Ronan told himself he ought to lighten uparound her. She worked hard and didn’t deserve his bitterness. But,he just couldn’t seem to pull himself out of this nastydisposition. Which just made things worse between them. He was rudeto everyone these days, but he took it out on her the hardest.
He wouldn’t deny it, his temper at her wasmostly based in desperation. Needing to keep his distance, or itwould be easy to give in to the desires of his subconscious,sex-deprived brain. When he put his mind to it, he could romance awoman more efficiently than his promiscuous brother; not that hewould ever act so licentiously. He’d had to put on some madflirting skills as an operative more than a few times.
Although, having a nice face had been a cursemore often than an asset. Which was a small part of where the beardcame from. For his sanity, much safer if he kept his distance.
~
After spending the next morning breaking downthe flimsy shelving, Ronan loaded the last of it into the back ofhis truck. He’d drive by the dump this evening before they closed.First, he focused on measuring out and planning the shelves.
Maybe some different heights and depths, asshe carried quite a variety of items. Would need to be sturdyenough to handle whatever she may try to overload it with. He tapedan outline on the creaky wood flooring, ensuring the dimensionshe’d imagined provided an easy flow.
Out of nowhere, the smell of rotting fleshcame first. Coughing and gagging, he tried to purge his mind of thenecrotic odor. Images flashed in his mind, dragging him into theflashback; eyes sunken or missing entirely, limbs bent in unnaturaldirections. Nearly 20 of them. Men, women, and children; no one hadbeen spared.
There had been little intelligence to begained from going into that building; the fucking mercs had beenthere first. Testing their latest biologic weaponry on thoseinnocent people who had done nothing more than be in the wrongplace at the wrong time; isolated, miles from anything.
Where would Young and his crew have gottenahold of those weapons anyway? Young wasn’t a weapons dealer.Didn’t make a damn bit of sense.
It was the same horrific memory that plaguedhim every night, his subconscious remained stuck in an endlesscircle, demanding answers. Each night, he was Sisyphus, imprisonedin an unsurmountable predicament.
Sweat dripped down his brow, the salt stunghis eyes. His ears were ringing in panic, the world around fadingto black. Breathe in 2, 3, 4, 5, hold…. Release. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Every damn day. Other memories, good and bad from his years in theCIA surfaced periodically, but this one made an appearance everydamn day.
Ronan stood from his squatted position andshoved open the steel door, its hinges squealing in protest at theimpatient force. The ice-cold air blasted into the room like awelcoming flood of mana, cleansing him of the imagined scent.Propping the door open with a nearby chair, Ronan got back to work,trying to shake off the lingering panic. Calculating thedimensions, planning how many boards of how many inches.
The shrill jingle of Payson's phone broke hisconcentration. Her perky voice echoed from the front sales floor.“BonjourAlain…. Yes, I would love to see your latestfinds…. Alain, I can’t just pick up everything and fly to France,can’t you just send me pictures like usual?... That does soundamazing… No, I’ve never been… Ok, I’ll think about it. Can I getback to you in a week or two?...Merci. Bye.”
Her perkiness… and her atrocious Frenchaccent shattered the meditative bubble he’d built around himself.She called out his name as she approached. Dammit. He was still soshaken from the panic attack, his shirt soaked with sweat, hisvision tunneled, he couldn’t respond.
“Hey. It’s freezing in here, if you’re toohot, can’t you just turn on a fan or crack a window?” She griped asshe came into the back room.
On seeing his ashen pallor, his clammy skin,a look of sympathy washed over her. Not now. He really couldn’thandle any kind words, any apologies. Not from her, not fromanyone.
“It’s fucking hot in here. I have to run tothe dump anyway,” Ronan stormed out, throwing down the tape measurehe’d been holding. Knew he’d pissed her off even more. Hatinghimself for continuing to be a damn jerk every time she was around,he needed to get a grip.
Tearing the truck door nearly off its rustyold hinges, Ronan pulled himself into the truck and slammed thedoor shut behind him. Resting his forehead on the steering wheel,he calmed his breathing. Eyes closed, he took himself through theguided imagery techniques he’d learned from a PTSD app he’ddownloaded.
Sitting on a wooden boat, eyes watching thesteady horizon, the gentle rocking of the boat cutting through thechoppy water, the hum of the engine.
~
Even the next morning, Ronan couldn’t handlebeing around her. The sympathy was intolerable. Maybe worse, hisnocturnal imaginings were becoming increasingly detailed,envisioning her perform many, many creative things with his body.Picturing her… very naked… was becoming a welcome diversion fromthe nightmares. But, the vivid fantasies made it so much harder tobe around her.
Measurements finally done, satisfied with theplan, he headed to his parent’s garage to use the table saw. Ronanmade himself at home in his dad’s enormous garage. Fortunately, hisparents were spending the day running errands and left him to workin peace.
His dad had always enjoyed carpentry and hadconverted the 3-car garage into a 2-car garage with a well-equippedshop. Measuring each piece of material – twice, remembering the oldadage to measure twice and cut once, he methodically cut the lumberdown to size.
Details had always been his strong suit,which was why he’d been suited so well for his work with the CIA.Every little detail mattered. Sometimes it boiled down to one tinynuance in a conversation that pointed toward the information he wasseeking.
Headphones and safety goggles in place, hefired up the saw. Cutting the lumber was turning out to bedownright cathartic. Who knew? Maybe he should have taken upwoodworking a long time ago.
The smell of the sawdust was nostalgic,reminding him of when he helped his dad build their old pergola.Remembering how he had enjoyed the work. How his dad had tried topush him outside of his very narrow, hyper-focused academic andextracurricular activities.
Pushing the 2x4s through, precisely along themarkings, he added the completed boards to the stack of otherprecisely cut lumber. Hours passed, but it could have been days orseconds for all Ronan knew, if it hadn’t been for the cheerfulcuckoo clock on the wall. That must’ve been his mom’s touch.
“Hey son, you still out here working?” Frankshouted over the buzz of the saw as he sauntered into the garage,nodding approvingly at the neatly stacked 2x4s organized bylength.
Ronan shut down the saw, pulled off thesafety googles and headphones. Looking up, he realized every scrapof daylight had gone. “Guess I lost track of time.”
“Nice work. Precise cuts. That’s going to bea heck of a storage room. She know what you’re planning?” Franksmiled, deep creases forming in his cheeks, eyes crinkled fromyears at sea. He leaned against the opposite side of the table sawfacing Ronan.
