Snowball's Chance by Cherry Adair Page B

After all, what man would want to put his mouth anywhere near the red welt of a scar? It was a painful truth, one she wasn’t sure she could ever get used to. She added that to her mental list of reasons for wanting Treadwell to burn in hell.
    â€œBut I might as well get in a few hours before we leave.” She fake-yawned. “Wake me when it’s time to go, okay?”
    The tremor she’d been battling since Joe had told her about Treadwell’s escape, intensified as she walked across the room to the high king-sized bed. Why was she mad at him? They didn’t know each other. He’d kissed her. So what? Probably just a mercy kiss—until he remembered the scar. She tossed the decorator pillows onto the floor with a little more gusto than was warranted, then pulled back the terra-cotta-colored velvet spread with jittery hands.
    She was nothing more than an assignment to him. A ship that passed in the night. A duty. Fully dressed, she climbed under the covers, lay on her side, and curled into a ball. Her fingers went to her neck. The scar always throbbed when she thought about that night.
    She usually slept naked, and while the leggings were thin, the sweater wasn’t. She was uncomfortable. She also felt antsy, annoyed, and sorry for herself, all of which pissed her off. She didn’t know who she was madder at: Treadwell for creeping back into her life like the rodent he was, or Joe for tempting her, but not being tempted enough by her, or herself for—she didn’t know for what. Which annoyed her even more.
    It was too early to sleep. She wasn’t even close to sleepy anyway. She lay still. Not moving, not twitching, not showing Joe that she was awake. That lasted, oh, sixty seconds. She had to straighten the uncomfortably riding up sweater. Then her legging twisted….
    The room was warm, but she burrowed under the blankets anyway. Blocking out the flickering light. And Joe. She wanted to bury her head like an ostrich. The problem was, when she came up for air, the situation would be exactly the same.
    She tried to concentrate on just how damn freaking uncomfortable she was, trying to sleep in her clothes. There were only two other subjects to mull over, ponder, dissect, and agonize about. Joe. Or Treadwell.
    One aggravated her but made her feel protected. The other downright terrified her and made her painfully aware of how vulnerable she was.
    Would she ever believe herself completely safe? God, she hoped so. She’d done every single thing her therapist had told her would help. She’d taken self-defense classes, bought a gun, made sure she knew how to use it and when to use it. She’d faithfully gone to counseling for months afterward.
    A violent criminal victimization is a real-life classical conditioning experience in which being attacked is an unconditioned stimulus that produces unconditioned responses of fear, anxiety, terror, helplessness, pain, and other negative emotions. Any stimuli that are present during the attack are paired with the attack and become conditioned stimuli capable of producing conditioned responses of fear, anxiety, terror, helplessness, and other negative emotions.
    Intellectually she knew she’d be in a much better position to defend herself. This time. But her body was reacting as though she were once again in danger and under siege. Her teeth began chattering. How could she be sweating and cold at the same time? A sob broke through the tight constriction of her throat and tears scalded her cheeks as she curled into a fetal position and hugged herself. Oh, God. She was so tired of being afraid.
    â€œHey now, what’s this?” Joe sat down beside her, peeling back the covers from over her head. “Ah, hell, honey. Come here.”
    She smacked his hand away, when what she really wanted to do was curl his fingers against her face and draw him to her. “Leave m-me alone.”
    â€œI wasn’t rejecting you, honey.