: Listen, I think you’re probably angry with me. I’m sorry if I hurt you. That was never my intention. I just . . . I’m complicated. It’s a long story. One I’d like to tell you if you come back.
My misery grows with every passing day that she doesn’t respond. I feel pathetic continuing to message her. But I can’t stop. Talking to Pretty_in_Purple has become part of who I am, a thread leading me back to the man I want to be. A thread I decide I will not let go of. I’ll keep going even if she’s not here to partake.
Golddigger85: I think I’m just going to keep writing to you, even if you never come back. I need this.
After all, I am exceptional at avoiding reality.
I’VE HELD Violet in my arms all night long. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that her telling me it’s fine means that it’s not fine at all. But I keep holding her anyway.
I’ve barely slept. I’m exhausted, but also buzzing. Kissing Violet last night was fucking everything. It really was perfect. Until she freaked out and shut it down. The way she asked me not to ruin it. It’s like she already knows I ruin everything.
And then holding her? Her warm body pressed into mine? It was like clinging onto a teddy bear for comfort. But I’ve never wanted to fuck a teddy bear.
I’m also freezing, but I couldn’t care less, so long as she’s warm. She fell asleep quickly, quietly, lulled into a dream world where soft little sighs slipped past her lips, where she snuggled in closer and turned into my chest.
It was heaven. Just holding someone—someone who knows everything and doesn’t look at me with disgust. I haven’t felt that level of relaxation in years. In the middle of a forest, in a shitty little shelter, I’m the most relaxed I’ve been in years. All because Violet is here in my arms.
Yeah, I’m royally fucked. Because not only do I want to rip all her clothes off and use her body in every way imaginable, I want to cook her breakfast after, make sure she takes her vitamins and works out. I want to take care of her body once I’m finished desecrating it.
What’s worse, I want to talk to her. In the dark, in the quiet, I want to let it all out. My dad, my mom, my time overseas. All those stories bubble barely controlled beneath the surface. When that pin on my leg snapped, so did the reservoir of everything I’ve held in for so long. It came surging up like water out of a dam, and now I’m struggling to keep it in.
Trixie is going to be obnoxiously pleased.
I look down at her now, snoring softly, snuggled into my chest with one leg slung over mine. The warm drops of morning light filter through the porous roof of the shelter, speckling her cheeks and hair. Her long lashes cast a shadow, and her lips are a pale shade of pink, the same color as her pert nipples. Something I’ll never forget. Violet has perfect tits.
She looks small and weak, but if I’ve learned anything about Violet in the last month, it’s that she’s strong. So damn strong.
I knew she’d yanked her independence away from her family and set out alone, determined to be her own woman. I just didn’t realize how thoroughly she’d succeeded. How intensely herself she’d become. Her confidence isn’t loud or brazen, it’s subtle and natural. Intrinsic almost in how well it suits her. She isn’t hard or crass; she’s just steadfast.
When our online conversation wasn’t serving her anymore, she was done. I’d spent a year desperately hoping she’d log in and see my last messages. Hell, I still have our chat open on my computer and check it daily. If she would just log back in, she’d know I wasn’t done with her. She’d know what I haven’t been able to say out loud.
I admired that about her. Envied it. When life didn’t go my way, I retreated, but Violet? She kept on trudging. With a smile. Eternal sunshine.
Her lashes flutter before her lids pop open. She looks around the shelter. Mostly she gets an eyeful of my chest as the gears in her head spin. When her chin turns up to look at my face, she startles. Obviously, she hadn’t planned on me being awake.
“How long have you been up for?”
“A while,” I lie. “Hard to sleep with your snoring.”
Her face flushes pink as she moves away from my chest. I want to pull her close again, but I don’t. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act this morning.
“I was not.” She looks horrified.
“You were.”
She scrubs her face with her hands as if doing so will make her cheeks less red.
“It was more like . . . purring. Like a kitten,” I continue.
“Oh, god.”
“Hey. I’m missing a leg, and you snore like a kitten. It’s all good.”
Her hands shoot down off her face so fast I can’t even react to her pointy little finger jabbing my chest. “Missing a leg isn’t embarrassing!” She just went from embarrassed to all fired up in under one second.
I hold my hands up in defeat and roll away from her. “You’re right. The only embarrassing thing here right now is your breath.”
Her little mouth flattens as her already big eyes widen at me. She sits up slowly, shielding her mouth with one hand, muttering, “Cole Harding, you are such a prick.”
Once she’s brushed herself off, she looks down at me. “Okay. Tell me where the leg is, and I’ll go get it. I’m starving.”
“Bottom left drawer of the dresser in my room.”
She nods before turning away, and my hand shoots down quickly to adjust my cock. The thought of her in my room is not helping with my morning wood. And neither is the view of her ass in those goddamn shorts crawling out of the shelter.
“Make sure you sing or something on your way down. Make noise. Keep your eyes peeled for wildlife. There are bears out here.”
“Good god, Cole. What do you think I am? A city girl?”
She brushes her ass off, wiggling it just a little as she does, and within a few minutes, I can hear her singing some god awful country song about riding a cowboy—completely off tune.
I’VE MADE my way back out to the log I sat on yesterday. It’s a good log, in the perfect position to see the path. The brush behind me is so thick it would be impossible for anyone to sneak up. I feel as relaxed as I ever would, sitting in the middle of nowhere, missing my leg from just below the knee.
I’m trying not to worry about Violet, but it’s not working. I know she’s perfectly capable of walking down the mountain, but I can’t keep my mind from straying to her. The same way it has for two years.
Zoned out as I might be, Violet clearly has no military training. I can hear her coming from a mile away. How someone so small can be so heavy on her feet is beyond me.
“Got it!” Violet waves the prosthetic overhead like it’s a flag, but her movements are jerky. Her face is pinched. Sure, I pestered her about the snoring thing and kissed her senseless last night, but she didn’t leave with body language like this.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as she approaches me.
She almost flinches as her eyes dart to mine before lowering again. “Nothing.” She drops to one knee, swings the backpack off from over her shoulder, and zips it open.
“How is the brown horse? Did you feed her extra? She was probably starving.”
“For crying out loud, Cole. She has a name. You can stop pretending you don’t like her around me.” She shoves a black fleece jacket at me, agitation lining her every movement. “And of course, I fed her. Hard to forget with that loud-ass whinny every time one of us pulls up.”
I can’t help but smile. It really is kind of annoying, and yet I look forward to her greeting every day. The soft brush of her lips against my palm when I offer her a carrot. The way she nuzzles her dusty little face against my dress shirt, like she’s bunting on me. I’m not used to someone being so happy to see me all the time.
“Okay, good. Thanks for the coat.”
“I figured you were probably cold.” Violet is bundled in a lightly quilted Gold Rush Ranch jacket now and looking . . . uncomfortable. Nothing like the way she looked this morning, or last night, when she straddled my lap and ground herself down on me. What the hell is going on?
“Thanks.” I eye her speculatively. “You sure everything is okay?”
“Yup!” she says a little too brightly, popping the p.
I’m not buying, but I also hate when people pry—so I won’t.
Instead, I focus on fastening my spare prosthetic. It’s not as comfortable as my regular one. It’s not customized in the same way, and I know it’s probably going to rub my stump. It’s definitely not made for hiking.
I look down into it, and my leg aches. My leg that isn’t even there. Phantom pains. They’re not as bad as they once were, but sometimes the reality that my leg is really gone just lands differently. It’s like I can feel it there. The pain of the day it was blown off. The pain of my recovery. The pain of my loss.
It rarely bugs me, but shoving my leg into a prosthetic I know is going to be uncomfortable gives me pause.
I shake my head and push it in anyway. No point in crying about it. Gotta get down this hill somehow. With my socks pulled up comfortably, I tie my shoe before looking up at Violet, who is staring at my foot with her brow furrowed.
“Do you have another question?” I ask, half joking.
She sighs, her shoulders squeezing up high and then falling as she does. “No. It’s just amazing. I had no idea. I couldn’t tell at all—the way you walk, the way you work out, the way you . . .” she waves her hand over my body, “look.”
I bite back a smile. I’m not sure of much where Violet is concerned, but I know she likes my body. I catch her checking me out all the time when she thinks she’s being discreet, and relief hits me like a blast of AC on a hot day because she’s still giving me that look now that she knows what I’m hiding in my pants. Or, well, one of the things I’m hiding in my pants. I almost feel bad I assumed she’d look at me differently, but that’s been my experience, hasn’t it? I have little else to go on because I’ve been so busy hiding it from everyone.
“Okay, let’s get the fuck off this mountain.” I stand and press a little weight onto the prosthetic, feeling it out. It sucks. But it’ll have to do for now.
Violet turns and starts walking back down the path. I follow, pretty sure my walk isn’t as even in this prosthetic. People would notice now, but as Violet slows to match my pace, she says nothing.
The silence is fine by me.
Only when we pull up to the barn does she talk. “Thanks. See you at the track tonight?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m riding tonight. That’s why I’ve got to get going.”
Maybe that’s why she seemed so off? Focused on tonight?
“Is that safe?” I ask before I can stop myself. But really, she just spent the night sleeping poorly and hiking up and down a mountain to help my crippled ass. Running around at breakneck speeds on a thousand-pound animal being anything short of perfectly alert seems dangerous to me.
One shapely brow quirks up as she crosses her arms back at me. I feel like I’m looking at a small, blonde, elvish version of myself with that pose and facial expression.
“Friends look out for each other, Violet,” I grumble at her. I know she doesn’t want people telling her what to do, but this is serious.
And she just scoffs, “Yeah. Friends,” and rips the truck door open before slamming it with nothing more than a wave over her shoulder as she stomps up the stairs to her apartment.
