The marines reluctant re.., p.4
The Marine's Reluctant Return, page 4
But he hadn’t just been busy. He’d been avoiding her.
Her stupid heart twanged.
Dang. It really hurt.
She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She had no clue what Luke had gone through, what hell he’d faced after the IED. Yes, she’d noticed the scars on his face. The thought of him suffering so horribly made her want to weep. But not as much as that cold emotionless look in his eyes—
“Mom. You’re burning it.”
Crap. She yanked the pot off the flame. Who burned mac and cheese? “Sorry. Um, go set the table, please.”
Her son made a face, but plodded to the breakfront to pull out his place mat and silverware.
Back when she’d been a kid living with her grandmother, that was all it took to make life normal. A set table, and all was well with the world. Why was life so much more complicated now?
“Can I watch TV while I eat?” Jack asked as she ladled this gastronomical delight onto his plate...avoiding the burned bits on the bottom.
She sighed as she sat. “No. I think we need to have a talk.”
He groaned. Just like his father, he hated to talk.
“Do you want to tell me what happened today? Now that we’re home? In private?” she asked as she set his plate before him.
He lifted a shoulder and poked at the macaroni with his fork. “I dunno.”
“I need a little more than that. Mrs. Anders may decide to expel you.”
He made a face. “So?”
She gave him the eye. “You punched another boy, Jack. That’s not okay. And it’s not the first time, is it?” When he rolled his eyes, she added, “Just tell me why, hon.”
“Fine.” He blew out a breath. “He was teasing me and he wouldn’t stop and the others were laughing.”
“So you punched him?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You know that’s wrong, don’t you?”
He nodded. His eyes filled with tears, but sweet manly Jack just wiped them away. “It was the only way to make them stop,” he said to his plate.
“I see.” She observed him for a moment, wishing so bad Brandon was here with her, and tears pricked her own lashes as well. “Do you want to tell me what they were teasing you about?”
Silently, he shook his head.
“Jack. I really need to know.”
“I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” he bellowed, pushing away from the table.
“Don’t use that tone with me, young man. And you have not been excused. Sit back down.”
Ah, the rebellion on his face spoke volumes as he stomped back and threw himself into the chair. When he crossed his arms, the action tugged down his T-shirt and she caught a flash of purple on his skin. Her pulse pinged. “What is this?” she asked, reaching over to pull down on his collar. A large mottled bruise covered his shoulder. “Oh, baby. Who did this?”
He pulled away and glared at her. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Did one of those boys hit you, too?”
Again, he shrugged.
God! She hated it when he wouldn’t talk to her. Without a word, she went into her workroom and pulled out a balm she’d created using herbs and essential oils for massage clients who were dealing with pain and subdural injuries. She made him sit still as she rubbed it on the ugly bruise, though this was clearly torture for him. And, to be frank, for her. Putting a fragrant ointment on a boy was a little bit like bathing a cat. But she felt better for having done something.
She wished he was small again, so she could pull him into her arms and hug the world away. But he was eight, and eight-year-olds didn’t even allow their mothers to kiss them goodbye anymore.
In the end, she gave in and let him watch TV after he finished, but only because she simply didn’t have anything left in her tank. Nothing but anger, frustration...and determination to find out what was happening with her son. She had to protect him. She was all he had left.
* * *
Luke sat on his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, staring at nothing. Not even his music could lift this melancholy, so he’d switched it off.
He didn’t like this. Didn’t like this at all.
Music had always been able to take him away from the world he was trapped in, away from this damaged body. But not anymore.
Thanks to her.
He’d been right to avoid her when he came back to town, because after just one second, just one look into her eyes, his guilt had swamped him.
He let it wash over him because he deserved it. He was the reason she was a widow, the reason Brandon was dead and gone, and there was nothing that could change that.
God. Brandon. How he missed him.
They’d been friends since grade school, he and Brandon. They’d met in the back row during the second grade, where Mr. Pauley put the “dumb” kids. Mr. Pauley didn’t actually say that, but everyone else in the class knew what the back row meant. Some reminded him. Frequently.
He and Brandon had been two peas in a pod. They were both terrible at school, but really good at getting what they wanted without following the rules. They both got into trouble and they both got into fights a lot, so yeah, they’d bonded immediately.
They’d been so much alike, Luke thought they should have been brothers. He was certainly more like Brandon than his real siblings, who were, as far as he could tell, disgustingly perfect in every way.
God knew he tried to shine like DJ, Mark and Sam. But, no matter what, he somehow always failed...in the old man’s eyes at least. Each and every time.
His brothers and sister didn’t see it. Couldn’t understand. Or maybe they pretended to ignore it. But it was clear as day to Luke. He wasn’t as good as they were. He sure as hell wasn’t as smart. Not book-smart, at least. Too bad that was the only kind of smart that had mattered to the old man.
When it came to the getting-around-whatever-it-was kind of smart, Luke kicked ass. For example, he was smart enough to get the hell out of Butterscotch Ridge as soon as he could. Smart enough to never look back. And he had thrived in the military. He’d loved the job, the people, the excitement, the fear. All of it. He’d even figured out something very important.
He wasn’t stupid, as the old man used to holler. Nope. It was something else that made him different—a learning challenge called dyslexia.
Luke refused to call it a learning disability.
Dyslexia was something lots of people had. Smart people. And many of them had figured out how to work around it, too.
It had been a life-changing revelation to discover that he didn’t have to live a limited existence. Once Luke discovered audio books and video courses—which made learning much easier than the books he’d struggled with for years—his world opened like a flower. So much flowed in—nourishment for a starving brain that, up until now, had been denied sustenance. He learned about military strategy, classical philosophy, art, music and more. The world was an amazing trove of fascinating information.
He’d shared everything with Brandon, who’d followed him into the service. Brandon, who’d had a form of dyslexia, too. They’d both flourished.
And then, they’d been sent to Afghanistan. Their tour there was exciting and scary and sad. There’d been a lot of drinking, a modicum of learning and amazing bonds that lasted a lifetime. Kind of like college, Luke imagined. And Brandon had been there, by his side, making each and every moment...better. It was like having family there in the desert with him.
And then, one day, Luke went out to work, with Brandon by his side—just like any other day—and woke up three weeks later in a hospital in Germany unable to so much as wiggle his toe.
Once he was cogent, he was told that there had been an explosion, an IED. Shrapnel and debris had blown through the left side of his body, severely damaging the nerves and muscles in his arm and leg. The metal sheet that had cut Brandon’s jugular had also slashed Luke’s face, leaving a serrated wound. And he was at serious risk of losing the sight in his left eye.
And then came the pause. That horrible pause before they say, “Your spine has been damaged. It is possible that you may never walk again.”
But before Luke had time to contemplate that horrific fact, the next hit him.
Brandon was dead.
A band tightened around Luke’s head. He clenched his fists so hard his finger bones cracked.
He never should have come, the idiot. He should never have joined up. But he did. Because I did. And now he’s dead.
It was too painful to think about, too painful to own. Guilt clawed at his soul, as fresh as the day it began.
Suddenly, his privacy felt like a prison. Suddenly, he felt the need to escape.
It was Friday night, so Crystal would have the night off. It would be safe to go to the bar and get smashed, which was a good thing. Because he really needed to get drunk tonight, if only to silence the guilt.
He wasn’t much of a drinker and definitely not a fan of hard liquor, but after the day he’d had—running into Trent, coming face-to-face with Crystal and Brandon’s kid—a little oblivion sounded pretty damn good.
* * *
It was a crazy night at the B&G. Felt like there was something in the air, maybe, urging men to madness.
Crystal sighed and adjusted her apron, then grabbed another full tray of drinks for Trent Cooper’s table. She dreaded the task. As usual, their weekly poker game had devolved into a bacchanal. The last three times she’d brought them refills, at least one of them had tried to grab her butt. Chase had given her permission to cut them off if they got too rowdy, but she knew if she did, something nasty would break out. Then again, it might anyway. Damn, but she hated working Friday nights. But Chase needed her, and she owed him for letting her skip her afternoon shift to get Jack.
As she approached Trent’s table, a chorus of laughter rose. It was the kind of laughter that made a woman’s hackles rise. The kind of laughter that made a woman wary. But they barely noticed her, because just as she came close, the front door opened, stealing their leering attention. Someone shouted, “Luke!” and others in the bar echoed his name.
Luke! The sight of him made her pulse flutter. She nearly dropped the tray. Quickly, while the men at the table were goggling over Luke’s appearance, she set down the new drinks, cleared the empty glasses and headed back to the bar, trying to still her heart.
She hadn’t recovered from their meeting earlier that day. Couldn’t bear to face him again so soon. She did peek, though. Watched him take a seat at the end of the bar. Chase was handling bar orders, so she didn’t have to serve Luke, which was a blessing, but as she continued making her rounds, she felt his hot gaze on her.
She probably should have been paying attention to something other than his glare as he knocked back whiskey after whiskey, but she didn’t. That was probably why Trent caught her unaware. He grabbed her by the waist as she passed, and yanked her into his lap.
She turned her head to avoid his alcohol-scented halitosis and jabbed him in the chest with her elbow. He released her with a cry of pain—they always did when she gave them the elbow right there—and she sprang away. But he stood and caught her arm before she made her getaway. “That hurt,” he snarled. Right into her face. Spittle and all.
God, he was still an ass. He’d been an ass ever since kindergarten and had never changed. Using a technique Brandon had taught her on one of his leaves, she jerked her arm out of his hold. “Hands off the merchandise,” she said with a smile. It was the kind of move that made most men slink away in fear or humiliation, or whatever emotions bullies actually felt.
It just pissed off Trent.
His face scrunched up and he bristled, his fists closing as though he intended to hit her. Surreptitiously, she maneuvered her empty tray in position, as a shield, in case he did. She let her expression speak for her.
Back off, buster.
And he did. But only because Chase had been watching, and made his way over and clapped Trent on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he said in a calm voice. “Sit down or leave.”
“You can’t make me leave,” Trent snarled.
Chase arched an eyebrow. “Really? There’s a sign up front that says we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. How would you like to be banned from the only watering hole in this town?”
Trent glowered at Crystal, and then took his seat.
Chase nodded. “Good choice.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “And keep your hands off the staff.” He set a protective hand on Crystal’s back, and guided her to the safety of the bar. “You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, tucked an escaped lock behind her ear. “I’m fine. I’m good.”
“Wanna switch?” he asked, wondering if she wanted to take over the bar.
She glanced at Luke, who was sitting with his arms on the bar in something like a slump, then glanced at Trent. Yikes. Which was worse? “No. I’m fine. But thanks.”
“You sure?” He eyed her worriedly, to which she brandished her handy-dandy tray. Also, she had no intention of serving that table again. They’d had enough.
“Okey dokey.” He sketched a salute and they both went back to work.
After that incident, everything was fine—almost a normal Friday night—until an hour before closing. Then, Trent went to the men’s room. When he emerged, he didn’t head back to his table. He went straight to Luke. And he stood there, talking to him, talking at him, as Luke stared off into the distance.
And then, suddenly, they both glanced at her.
Luke’s face went red. Trent smirked.
But when Luke turned away and devoted his attention to his drink once more, Trent’s glee dissolved. “Hey. Hey. I’m talking to you,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry. “You hear me, Dummy?”
Crystal’s gut clenched. Memories flooded her. Memories of Trent and his friends taunting both Brandon and Luke during recess. Saying cruel things. Horrible things. Dummy had been their preferred insult because the bastards had gotten in trouble for using the R-word in class.
She shot a warning look at Chase, but he was already watching. Everyone was. Silence fell over the bar like a weighted blanket.
Luke stood with an ominous scrape of his stool. He rose slowly and looked down at Trent’s face, only teetering a little. Crystal couldn’t hear what he said, but she read his lips, his expression. Don’t call me that.
Trent smiled. Like a crocodile. A crocodile that had gotten a reaction. “Why not? You always were a dummy. Everyone knows it,” he said, giving Luke a hard poke in his left flank.
Luke paled. His gasp was audible. Then his eyes narrowed and he lunged for Trent, who danced out of the way, laughing.
“See? See how slow you are?” He turned to his friends, who were watching, stunned and speechless, in something like shock. As though they knew, on some level, that Trent was behaving like a beast, but weren’t sure what to do about it. Weren’t sure if they should object, or join in.
But Luke knew what to do about it. When Trent leaned in and hissed something that only Luke could hear, his fist came up, and slammed into Trent’s face like an anvil; Trent spun around and staggered back.
As satisfying as that was to see, Crystal knew that in the next moment, all hell would break lose, and it did. If there was one thing folks in Butterscotch Ridge loved more than anything, it was a Friday night bar brawl. Crystal had never understood the draw, but in this instance, she had to join in, because most of Trent’s friends headed straight for Luke, and that was not a fair fight. Granted, all she had was her tray and some moves Brandon had taught her, but it was oddly satisfying to smack one or two of them on the head, before someone grabbed her arm.
She whirled around...and froze right before bonking her boss.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chase bellowed at her.
“It’s not a fair fight!” she bellowed back.
“Really?” They turned just in time to see Luke drop the last of Trent’s friends. “He looks like he’s doing fine to me.”
But then, Luke staggered, sagged to his knees and put a hand to his head, completely helpless, as his combatants started to stir.
“Hell.” Chase rushed over and helped Luke to his feet. “Take him upstairs,” he barked at her.
Her heart surged. “Upstairs?”
“Quick. I called the police and the last thing he needs, after everything he’s been through, is to spend a night in the drunk tank with Trent Cooper.”
“Are you sure?” Crystal put her arm around Luke and shouldered his weight. Good God, he was...sturdy.
“Yeah. He didn’t start this. Go on. Get him out of here. Hurry. Before Cole gets here.”
How could she say no? “Come on, buddy,” she said to Luke as they stumbled through the kitchen, out the back door and up the stairs to her apartment. She barely made it to the sofa before he collapsed.
He looked up at her with a frown, scrapes and bruises all over his beautiful face. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he slurred. Damn, he was drunk.
“I live here,” she said, pulling out a throw and easing it over him.
“It’s Friday night. You don’t work on Friday night. Why did you have to be here?” But, apparently, it was a rhetorical question, because seconds later, his eyes fluttered shut and a snore emanated from his open mouth.
She stared at him for a bit. Gently brushed the shaggy hair from his eyes and stroked his face. Luke was in so much pain. And only some of it was from the fight. With a sigh, she headed to her workroom for the balm that was getting overtime on this particular day. The least she could do was try to relieve some of his pain.
As she spread ointment on his bruised chin, neck and shoulders, she couldn’t help thinking how sweet he looked when he was asleep. As though he might just open his eyes at any moment, grin and say, “Hey there, Pickles,” the way he used to.
