Jessa James - Pretend I'm Yours

Pretend I’m Yours: Copyright © 2020 by Jessa James

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.

Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Pretend I’m Yours

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Deposit photos: HayDmitriy; Melpomene

Publisher’s Note:

This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.

This book has been previously published.

Get A Free Book! Get A Free Book! Join my mailing list to be the first to know of new releases, free books, special prices and other author giveaways. http://freehotcontemporary.com

1. Charlie 1

2. Larkin 2

3. Charlie 3

4. Larkin 4

5. Charlie

6. Larkin

7. Charlie

8. Larkin

9. Charlie

10. Larkin

11. Charlie

12. Larkin

13. Charlie

14. Larkin

15. Charlie

16. Charlie

17. Larkin

18. Charlie

19. Larkin

20. Charlie

21. Charlie

22. Larkin

23. Charlie

24. Larkin

Epilogue

Get A Free Book!

Also by Jessa James

About the Author

Join my mailing list to be the first to know of new releases, free books, special prices and other author giveaways.

http://freehotcontemporary.com

1

Two Years Ago

It’s in the middle of a drizzly spring afternoon that I lose her.

“Bye, John,” I say to the older man putting away the gray folding chairs with a snap. We’re in a dingy church basement, but at least the church lets us meet here for free.

“Charlie,” John says. His cheeks are bright pink, his eyes deep blue. His clothes are several sizes too big and blandly beige. He nods his graying head to me, then goes back to intently stacking the chairs.

I take a last sip of my coffee, wincing at the sweetness of it. I put way too much sugar in it, but it can’t be helped now. I throw away the dregs in my paper cup, and the paper napkin that I have balled up in one fist, holding the crumbs of a bland store bought cookie.

“Watch out,” someone calls out, just in time to stop me from running into a sign that hangs from the ceiling. The ceilings here are so low that there’s only a few inches between them and the top of my head. I guess there aren’t a whole lot of guys built like Vikings walking around here.

Still, the warning is appreciated.

“Thanks,” I call back, but the person that warned me is halfway out the metal doors that lead to the parking lot.

I look around, a little deflated. I’m a big guy, former Army and CIA. I ended up here because of my panic attacks and nightmares. My wife Britta told me it was this or sleep on the couch every night, because there was no way she was going to let me keep waking her up.

Between her being nine months pregnant at the time and me not even fitting on the couch… I knew that I needed help. So I made some calls. Three types of group therapy later, and here I am.

I sigh, cycling through some of the ideas presented during the session, turning them over in my head. The idea of vulnerability, of allowing yourself to be vulnerable around another person, was talked about a lot.

Listening to some people talk, I’m glad that I have Britta by my side. She pulled me back from the brink after I got back from Syria, and she’s the thing that holds me here now.

I pull out my phone. I’m thinking nice thoughts about you , I text Britta.

No immediate response, but that’s okay. I stuff my phone back into the pocket of my jeans. I should go.

There are a few people still talking by the refreshments table, but the rest of my new support group — Combat Vets Talk — have already left. As I head for the metal double doors, my eyes sweep the basement one last time, automatically checking the moldering walls and the cheap blue carpet for…

What? I ask myself. Enemy combatants? Threats?

I left all of that behind in the sandy cityscape of Aleppo, where I was stationed as a CIA operative. That was a year ago, and yet I am just now starting to recover. Thus the group therapy sessions.

Well, I should give credit where credit is due: Britta and our newborn daughter are an integral part of my recovery, too. Watching Britta’s baby bump grow, and then holding Sarah for the first time… it changed something in me, on a molecular level.

Now I don’t know what I would do without them. They’re the light of my life, not to be Debbie Boone about it.

I push open the door and squint into the sunny daylight. It’s just beginning to rain, but that’s pretty much a constant here in Seattle. Besides, the rain is a nice break from the roasting heat of the church basement. The raindrops hit my arms and face, icy relief. I pull on my navy blue windbreaker and head toward my car.

There aren’t many cars left in the church parking lot; it’s a Saturday afternoon, and it’s pretty nice out, despite the drizzle. Most people in Seattle are probably having brunch or hiking or shopping right now.

Me, I’m just ready to go to the library, to meet Britta and Sarah. I picture them in my head: Britta with her long dark hair and warm smile. Sarah in her onesie, with her mom’s coloring and my green eyes. In the picture in my head, Britta carries the baby in her little striped front-facing harness while Sarah dozes.

Sarah is only three months old, but Britta says it’s never too early to introduce her to the library. We’ve been lightheartedly arguing about what sort of things we should read to Sarah. Britta says it doesn’t matter, but I’m advocating for starting with reading the baby the news in several languages.

After all, it’s never too early to encourage critical thinking skills, right? My mind is focused on that when I slide into my car and start the engine.

I pull out of the parking lot and go left, my hands turning the wheel, muscle memory taking over. I made the mistake of turning on NPR in the car. I can’t listen to it without getting wrapped up in the stories, having a lot of personal feelings about them, and filing each story away in my mental vault with precision.

I get a couple miles from home when I realize that I’ve gone on autopilot. The library is the other way. I glance at the clock in my car. I’m probably going to be late to meet Britta.

Turning around, I head northwest, the same way that I would if I were leaving my house. Something on the radio distracts me; I’m irritated with the White House trying to poke their nose into what’s going on with Syria, and doing it badly.

I see a car crash up ahead when I turn a corner, twisted hunks of metal surrounded by several police cars with flashing lights. A cop is waving people around it; another is half-heartedly pulling police tape around the scene.