Jessa James - Pretend I’m Yours

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Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Pretend Im Yours

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Deposit photos: HayDmitriy; Melpomene

Publishers 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.

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T wo Years Ago

Its 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. Were 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 cant 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 theres only a few inches between them and the top of my head. I guess there arent 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. Im 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, Im glad that I have Britta by my side. She pulled me back from the brink after I got back from Syria, and shes the thing that holds me here now.

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

No immediate response, but thats 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 Brittas baby bump grow, and then holding Sarah for the first time it changed something in me, on a molecular level.

Now I dont know what I would do without them. Theyre the light of my life, not to be Debbie Boone about it.

I push open the door and squint into the sunny daylight. Its just beginning to rain, but thats 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 arent many cars left in the church parking lot; its a Saturday afternoon, and its pretty nice out, despite the drizzle. Most people in Seattle are probably having brunch or hiking or shopping right now.

Me, Im 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 moms 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 its never too early to introduce her to the library. Weve been lightheartedly arguing about what sort of things we should read to Sarah. Britta says it doesnt matter, but Im advocating for starting with reading the baby the news in several languages.

After all, its 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 cant 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 Ive gone on autopilot. The library is the other way. I glance at the clock in my car. Im 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; Im irritated with the White House trying to poke their nose into whats 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.

I almost turn right, to avoid the traffic building up, but for some reason I dont. Maybe its the fact that everyone loves to see a traffic accident. We all secretly like to see the car that flipped upside down, to try to figure out how it happened. Wipe our figurative brows and sigh with relief that it wasnt us, as we drive away.

Anyway, Im listening to NPR, and drumming on the steering wheel as I wait for the cop to wave me through. I crane my head to look at the accident as I wait, judging the distance between the two cars.

Theres no question of anyone ever driving either vehicle again. Hell, if people didnt die in such a savage wreck, they should thank their lucky fucking stars.

Car A is a shiny new black Dodge Charger, and its smashed up pretty bad. Car B is laying on its side, undercarriage facing me, and it has clearly rolled a couple of times. It looks like Car A t-boned Car B, and Car B rolled to a stop, frozen on its side like that.