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.
Contents
1. Charlie
2. Larkin
3. Charlie
4. Larkin
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
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1
Charlie
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