More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5)

by Jay McLean

  It does.

  I don’t know how long or after how many rounds, but eventually it does.

  And then it’s silent again.

  The smell and sight of gunpowder fills the air along with the dust and the harshness of all our breaths.

  “Is he dead?” someone asks, but no one moves.

  Breathe.

  Blood pools around the kid’s limp frame, now leaning against the wall behind him. I wipe my eyes. It’s not sweat anymore. It’s something no one wants to admit.

  “Is he dead?” Same voice. Different tone. Fear.

  My shoes make a squishing sound as I step forward and for a moment I think it’s blood. It’s not. It’s clear and it trails back to the bottom of Dave’s pants.

  I pretend not to notice as I take another step, then another, until my ears fill with nothing but the constant roar of my heart.

  Thud. Thud.

  Thud. Thud.

  I reach for the kid’s hand to look for a pulse but his eyes snap open, stopping me.

  He takes a final breath.

  A final attempt.

  A single, final shot.

  More screams.

  Then I feel the pain.

  And I fall.

  One

  Dylan

  Medics.

  Helicopters.

  Doctors.

  That’s pretty much all I remember after the kid let off his final round. That and an indescribable pain in my right shoulder.

  Then there was the flight back home. The stares and the proud smiles as I hopped off the plane. The unwarranted attention and the nods of acknowledgment from random strangers and finally, an eerily silent cab ride home. Which is where I am now, standing on the sidewalk in front of a house I haven’t been to since I left for basic. The house hasn’t changed. Still the same single story, timber cladded, tiny home surrounded by a chain-link fence. It’s a different color now, I notice, which means Dad finally got around to repainting it like he’d been meaning to do since we moved in eight years ago.

  The TV inside is loud—louder than necessary, like it always has been. The flickering of the screen illuminates the front window of the living room, causing a light display on the front lawn.

  I exhale loudly, my left hand going to my pocket and fingering my set of keys. It feels wrong to use them. Almost as wrong as it feels to knock on the door.

  With another sigh, I turn my back on the house and everything it represents. Just for a moment. Because I need the time to settle down, to think, to breathe. Tilting my head, eyes narrowed, I stare at the horizon, completely fascinated by it. Strange, I know, but it seems off—the way the sun sets over the earth. It feels calm. And that calmness makes me want to run. Fast. So does thinking about Dad’s reaction to seeing me. The pride in his eyes—pride greater than the smiles from everyone when I landed on home soil. Sure it was meant to be comforting, but it wasn’t. It just made me mad—because while I was here with an injured shoulder, my brothers were there. And the threats we were all searching for—they were everywhere… even in the hands and eyes of a scared shitless little boy.

  I blink hard, trying to push back the memories but the pain in my shoulder reminds me of the truth. It always does. Frustrated, I remove my hat and pick up my bag, then ignore the thumping of my heart as I kick open the metal gate and make my way up the uneven pavers of the path toward my home.

  Home.

  Like that’s supposed to mean something.

  I take one more look over my shoulder at the horizon, hoping the calmness it emits will somehow make its way to me. It doesn’t. And without another thought, I drop my bag and raise my fist.

  Knock knock.

  Nothing.

  I knock again. Stronger and harder so it can be heard over the television.

  Silence.

  He’s muted the TV. I know that much. The screen still flickers but besides that, nothing.

  A light shines on the side of the house from the neighbor’s car as they pull into the driveway. I peel my eyes away from the lady stepping out and raise my fist again, but before I can knock, the sound of the TV starts again. Laughter, both from the TV and from the man watching it—a deep roar of a chuckle that flips my insides.

  I smile.

  For the first time since before the “incident,” I smile. And that smile, that emotion, that sense of home is enough to make me reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I unlock the door and with the key still in the lock, I grab my bag and push open the front door. The smell of gravy fills my nostrils and has my stomach turning.

  Two steps.

  That’s all it takes for me to move from the front door, through the hallway, and into the doorway of the living room. I ignore the loudness of the television and look at my dad sitting in his recliner, a frozen dinner tray on his lap, his eyes on the screen and his fork halfway to his mouth.

  He’s aged more than I expected, but besides that, he’s still my old man. Still the man who raised me. His dark beard is longer than I ever remember seeing it and for a moment I try to recall if I’ve ever seen him without one. I don’t think I have. Through all twenty-three years of my existence he’s had the same beard. Same huge towering frame. Same gentle tone and blank expression.

  I clear my throat, preparing my voice so he can hear me. “Dad.”

  He freezes, everything but his eyes. They drift shut. And I know what he’s doing because it’s exactly what I’d be doing too. He’s waiting. Making sure he’s not dreaming… like the countless times I’d try to hear his voice over there during the times I’d needed to find it within myself to help me get through it all.

  “Dad,” I repeat, louder, because I want him to hear me. I want him to feel the same way I felt when I’d heard his voice.

  His eyes snap open, his head shifting to the side and when he sees me, his eyes widen quickly. About as quickly as he stands, dropping his food onto the worn carpeted floor. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We’ve never been much for talking. But he runs. Okay, maybe not runs… but that’s what it seems like. At least to me. And before I can tell him to slow down because I know he’s about to hurt me, I’m in his arms, held tight, and sure it fucking hurts… the sharp pain runs from my shoulder and down my back, but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the shaking of his shoulders as he holds me to him, gripping the back of my shirt in his fists. I ignore time. I ignore the way he wipes his eyes as he finally releases me and stands back, his gaze taking me in from head to toe. Then he smiles.

  So do I.

  And then I hear the sound that gave me the calm I needed to walk through the door. He laughs, deep and gruff. “Jesus Christ, son. You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “You too, old man.”

  “You on R&R?”

  I shake my head. “Medical.”

  His eyes widen, just slightly. Then he looks me over again. “Where?” he asks.

  “Shoulder.” I point to it.

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bullet?”

  I press my lips together and nod.

  “Ah, shit! I probably just made it worse,” he mumbles, shaking his head, his hands on his hips.

  “Nah. You’re good.”

  He rubs his hands together, his smile back in place and his gaze still on me. “Well.” He claps once. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah,” I say through a smile wider than his.

  “Why don’t you go shower and I’ll heat you up some food.”

  “Sounds great.” I take a few steps down the hall toward my old room before he curses behind me.

  “Your brother’s taken over your room for his computer gear. If I’d known—”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, cutting him off. “I’ll make it…” My words die in the air when I open my bedroom door, or at least what used to be a bedroom. Now it’s just a room with no bed filled with more metal junk than I’d know what do with. “I can’t even see the floor.”

  “Yeah,” Dad says with a sigh. “H
e’s been into all that shit since he got home from his deployment. He calls it work. I don’t even know what the hell he does with it all.”

  “Where is Eric anyway?”

  “I don’t know. He sleeps all day, ‘works’ or is out all night. I don’t ask questions.”

  “And he’s still livin’ at home?”

  Dad chuckles. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had both my boys home. He was already gone six years before you left for college. It’ll be good.”

  “Or awkward,” I mumble. Because it will be. It’s been a long time since I’d seen him. Who knows who he is now… time + deployment can change people.

  It sure as shit has changed me.

  * * *

  I take the longest shower in the history of the world and change the bandage on my shoulder, then I eat five different versions of the same frozen, processed meat and veg—the best meals I’ve had in months.

  Dad makes a bed for me on the floor of Eric’s room. Dad did offer me his bed, but I refused. I told him I’d take the couch, but considering we didn’t have a couch anymore—just two recliners—didn’t help my cause.

  It’s comfortable though—especially considering my old sleeping quarters. Soon enough, the travel, along with the painkiller I popped with dinner catches up with me. My eyes drift shut and I welcome the calm that comes with the silence. The sweet, sweet, silence.

  It doesn’t last long before the bedroom door slams open, hitting the wall behind it. I jerk awake and for a moment, I forget where I am and reach for my weapon… the weapon that isn’t there.

  “I can’t believe you live at home,” a girl whispers, before the door closes and I’m surrounded by darkness again. Eric mumbles something completely incoherent and I lay frozen, unable to move or speak because right now, I don’t know what the proper protocol is.

  The bedsprings squeak and the girl laughs, then silence again.

  Followed by moans.

  Then clothes being removed.

  More moans.

  Springs again.

  “Ouch,” the girl whispers. “Wrong fucking hole, you drunk asshole.”

  “Okay, STOP!” I shout.

  The girl squeals.

  So does Eric.

  So do I when a lamp falls on my head.

  More shuffling.

  Springs squeaking.

  Then a light so bright it causes me to squint.

  “D?” Eric says, standing by the light switch, shoe in his hand, naked as the day he was fucking born. He’s changed. A lot. I was thirteen when he enlisted and we hadn’t seen much of each other since. The occasional holiday here and there. But now he’s twenty-eight and bigger than I remember. Not as big as me, though. Fuck, that would annoy him. He adds, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Removing the lamp from my face, I lean up on my elbow. I glance over at him, and then at the blonde sitting in his bed, her knees raised, gripping the blanket tight to her chest. Then I look back at my brother and smirk. “So this is why you left me stranded in San Antonio? For a girl?”

  “What the fuck?” he mumbles, his eyes wide.

  The girl says, “Who the fuck is this, Derek?”

  “It’s Eric,” he says, and I stifle my laugh just long enough to say, “I’m his lover. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Shut up, D!” he shouts, dropping the shoe and covering his junk. “He’s my brother,” he tells the girl.

  “That’s the story you’re going with?” I shake my head. “Your dad didn’t even know who I was when I showed up, Baby.”

  “Eric, what the hell’s going on?” his girl fumes, her body shaking with anger.

  I look over at her. “He tried to shove it in your ass, didn’t he? That’s how he got me.”

  “Dylan,” Eric warns, his jaw tense and his eyes thinned to slits.

  I sit all the way up, letting the blanket fall to my waist. His eyes zone in on my shoulder and the bandage that surrounds it. Then his breath and his anger seem to leave him at once. “You on medical?” The seriousness of his tone causes me to cut the bullshit and face reality.

  I rub my jaw and nod at the same time.

  “When did you get home?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “Via Germany?”

  I nod again.

  He returns it, his gaze moving from me to the girl in his bed.

  “Should I go?” she asks, her voice calmer than before.

  Eric opens his mouth, but before he can respond, I say, “It’s fine.” I get up and bring the blanket with me. “You guys finish what you started.”

  “So you’re really his brother?” she asks, looking between us.

  “Yeah,” Eric answers for me. “This is my baby bro, Dylan.”

  I give her a two-finger salute as I make my way toward the door. Eric steps to the side and opens it for me. He waits until I’m in the hallway, my back to him, before he calls my name. I pause, but I don’t face him. I don’t want to. I know what’s coming. “It’s good to have you home, bro.”

  Two

  Riley

  I hear the sounds outside my room, the standard morning routine of my mom getting ready for work. Normally, I count down the seconds in my head until she’s gone… listening to the clicking of her heels against the hardwood floors as she makes her way to the front door, and I can be alone again. Not that her physical presence makes me less lonely. It just means I don’t have to hide out in my room, away from the scrutinizing stares that follow my every step, every move, every muttered sentence that escapes unfiltered from my lips.

  The door next to mine, her bedroom, slams shut.

  She’s in a rush.

  Click click click, go her heels, the sound fading as she moves further away.

  She picks up her keys from the table by the front door, and for the first time ever, I actually wish time would slow because surely she’s not just going to leave.

  Not today.

  Without a thought, I jump up from my bed and open my bedroom door, bottle still in my hand, my head spinning and feet swaying from the amount of wine I’ve already consumed.

  She doesn’t notice me standing in the hallway, watching her check her face and hair in the mirror by the front door one last time before her hand covers the handle.

  I watch and, as if in slow motion, she pushes down on it. My heart hammers and breaks all at once.

  “Bye Riley,” she calls over her shoulder, opening the door wider.

  “M-mom,” I stammer, but it’s a barely whisper. I try again, louder, stronger, my shoulders squared. “Mom!”

  She turns around, her eyes already mid-roll. “What is it, Riley?”

  I clear my throat so she can’t hear the sob fighting to escape. “It’s my birthday.”

  Her eyes narrow, just for a moment, before she says, “Shit. It is too.”

  I lean against the wall because standing seems impossible. Not because I’m drunk—if you can even call it that—but because her admission to forgetting my existence has made me weak.

  “There’s probably a cupcake in the fridge.” She forces a smile so pathetic even I feel sorry for me. “I know how much you love to make wishes,” she says, throwing in a full-blown eye roll just for extra emphasis.

  Great.

  She’s forgotten me and she’s mocking me.

  Sighing, she closes the door and then walks with rushed steps toward the kitchen. “We have to be quick. I have a client at the salon first thing.” I follow behind her, my palm against my temple to stop the pounding.

  I wait for her to go through the contents of the fridge and once it’s closed, I lean against it. Hastily, she opens and closes the drawers looking for what she needs and when she pulls out a packet of candles and a lighter, I almost smile. Almost. Because I used to believe in the power of wishes.

  Unlike the other kids I knew, my mother wasn’t into birthday parties, which is probably why I didn’t care too much about parties, guests, balloons, games, or even cake. It was the moment m
y cheeks would warm from the heat of the candles. I’d close my eyes, suck in a breath, and then I’d release it with the strength of my one and only wish.

  Today, there are no gifts, no guests, none of it.

  Mom forces a lonely cupcake under my nose.

  A single candle.

  And I can see it in her eyes… they used to be filled with sadness, the same as mine. Then the sadness turned to frustration, even anger at one point. Now, they’re back to matching mine. They’re consumed with loss. It’s a justified emotion because she has lost me.

  And me? Well, I’m just lost.

  She just doesn’t know how much.

  “Make a wish, Riley,” she says through a smile faker than the eyelashes she’s currently batting.

  I return her smile, just as fake. “Go on,” she says, and I sense her patience fading.

  Another justified emotion.

  I blow out the candle just to make her happy—but I don’t give up my wish. Not yet.

  “I’ll be home late.” Mom eyes me one last time, from head to toe, her gaze pausing for a beat on the bottle of Boones Farm wine still in my hand—the one she supplied me with. “You got everything you need, right?”

  I roll my head against the fridge and face her, returning her pathetic smile from earlier. Then I grip the neck of the bottle tighter and lift it to my heart. “I got everything I need right here.”

  For a second, her features drop and her eyes seem to soften. Like she sees the girl I used to be, the girl she loved, the girl who loved her back. Her posture stoops. Her chest rises. Her breath releases. But her feet stay put. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says, and then moves to place a kiss on my forehead.

  My eyes drift shut at the only piece of affection she’s shown me in over a year. “Bye, Mom,” I whisper.

  And then she’s gone, exiting the kitchen and slamming the front door shut behind her.

  I bring the bottle to my mouth and take swig after swig until there’s nothing left, all while I listen to her car start and then reverse out of the driveway.

  Stupid, I tell myself, rolling my eyes and pushing off the fridge. For a second, I thought she’d come to me. Notice me. See my pain. Try to remove it like other mothers would. But she didn’t. It’s fair, I convince myself, because it’s been over a year since the “accident.” And while the sun rises and falls and the world moves on, I’m still there—stuck in my endless goddamn nightmare.