No reaction, and until Tank’s head shifted position slightly, Gunny wasn’t certain he’d spoken aloud. “Jock,” slightly louder, he was still hesitant about approaching, and then it happened. With an abrupt movement that had Gunny leveling the gun, Jock twisted to face him, and Gunny saw the tortured expression on his face. Folding at the hips and knees, Jock went to the floor, Tank barking at him, a massive and deafening roar of a sound. Belly to the floor, Jock wrapped his arms around his head, holding tight, hands curved as if they were still cupping a gunstock. Tank barked again, and Jock shrieked in response, the noise so loud Gunny felt it up through his bare feet on the wooden floor. It was a moment or two before he made out the words, and that only barely over the sudden screams of his daughters, frightened out of sleep by the ruckus.
“They’re all dead.” Those words, in various configurations, at times spliced together with a fusillade of names. Call names for a team that never left the patch of sand where Jock had been injured.
Gunny had talked about his own experience over backyard beers one night, the simple miracle of open sky and lightning bugs framed by the background sounds of Sharon getting the two girls ready for bed. Talked about the ambush that took his team, admitting his own feelings of culpability because of the bitch he’d bedded. Words had rolled out of him, covering the time spent in the desert alone, wounded and terrified. How he’d gotten back to Camp Chesty, taking a chance on a stranger who turned into a savior. Jock had listened, nodding his head at times, wincing at things that might have cut a little deep. Listened, but didn’t offer his own story.
Knowing there was one, Gunny had Myron dig deep, and what he’d found had been horribly familiar. An isolated convoy decimated by hell raining down from the hillside, help five minutes too far away, explosions and bloody wounds and death everywhere. Twenty-two men rolled out from behind the wire on that patrol, and twenty-one came back in body bags. Jock had been pinned by flaming debris, suffering burns over much of his body. The scars Gunny had seen above the collar of his shirt were the least of them, and he knew from the grapevine that the rehab place in San Antonio where Jock spent time usually only accepted the worst cases.
Gunny heard the handle of his bedroom door jiggle, and before Sharon could open it, he called out softly, “No, baby. Stay inside. I got this. Girls are fine.” The last thing he wanted was to have her injected into the scene. She'd be warped because of Jock being on the floor and without knowing what the guy's triggers were, Gunny was wary of approaching the guy himself, forget Shar who weighed a buck five on a pregnant day.
“Okay.” There was a distinct tremor in her voice but, thank God, she trusted him.
Fuck. Staying out of reach, he knelt and started talking. Easy conversation, he kept to areas that would help pull Jock back into now, extending topics from last night’s dinner, spinning stories out and then pulling back to cover ground a second, then a third time. Jock’s only reaction was a flinch when Tank eased to the floor, lying alertly, propped on his elbows.
Jock rocked back and forth on his elbows, wiggling away from the door and towards the stairs. Tank groaned and Jock stopped. They stayed like that for minutes, Gunny talking and Jock and Tank stock still as the girls’ cries slowed and stopped, trailing off as they slipped back into a doze and then sleep.
Finally, fucking finally, he heard Jock sigh. It sounded like the weight of the world was still on the man. Gunny shifted from his awkward position on his knees and sat on his ass, leaning against the wall. He held out a hand and Tank’s head swung, looking at him. Gunny curled his fingers a couple of times, silently calling the dog, then pointed at Jock. Tank stared at him for a moment, then looked over his shoulder towards the girls’ door before returning his gaze pointedly to Gunny. This is on you if it goes bad, he seemed to be saying, and Gunny nodded.
Jock tensed when Tank lumbered to his feet and shook, the tags on his collar jingling. Then Gunny saw that tension flowing away as the dog settled back to the floor pressed tightly along Jock’s side. He gave it a minute, then queried quietly, “You back, man?”
Silence for a moment, then Jock spoke, his voice grating over too-dry vocal cords, sounding as painful as Gunny knew it had to feel. “Yeah.” Tank moved his head, twisting sideways to reach Jock’s hand, his tongue slowly licking the back. “Good boy, Tank.” Tank shook his head, tags jingling again. “Yeah, you are. Don’t argue, asshole.” Tank groaned and twisted more, resting his massive head across Jock’s shoulders, his eyes trained on Gunny. The man’s pain was echoed in the dog’s eyes, and Gunny swallowed hard.
“Brother.” The title felt right to Gunny, felt like he and Jock had survived something together right here in this hallway. “You got some shit in your head.”
“Yeah.” Jock sighed, and Tank’s head went up and down with the movement. “I don’t know why I’m up here.” Another sigh, Tank’s eyes still fixed on Gunny. “I got no reason to be up here by your family. Fuck.” Jock turned his head away, burying his face into Tank’s neck. “I got no reason to be here at all.”
“You believe in fate, brother?” Gunny did. He’d lived through too much to think lives connected by chance. If he’d not taken the job with the city, he would have never met Deke. Not meeting Deke meant no Rebels. No Rebels meant no Sharon, no babies. “I think your dog wound up with me so we’d meet.” Tank’s eyebrows went up, his nose wrinkling. “Not sayin’ your life falling to shit is so you can say you know me, but I think me knowing you was a done deal once your shit hit the fan. I’ve been where you are. Been around that block so many fuckin’ times, I know where all the cracks are. I’ve been you, brother. And I think you came to me because I can help.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do, man?” Muffled against Tank’s fur, the tears were thick in Jock’s voice. “I’m not…fuck. I’m not useful. I got no job, got no woman. Fuck. Got nothing to hold on for except…all I could think of was finding Tank. Kept my finger off the trigger, because I had to know where my dog was.”
“You held on, brother. Held on and found him.”
“Yeah, but now what the fuck do I do? I can’t even take care of him.” Jock slipped sideways, curling around Tank and the dog let him, adjusting his position to stay in contact while his gaze never left Gunny. Find a way to fix this, he seemed to be saying.
“You don’t do this alone. That’s the first thing you have to understand. You try to do it on your own, and you’ll fail. It’s too big, brother. Give some of it to me. Let me help you get what you need to find your way out the other side of the valley.” Gunny slid close, resting one hand on Jock’s shoulder, feeling the heated gusts of Tank’s breaths rolling across his wrist. Jock was shaking, shivering, his body throwing off the adrenaline in a way that would make him feel weak. Gunny knew how it felt because he’d been caught up in this more than once. “Let me help you.” He pressed hard, pushing to hold Jock down, easing the quivering of muscles causing him to jerk in place. “I got a doc who can be here in twenty minutes, you greenlight me to call. He’s good, brother. No bullshit. He’s the thing that helped me find my way back when I nearly lost myself after I met Sharon.”
“What?” The shock in Jock’s voice was sharp, biting. “I thought…”
“Fuck, no. Love of a good woman helped, but in some ways”—he wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know, so Gunny didn’t worry about hurting her if she was still listening—“it made things harder for a while. I kept flashing, and then I’d freak because what if I hurt her? What if I hurt my soulmate? What if the things in my fucked-up head got twisted around and I put my hands on her? Too precious for words that woman, and I couldn’t stand the idea, but once it started, it burrowed deep. So deep I wasn’t sure I’d ever dig it out. This doc, the one I mentioned, he helped me sort out my head.”
“He pushes drugs, doesn’t he? They all do.” Jock sounded disbelieving, but that was threaded through with hope.
“Drugs have a place, brother. They can. But if it’s a no-fly for y
ou, then he’ll work with what you give him. He’s not an idiot, though, so if he says they can help, he’s probably right. They’re a tool, just like anything else.” Tank sighed, his head rocking to the side as his eyes closed, finally, and Gunny knew it was because he could feel Jock relaxing. “We can’t turn our backs on help, brother. Let me make the call.”
“I could have hurt your girls.” Jock’s voice was thin as he spoke the words, the man’s worst fear laid bare for Gunny’s ears.
“Nope. Tank had your back, brother. He wasn’t gonna let you get close to doing anything you couldn’t come back from.” Thank you, God.
Chapter 4
He’d been here so often, Gunny didn’t even flinch when the sliding doors of the VA hospital closed behind him, shutting out the glare of the late summer sun along with the fresh air. What he strode through now were sluggish currents of stale, medicinal-tinged drafts, each breath seeming to amplify the message that here was where people without hope came. But hope finds ‘em, regardless. He angled across the lobby towards the small hallway leading to the talking doc’s office, a route learned years ago, reinforced by these past six weeks of visiting Jock as often as he could.
The doc had phoned this morning, talking through the process of releasing Jock from the inpatient ward where he’d been staying. As Gunny had promised, it was his own choice that put him on that ward. And now, it would be a combination of recommendation from the doc and Jock’s decision that would put him back on the outside.
Having only seen the process from inside his own head, Gunny wasn’t certain what his role would be today and for the weeks to come. Another promise to Jock, he’d have a place to land, no matter what. Rounding the corner, he saw the doc’s office door was partly open, a murmur of voices coming from inside. He knocked and within a moment was invited to, “Come on in. The door’s always open.”
Inside, Jock sat on the edge of a chair he’d pulled up to the desk that took up so much of the space in the room. He looked up at Gunny and it was with relief that Gunny saw much of the tension Jock had still carried even a couple of weeks ago had melted away. A genuine smile lit his face, his cheeks lifting and crinkling his eyes. Almost looks like a different person.
“Hey,” Jock said as he stood, hand thrust out for a wrist clasp from Gunny. “Doc laid everything out. Appreciate everything you’re doing for me, man.”
“No worries, brothers stand together.” There was a squeak from the doc’s chair, and Gunny turned to see he’d risen to his feet, assessing gaze moving between the two men. “We good, Doc?”
“Yes. Everything’s sorted from my end of things.”
Jock interrupted, bringing Gunny’s attention back to him. “You sure about this? It’s…” Some of the ease went out of the man’s expression, his features taking on a drawn aspect. “It’s a lot, man.”
Gunny leaned in, thudding Jock’s shoulder with each word as he repeated himself. “Brothers stand together.”
It was quiet in the truck on their drive back to Gunny’s place, Jock declining any fast food to hold him over until dinnertime. The miles rolled past and Gunny let his mind wander to how things could have been different for him. If I hadn’t found Shar in time. “Need to warn you, having some friends over. You’ve met some of ‘em, PBJ for sure, and I think you met Deke in the garage one day.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Jock nod. “Yeah, thought so. Anyway, they’re coming over, poker night. Sharon will probably stay in the living room with the kids, and we’ll need you at the table.”
“Nah.” Jock’s refusal seemed automatic, not something he had to think about. Gunny knew how that was, too.
“Yeah, you ain’t holin’ up in no fuckin’ bedroom while there’s poker to be played. Mason, the head honcho of the MC is gonna be there, and I already told him you’re playin’.” He grinned out the windshield, seeing his exit approaching. “Don’t make me out a liar, brother.”
There was humor in Jock’s voice when he asked, “And if I say I’m not feelin’ it?”
“Draggin’ your ass out there anyway, turd.” Gunny sucked in a breath, feeling his shoulders lower a couple of inches, glad Jock was comfortable enough to joke.
“Thought you called me brother?” Gunny glanced over to see Jock turning to look out the window, a smile on his face.
“I do, except when you’re actin’ like a turd. Then I call a turd a turd.” He took the upcoming exit, aiming the truck home. “Don’t mean you’re not my brother. Just that, in that moment, you’re also a turd.”
“Glad we clarified that, then.” Jock chuckled and Gunny grinned.
“Good deal.”
At the house, they walked into chaos that made Gunny’s grin widen even more. Cade and Kitten were in high chairs drawn up to the kitchen table, a mixture of singing and screaming coming from them. While their hands and faces were messy, the floor around the chairs was conspicuously clean. The dogs were ranged on either side of the girls as they walked in, and when Tank the Larger abandoned his post to pad quickly over to Jock, he heard the man whisper, “Good boy.”
Sharon turned from her position in front of the stovetop and Gunny frowned to see lines of strain drawn on her pale face. It felt like this pregnancy was taking more out of her than the previous two. From the number of pots and pans, she was working on supper for the grownups. One thing I can take off her plate. “Cop a squat, Momma. I got this.” He turned to tell Jock it wouldn’t be long before dinner and paused, holding still as he took in the scene. Jock had seated himself in the chair that separated the two girls and had scattered cereal on Cade’s tray. He had a jar of baby food in one hand, a spoon in the other, and had pushed his face close enough to Kitten’s that she’d latched onto his hair with one food-smeared hand.
“Yeah, Momma,” Jock cooed, his attention on Kitten’s mouth as he plied her with a spoonful of food. “We got this.”
Sharon smiled up at Gunny, holding her hands up in surrender and pushed close, lifting her face for a kiss. The slight swell of her belly pushed against him when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Thank you,” she whispered, lips still pressed to his. “I’m just so tired today.”
“Then go nap,” he told her in a return whisper. “I’ll wake you with a plate.”
She leaned against him, cheek to his chest and told Jock, “Welcome home.” Gunny watched as Jock’s eyes flickered, gaze darting first to Gunny’s face, then to Sharon’s, his head tipped to the side as Kitten tried to pull his hair to her mouth. “Thanks for helping with the girls.”
“No problem.” Reaching up, Jock extricated himself from Kitten’s grip, and she turned immediately to slapping at her tray, making a racket. “Gunny called me a turd. I figure I’m family now.”
“Gunny!” Sharon leaned back, frowning up at him. “We don’t call people turds.”
Chuckling, Gunny reached around her to pick up the spatula to stir the contents of the skillet. Narrow strips of vegetables sizzled in oil, and he peeked under the lid of a saucepan, seeing rice through the steam. “Baby.” He looked into another pan and frowned. Nipples in boiling water. Not food. “Shar, did you cook all the veggies I cut up for your snacks?”
She pulled out of his arms and backed away a couple of steps. “Maybe.”
“Did you get to the store today?” She shook her head. “Did you eat lunch?” Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head again. “Baby.”
“I know. I’m just tired.” Chewing on her lip, Sharon eyed him cautiously. “I called Bulldog. He said not to worry.”
“Then don’t worry.” Gunny turned to face the pots and pans, hiding an expression he knew held fear, the memory of Goose standing in the ER with Sharon’s blood on his shirt rushing at him out of a dark tunnel. “Go lay down.” Sharon’s footsteps retreated, echoing through the living room and then passing up the staircase. As if he were returned to the moment, Gunny was breathing in the biting, astringent scent of the ER, felt again the chill of the tile under his knees as he knelt and waite
d to learn if his life had been ripped apart. Reaching out blindly, his hand knocked against a hot pan, and he jerked back with a curse, hearing water sizzling as the pan overturned. “Fuck!” Hands to the counter on either side of the stove, he stared down at the liquid covering the surface, nipples for Kitten’s bottles scattered next to the pot lying on its side. “Fucking shit.”
“Dude, you’re scaring the kids.” Jock’s calm voice broke the silence and Gunny jolted in place, pulled from his memories. He reached out, grabbed the pan’s handle and set it to the side, plucking the nipples from the remaining water, dropping them back into the pan. “So, shit still gets to you, huh?”
“Doc’s got a word for it. Said once you’ve dealt with it, it’s like PTSD becomes a risk factor.” Spatula in hand, he turned to see Cade studying him, her hand turned sideways as she tried to shove a piece of cereal into her mouth. “Hey, baby girl. How’s Daddy’s girl?” She dropped her hand and squinted at him, eyes nearly disappearing behind her lids. Then she opened them wide, a smile breaking across her face. “There’s my girlie. Love you, Cade.”
“Bu bye,” she called, looking at the hand turned to wave at herself. Still waving, she refocused, grinning up at him. “Bu bye.”
“Hello,” Jock chuckled, and Cade whipped her head to stare at him. He waved at her and repeated himself, “Hello.”
“Bu bye.” Now she was scowling at Jock.
Gunny's Pups: #10.25 (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 6
