Thirty seconds into the two minutes, gunfire erupted in the cargo bay behind Blake. “Shit,” Blake whispered, and put his eye to the scope and his finger on the trigger. Short bursts of AKs smashed against steel as the smaller boat bobbed out of his crosshairs. Beyond the bow, the white-capped waves shimmered and shifted, wavered for a split second, then within the green optics turned white with snow. The wind across his face took on the cold bite and unique scent of winter in the Hindu Kush. With his heart pounding in his ears, Blake took his eye from the scope and his finger from the trigger. His vision flickered between what was real and what was an illusion. He knew he was on the Fatima two miles off the Somali coast. Not the caverns and crags of the Afghani mountains. He could control this. It wasn’t happening. The lives of three other men depended on him. He put his forehead on the cold steel platform beneath him and took deep breaths, trying to control his breathing and the vision that wasn’t real. The harder he tried to control it, the more it would not be controlled. The more it couldn’t be controlled, the more panic grabbed his gut. He let out a shaky breath and gave in to it, looking directly at the granite rock and snow peaks, and just as quickly as it came on, it wavered and flickered and melted away. He lifted his head and put his eye to his scope. His heartbeat pounded in his chest and thumped the hollow of his throat. Nausea rolled in his belly but he didn’t have time to get sick. The smaller boat rose in his crosshairs but the pirates were no longer standing at the bow.
Shit. Damn. Mother-goddamn-fuckers. He swung the barrel to the left and caught sight of a pirate running toward a .50-caliber deck-mounted weapon. His body memory took over and he squeezed the trigger and put three rounds center mass. The man fell, and he turned the barrel to the other .50-caliber mounted on the foredeck. Bullets hit the deck around Blake in tight bursts, whack-a whack-a whack-a. Hot metal shards flew through the air as he put his crosshairs on a second man in a black and white keffiyeh. The smaller boat bobbed out of sight and rose again. The guy got off several rounds, but Blake was a better shot and took him out. He spotted three bad guys boarding the ship to his left. Bullets furrowed and dented the steel around him as he sent lead down his sights and took them out, too.
Within minutes it was over, and Blake took a deep breath of salty air and let it out. He rose to his knees and looked for the men on his team. He spotted them in the lighted cargo hold and wiped away a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. He’d been on missions that were textbook and missions that got ugly real fast. He’d seen his friends and fellow servicemen blown apart by roadside bombs and RPGs. He’d stood next to men who were practically cut in half by AK rounds, but he’d never been on a mission where he hadn’t been able to do his job. None of the men he’d see die lost their lives because he couldn’t pull the trigger.
“Are you okay, Junger?” Fast Eddy called up to him.
“I’m good.” But he wasn’t. His hands shook and sweat poured down his face and pooled on his chest. He needed a drink and he needed it bad. Nausea rolled in his gut and had a firm grip on his throat. The kind of nausea that had nothing to do with the pitch and roll of the ocean and everything to do with his addiction.
Why was he putting himself through this? Abstaining from alcohol was bullshit. Where had it gotten him? He had been better off before rehab. One shot of Johnnie Walker would cure his flashback and shakes and white-knuckling his way through life. It would cure guilt and his desire to find Natalie Cooper and bury his face in her neck.
Blake rose to his feet and joined his team. He learned that three members of the Fatima crew had been killed by the pirates and the other had made it to the panic room. Twenty minutes after the last of the Fatima crew was loaded into the medevac helicopter, and the U.S. Navy was ready to board and take over, Blake and the other contractors slipped back into the Indian Ocean.
He needed a drink, and as soon as he hit dry land, he was putting an end to his dry spell. He was going to kick back with a glass of Johnnie Walker over ice. Guaran-fucking-teed. He could practically hear the rattle of ice cubes and taste the first splash in his mouth.
He couldn’t control his flashbacks. He couldn’t control his cravings for alcohol. He couldn’t control Natalie Cooper from crowding his head. Booze would take care of that. It would take care of it all. It would dull it all and make him feel back in control.
Blake and the other four operators landed at the Air Force base in Durban and hopped a flight out of Africa. He knew that once he started drinking he would not stop. He was looking forward to it, but there was something important he had to take care of in Houston, and he respected the men who employed him too much to walk in shit-faced. He alternately slept and white-knuckled his way through the next twenty-two hours until his flight landed in Houston. He caught a cab to the steel and glass skyscraper downtown. The Texas sun bounced off the blue glass and he rode the elevator to the twenty-first floor. He sat in a white chair across from James Crocker, the current president and CEO of Trident Security Worldwide. James Crocker was a former national security advisor and now head of the most powerful private military company in the world. Blake respected the man greatly, but it would have been easy to lie about why he needed to resign after he’d just signed a new contract. So much easier to lie than confess that he could not control his flashbacks and was a danger to the men around him.
James offered him a job at their training facility in North Carolina, but Blake declined. He didn’t know what he wanted to do for a job now. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life beyond heading home and drinking until he passed out. Then getting up and doing it all over again. He didn’t want to drink in a bar. He didn’t want to drive. He didn’t want to see anyone. He just wanted to drink alone, George Thorogood–style.
From Houston, he flew to Denver, then Boise. It was just afternoon when he landed, and he hopped into his truck in long-term parking. A brilliant sun shone in the valley, but the closer he got to Truly, the colder and snowier it got.
He didn’t care. He was going to start a big roaring fire and tip back a bottle. Before Beau had left town, he’d replaced Blake’s three-hundred-dollar bottle of Johnnie Walker with a local Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet. Like that would keep Blake from drinking. He’d never been to the liquor store in Truly, but he knew it was located on the corner of Third and Pine, just down the street from Hennessey’s Saloon.
Almost home, his addiction whispered in his ear as he passed the “Welcome to Truly” sign. It was two in the afternoon. Plenty of time to buy a few bottles and maybe a couple of cases of beer.
I’ll make you feel good, his addiction whispered in case he hadn’t heard it the first time. No one will know. He pulled the truck to a stop at the only traffic light. He was tired. Tired of trying to control his life that had spun out of control. Sitting there at the red light, he thought of Natalie and her face when she smiled at him. The sunshine in her hair and the deep, beautiful blue of her eyes. He remembered the touch of her hands and mouth and breath against his neck.
Like his addiction, she was a constant craving, and he reminded himself that he got out of her life because it was the right thing to do. He got out because leaving sooner would cause her and Charlotte less pain than leaving later. He got out because she loved him. She loved him, but she deserved a man who could love her in return. Beau was right, loving one woman felt like a weakness. Weakness was not an option.
A horn honked behind him and he looked up at the green light. He took a right on Pine and pulled to a stop in front of the liquor store advertising the Christmas specials in the window. He wasn’t interested in peppermint vodka or rum eggnog. He got out of the truck and zipped his coat against the howling wind. He stood on the curb and looked through the plate glass windows at the rows of booze. Walls lined with clear and amber bottles, each row more tempting than the last. Tubes of neon advertised different brands of alcohol, and on the door hung a green sign advertising the Winter Festival.
&nbs
p; He took a step forward and stopped. His heart pounded boom-boom-boom in his chest, and sweat broke out across his skin.
Take me. Grab me. Don’t be weak.
Blake’s hands shook, and he ducked his head and turned to the right. He moved down the sidewalk away from the liquor store and past Annie’s Attic antiques. He kept walking, past Hennessey’s Saloon and Helen’s Hair Hut. His addiction alternately promised salvation and called him a weak pussy. A thousand times he fought the powerful urge to turn around, retrace his steps, and go grab his lover and friend. With his fists shoved in his pockets, he walked along the side of Grace Episcopal and moved down the steps to the basement. He paused with his palm on the handle. I’m not your enemy. I’m not your weakness. I’m the only thing you’ve ever loved.
His addiction was a skilled liar. He’d told himself that he’d left Natalie because it was the right thing to do. His leaving would cause her and Charlotte less pain than his staying. But that wasn’t true. He’d left because he’d lost control. Loss of control was a weakness. He was a Junger. A man. He kicked ass and took names. He was the whirlwind, and he’d lost control of his feelings over a woman.
He pulled open the old wood door and stepped inside the stone building. To his left, Mabel Vaughn stood at a podium. She hit the wooden stand with a gavel and Blake slid along the wall to the back of the room. He found a seat and sank down in it as everyone around him said the serenity prayer. Designated people read from the big book, and everything in him, every fiber in his body, told him to leave. Just pick his ass up and get the hell out. He didn’t need this. He could control his life. This was weakness.
“Do we have any new members today?” Mabel asked.
Blake looked up at Mabel’s eyes staring right back at him. He’d faced bands of Taliban. Towns filled with terrorists. At the moment, he’d rather face an army of Islamic jihadists than stand.
He glanced around to see if anyone else was jumping to his feet. It wasn’t a rule. He didn’t have to stand up. It would be easy just to sit there and listen to other people, but if he wanted his life, he had to do the hard thing. The right thing. He had to admit that he was powerless. He was powerless over alcohol and flashbacks. He was powerless over loving Natalie Cooper. She was his weakness. There was no other option.
He stood. “My name is Blake Junger and I’m an alcoholic.”
“I saw your boyfriend at AA.”
Natalie looked from the top of her Christmas tree to Michael’s legs and black hiking boot sticking out from beneath the bottom. Her boyfriend? “Who?”
“The Navy SEAL,” he answered as he screwed the tree stand into the trunk.
“Blake?” Her heart fell to her stomach like a lump of lead. Blake was back in town?
“Yeah.” Michael backed out and rose to his knees. “Didn’t you know he’s an alcoholic?”
“Yes. I know.” She hadn’t told Michael that he wasn’t her boyfriend though. It was easier if he didn’t know.
“You sounded surprised.”
“No.” She’d let Michael carry her tree in the house because that was easier, too. “I just thought the second A in AA stood for anonymous.”
Michael stood and shrugged. “If you already know he goes to meetings, it’s not a big deal.”
If Blake was back, it was a big deal. If he was going to AA meetings, it was a very big deal. A part of the lead lump of her heart worried about him. Had something bad happened? Another part of her lead heart that wasn’t totally hurt and angry swelled a little bit at the thought of him next door. That same small part wanted to desperately ask Michael when he’d seen Blake at AA. Today? Yesterday? It had been a week since he’d left town. When had he returned? Not that it mattered. Not after she’d dressed up for him in her stupid cheerleading outfit and he’d told her it wasn’t working out for him and he’d never return her feelings. He’d just wanted to be honest. Well, good for him. Honestly, he was raging asshole.
“What are you and Charlotte doing tomorrow?”
“I’m closing the shop and we’re going to the festival.” The first Saturday of December always kicked off the Truly Winter Festival.
“We should all go together.” He brushed a few pine needles from his jeans. “Unless you’re going with your boyfriend.”
Charlotte walked into the living room with an ornament she’d made out of construction paper and glitter. “Ooh. I love the tree!” She held the glitter snowflake toward Michael. “I made this for you.” Before he could take it from her, Sparky tried to rip it from her hand. “No, Spa-ky.” She held it up over her head. “This is for my dad. Not you.”
“Thanks, Charlotte.” He took it from her hand as if it was delicate.
“Where are all the ornaments, Mama? I want to get out the angel.”
Natalie had drawers full of Charlotte’s drawing and art projects. This was Michael’s first, and despite her personal feelings, she felt bad for him. “I carried the boxes as far as the kitchen.” Each year she stored them in the attic, and the kitchen was as far as she’d gotten so far this year.
“Can I go look for it?”
“If you’re careful. I think it’s in a blue tote.”
Charlotte clapped her hands in excitement and ran down the hall. Sparky charging after her. At least one of them was excited about Christmas this year.
“Is that a yes or are you going to the carnival with Blake?”
She returned her gaze to her former husband. “I haven’t talked to Blake about it yet.” Which was the truth.
“Then come with me. We’ll have fun. Like old times.”
She sat on her couch and shook her head. “Not like old times. We’re not kids and we’re not married.”
“I know.” He sat next to her and placed the snowflake on the table. “But we have a kid and I’d rather go with the two of you than my mom and dad.” He looked across his shoulder at her. “My mom is driving me nuts.”
Natalie almost laughed. “Is she ironing your jeans again?”
“She’s trying.” He glanced about her living room before he returned his gaze to hers. “I gotta get a job and get out of there. I applied at a couple of places, so hopefully I’ll get hired soon.” He glanced back at the snowflake. “Then Charlotte can come over and hang her drawings on my own refrigerator.”
“That’s not going to happen, Blake.” The thought made her heart a bit panicky. What if he took off with Charlotte?
“We have to work something out, Nat. I know you don’t love me anymore, but I want us to have a good relationship.”
“A good relationship?” It was a little soon for that. He’d been out of prison only two weeks. “I don’t trust you, Michael. I don’t trust that you aren’t going to get bored and take off again. This time, I’m not the one you’ll hurt. You’ll hurt Charlotte.”
“I told you I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know that’s what you say, but I don’t believe you. I believed you once before and I paid a big price.”
He stood and walked to the mantel, picking up the same photo of Charlotte that Blake had held just a few short weeks ago. “I’m not the person I was before,” he said, and put the photo back. “I’m not that Michael. That Michael wasn’t content with life. I’m a different man now.” He turned and looked at her. “Growing up in Truly, I was a star. I loved the way people treated me. The way they treated us. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“I was a big man around here, and when we moved to Boise, I missed it, as pathetic as that sounds.” He laughed without humor. “For a while, the poor college student life was kind of cool, but by the time I graduated, I was tired of feeling like a nobody. When I was hired at Langtree Capital, I had to start out on the third string. I’d never been third string in my life and I hated that.” He paused for several heartbeats as if reliving a painful memory. “I wanted to be a star again, Nat. I wan
ted it so bad. I worked hard but things weren’t happening fast enough for me. I decided to accelerate the timeline. I decided to go out and drink with clients and brokers and other investors. I started to feel like a big man again. The bigger I felt, the more I wanted to get even bigger. The more I thought I deserved. Drugs made it all okay. That’s how it started.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “We know where it ended.”
Yes. She knew about Michael’s drive to be the best. She hadn’t known about the drugs though. She should have known. Looking back, it made sense.
“A felon and a drug addict who lost everything.” He gave her a tired smile. “Charlotte is the only good thing to come out of that time. I’m glad I got caught. I thank God I didn’t get away. Now I have a chance to be a father. There was a time in my life when I wanted it as much as you did.”
He looked so much like the man she used to know that she believed him. Or rather, she believed that he believed it right now.
“I want for us to be friends, because I want to be in her life as much as possible. I want to be at Christmas programs and birthday parties. I want stick figure drawings with me in them. I want glitter snowflakes.” He lifted a hand and dropped it to his side “Do you think we can be friends?”
“Yes,” she said, because if they could really be friends, it was best for Charlotte.
He smiled. That charming Michael Cooper smile that used to make her brain all fuzzy. “Does that mean you’re ready to forgive me?”
Her brain remained real clear. “Don’t push it.”
Chapter Sixteen
The town of Truly kicked off the Christmas season with the annual Winter Festival. It started with the parade down Main, and anyone with a business, social club, or enough money to pay an entry fee could participate in the parade. Booze was strictly forbidden and had been since 1990 when Marty Wheeler took a tumble out of Santa’s sleigh and cracked his head on the street. And while that had been shocking enough, the pink corset he wore beneath his Santa suit had caused quite the scandal and the alcohol ban. Not that anyone paid attention to it.
What I Love About You (Truly, Idaho) Page 21
