It’d been a long time since I’d been around someone having a panic attack, but I knew the signs as well as I knew just about anything. Sweat was collecting rapidly along his hairline, and his neck was a bright shade of red. He kept pulling around the area where his button-up had been—so fancy, this guy.
“I’m going to get you an ice cube,” I told him calmly, grabbing some from inside the ice maker and feeling them immediately start melting in my warm palm.
“I can’t breathe,” he choked out, his hand limply feeling along his neck for the invisible noose I knew too well hung there. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. You’re right here. I’m here, with you. You’re going to be okay. Just relax.” I pressed my hand to his now-exposed chest, felt his heartbeat thumping rapidly. His skin was clammy, covered in bright red spots from being flushed.
“My chest hurts,” he managed, but his voice sounded weak.
“Do you take medicine for these?” I asked him, realizing that this was probably what had him visiting Doc Watkins weekly.
His eyes closed and he didn’t respond. His breaths were rapid, causing his chest to heave and fall. It amazed me that he could look this strong—covered in taut muscle over virtually every inch of his body—and succumb to something like this.
“I’m going to put this ice cube on your neck,” I told him, not knowing if this was even a good idea, but realizing that he needed to cool down. Maybe the cold touch of the ice cube on his skin would remind him where he was, bring him back to his present.
“Right here,” I told him, talking us both through my next steps. I took a deep breath and pressed the ice cube to the base of his neck. He didn’t even flinch, which I took as a bad sign. He should’ve reacted to the cold ice on his heated skin. His skin was so hot, the ice cube melted almost instantly in my hand, sending rivulets of water down his chest.
Jesus. It was inconveniently hot, seeing his chest covered in drips of water. A million dirty thoughts passed through my mind—like, “Lick it off,” and “add more ice,” but I knew that was a bad idea. It didn’t stop me from licking my lips anyway. This was like some fantasy shit. If your fantasy included a very attractive man having a panic attack.
Worst timing ever, libido.
I had to shove the X-rated Magic Mike kind of thoughts from my brain as I abandoned the ice idea and scooted as close as I could to him. His head was leaning to the side, his breaths still quick and shallow and his eyes closed.
Grasping his jaw, I turned him to face me. “X. You’re okay. I’m here, I’m not leaving. Concentrate on your breathing.” I nosily made loud inhalation sounds and rubbed my hands down his arms. “Come on, you can do this.”
He swallowed, and his eyes opened. They were glassy at first, but as I started counting down from ten, they cleared. “There you are,” I said softly. “Meds?”
He swallowed again and whispered, “In the bathroom cabinet.”
Good god, he had eight billion bathrooms. I wagered it was in the master bath though, and nodded. “I’m going to go get them. Just keep breathing.”
I scrambled to my feet and took off toward the stairs, running up them two at a time. The one good upside to having broken into his house earlier was that I knew exactly where his bedroom was. I’d have to remind him how lucky he was that his former burglar was the one taking care of him.
The master bath was all white—subway tile walls, marble floors and countertops. And in the corner of the room sat the most magnificent tub. It had to fit like five people.
I shook my head. I wasn’t here to daydream about bubble baths. I whipped the cabinet open, and a bunch of bottles tumbled out.
Another bonus to having a former drug dealer be the one helping you through a panic attack was that they knew exactly which med was the one you needed. Except none of these meds were antidepressants or benzodiazepines. In fact, most of them weren’t even prescriptions—they were supplements. Most of them full.
I went back downstairs, and the noise I made caused X to turn his head and look at me. His chest was still heaving, but on the whole he looked a lot better. “Coming back?” I asked, sitting down beside him and pressing my hand to his chest. Even his heartbeat was slower. “That’s good,” I said, even though he hadn’t answered. “Let me get you some water.”
Again, the bonus to having previously been in his house was knowing exactly where his crystal glasses were. I poured water in and grabbed a straw, before sliding back to the floor beside him. He lifted his hand to take the glass, but I didn’t trust that he fully had his strength back yet so I swatted it gently away. “Here, I can hold it. Take a sip.”
He took a small one and then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The redness on his neck was fading and the sweat that had clung to his forehead seemed to be cooling too. Unable to resist, I reached a hand to his face and brushed away his hair. “Feeling better?”
He opened one eye and peered at me. “Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse, so I lifted the glass and encouraged him to take another sip, which he did. After nearly finishing the glass, he sighed and covered his face with his hands.
“I can’t believe that just happened.”
“What?”
He dropped his hands and barely looked at me. “That I just had a full blown fucking panic attack.”
I shrugged. “So what. You’re hardly the first person in the world to have one, Lockwood. Don’t act so special.” When he turned to me with his eyebrows pulled in, I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You’ve been around them before?”
“More times than I can count. Drug dealer, remember? Do you know how many times prison inmates have panic attacks? All the damn time.” I held up the water and he finished it. “So chill your jets.”
“My jets aren’t on fire,” he replied drily. “I’m just embarrassed it happened.”
“Well, now you’re just bringing more attention to it. Get over it, dude. Everyone has their moment—and that was yours.” I wasn’t sure if I was actually easing his embarrassment, but he appeared to be much more willing to make eye contact with me. “You know what we need? Alcohol. Booze cures everything.”
“I’m not sure I should be having alcohol right now,” he started and I shoved to my feet.
“If I’d given you meds, maybe I’d agree with you. But since you’re stone cold sober right now, I think we could both use some imbibing.” I reached a hand out to pull him up with me to his feet, which he accepted after a moment. I pulled out a stool and practically pushed him into it. “Here, sit. Don’t worry, I know where everything is already.”
“I recall.”
I grabbed the whiskey and two lowball glasses and placed them on the counter. “Speaking of meds,” I began, spinning the lid off the whiskey, “I didn’t find any upstairs, in your bathroom.” I poured two fingers into one glass. “But I found a shit ton of supplements. Most of them looked like you’d never even opened them. Starting your own business?”
“That would be courtesy of my mother. I’m not entirely convinced she doesn’t secretly run lab work on me every couple months or so—to make sure I’m getting enough nutrients.” He waved a hand above us. “The good stuff is in the bathroom connected to my office.” Then he winced. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you where it is.”
“Hey, former drug dealer here.” I poured two fingers into the second glass, and made eye contact with him before I poured a bit more into that glass.
“Trying to get me drunk?”
I pursed my lips and shook my head, handing him the first glass. “No, this is for me. You’re a lightweight right now.”
He lifted his glass to me and took a sip—not tossing it back like I did mine.
“So, I know that you’ve seen panic attacks before, but how’d you know what to do when someone is having one?”
I placed my empty glass on the counter. “I learned it in the clink.”
He made a face at my word choice, like he was trying not to laugh at me. And when he lifted his glass again, that perfectly formed bicep filled my vision.
“Listen, we need a distraction right now. Because if you have another panic attack, you’re going to be stripping off even more clothes and the next thing you know, you’ll be running around naked.” I tapped my nail on the whiskey bottle. “And in my fragile state right now, I don’t know that I could resist temptation.” He smiled, like I was being funny. Maybe I was, but I was also absolutely serious. If I had to stare at his chest without something to occupy my mind, I’d start remembering the water that had slid down his body—making him look like an erotic dream come true. “Let’s play truth or dare.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little afraid of the kinds of dares you could come up with.”
“Then don’t choose dare.” I poured another two fingers into my glass. “You can ask first.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth.” I lifted my glass and eyed him over the top of his as he assessed me.
“Why were there handcuffs in your kitchen?”
I busted out a laugh, and set the glass down to avoid spilling it. “You’re probably thinking I have a kitchen fetish, but the truth is I stole those off a cop once, and I don’t have a dresser or anything to keep them in. Besides, the kitchen is where my knives are, so why not keep my handcuffs there too?”
“You stole handcuffs from a cop?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s kind of what I do, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed. By the way, this seems as good a time as any—I want my watch back.”
“What watch?” I asked coyly, sipping my whiskey this time. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”
“Truth.”
I pouted. “You’re no fun. Fine.” I shook my hair back away from my face as I thought. “You’re obviously loaded. Why do you live in the suburbs with the families and grandparents?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask what the X stands for.”
“Maybe I like this little foreplay we’re doing, as I keep trying to guess it.”
“All your guesses are awful though. Not one of them is a name of a person.”
I tipped my glass to him. “Xena is. Bad ass warrior princess.”
He gave me an impatient look.
“But answer my question.”
“Why do I live in this neighborhood? Because no one bothers me here. And, in hindsight this sounds foolish, I thought I would be less likely to be robbed than if I flashed my money around in some penthouse apartment. Plus,” he turned his head toward the door in the hallway. “I like having a basement.”
“You made sense until that last part. Now you just sound creepy. Do you have a panic room or something down there?”
“No, but I probably should.” He finished his glass of whiskey and slid it across the counter to me. He motioned with his hand to pour more, so I did. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” I handed him his glass with challenge in my eyes.
“Alright. Show me your tattoo.”
“Which one?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You have more than one?”
“Yep, and since you asked to see a tattoo, as in singular, you only get to see one.”
He looked over my body before returning to my face. “When you were here last night, I saw something…” He motioned his hand to the side of his ribs.
“Oh.” I turned and lifted my shirt, watching as his eyes followed each inch of skin I revealed. Just under my bra, along my ribs on my left side was the tattoo he was talking about.
“Is it a wave?”
“Sure is.” It was a simple ocean wave, just one curve.
“Why?”
“A wave is one of the strongest and most powerful natural forces on earth. It can cause chaos or it can save.” I touched the wave with the tip of my forefinger. “I rode the wave and made it out.”
He didn’t say anything to that, just nodded and took a sip as he stared at my tattoo. Even though he’d seen me much more naked than this, it felt more intimate this time, especially after everything we’d gone through that day. I pulled my shirt down and took a sip of whiskey.
“So, Xena, your turn. Truth or dare?”
He swallowed his whiskey. I watched the way his throat moved with it, and the little droplets of wet that clung to his bottom lip. I found myself staring at that droplet and squirmed as I realized I wanted to kiss it away. To suck on his lip, and see what he tasted like.
“Truth,” he said, and smiled at the look of disappointment in my eyes. I’d have to make this a good one, to punish him for denying me a dare.
When it finally came to me, I smiled a little to myself and finished my second glass. The whiskey was warming me—or maybe that was X. Either way, my limbs felt looser, my chest felt warmer, and this truth or dare game was doing a terrible job distracting me from his very bare chest and the enticing smell of him that lingered on my fingers.
“Okay. Why are you in therapy?”