More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5)

by Jay McLean

  “Promise,” she says, her grin getting wider when her phone sounds. She reads the text quickly and looks back up at me. “So any more I should know about?”

  “None that I haven’t told you. Hey, you better not be relaying this back to the guys.”

  Her mouth clamps shut.

  “Riley!”

  “I’m sorry! It’s too funny not to share.”

  I shake my head. “Babe! I need to talk to you. It’s serious.”

  Her face falls. Then her eyes narrow. “What’s her name and number? I’ll fly over there and kick her ass!” she jokes.

  I don’t. “We got our orders.”

  She clears her throat, all humor gone. Then she picks up her laptop and brings it closer to her face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m coming home.”

  For a moment, I think the computer’s frozen. It hasn’t. But she has. Then, slowly, she lifts her hand to her mouth. “Home?”

  I nod, a slight smile breaking through. “I’m coming home, baby.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll be home in a month. But I’ll be on base, babe. Until my contract’s up in a few months.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can come home on weekends. I was thinking we could alternate. I’ll come up one weekend, and you can come up the next? We can stay at a hotel close by.”

  Her smile is slow, like she’s still trying to comprehend exactly what she’s feeling. “That sounds amazing. Did you just find out?”

  “No. I waited to tell you so time wouldn’t go by so slowly.”

  “And when your contract’s up? What happens then?”

  I sigh. “I was hoping we could talk about it in person? Discuss our future then.”

  Her smile widens. “Our future.”

  * * *

  I don’t sleep. I can’t. I’m way too fucking excited. I told Riley we were leaving in a week. Well, two weeks of debriefing on base and then I’d come home to her. I lied. We leave tomorrow.

  I wanted to surprise her.

  She fucking hates surprises.

  Apparently the other boys aren’t as excited as I am because they’re well and truly passed out for the night. Everyone but Dave who told me he was taking a piss over—I look at my watch—over an hour ago.

  Sometimes, especially at night, “taking a piss” means “jerking off” so there’s a little leeway in how much time should pass before worry should set in. An hour, though? That’s way too fucking long. Even for Dave and The Desperate Housewives.

  I get out of bed and slip on my shoes, before grabbing the 9mm and stepping out of the tent. I look around, trying to listen to the faint voices yards away, but I don’t recognize any of them. Then I head to the toilet blocks, my eyes on my surroundings. It doesn’t take long to find him sitting in a chair by himself. He’s got his gun in one hand, piece of paper in the other. Slowly, I walk toward him, hoping not to spook him. “That’s a long ass piss,” I murmur, sitting on a chair opposite him.

  He looks up, his eyes a complete contrast to mine. “Sorry, Lover. Didn’t know you’d be waiting up for me,” he says, using his weapon to scratch the back of his head.

  I get more comfortable, ready to spend the night talking with him. Maybe it seems stupid considering everything I have waiting for me at home, but I’ll definitely miss Dave. Actually, he’s the only fucking thing I’ll miss about being here. “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him.

  He gives me a half-hearted smile. “Yeah man, I bet you’re excited to get home to your girl.”

  “Yep,” I admit, unashamed. “She’s going to lose her mind when she sees me. More than the last time.”

  “You didn’t tell her you were coming?”

  “I said I’d be home a week later than planned.”

  “She hates surprises. You know that?”

  “I know that. How the fuck do you know that?”

  He shrugs. “We talk.”

  “You talk?”

  “A little.”

  “About?”

  He chuckles, his eyes focused on the ground. “Girl stuff, Banks. Mainly what it’s like to be bottom.”

  Shaking my head, I tell him, “I was thinking after things get settled for us back home, we’d love to visit you. Meet your mom and your brothers.”

  He looks up and for the first time, I don’t see Dave the barely-man forced to be here. I don’t see a scrawny, cocky Irish kid whose words are laced with constant jokes. I don’t really know who I see. “You okay?”

  “Mike sent me an email.” He lifts the piece of paper in his hand, his gaze returning to his shoes.

  “Yeah. He’s second oldest, right?”

  Nodding and kicking at the dirt, he says, “My old man got out of jail early. Came right to the house. Beat the shit outta Mom. Lucky school was on otherwise my brothers…”

  “Jesus Christ, Dave.” I lean forward and swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fucking sorry, man.”

  He’s silent for so long I think he’s fallen asleep. Then he inhales deeply, his eyes moving to mine. “I don’t fucking know…”

  “Know what?”

  “Anything,” he says, dropping his head again. “I don’t fucking know anything, Banks. I thought I did, but I don’t. I thought I was doing the right thing—enlisting, deploying, taking care of my family, at least financially, and I thought it’d be enough but it’s fucking not. I’m fucking here. They’re there. I couldn’t stop it from happening and there’s this ache…” he says, a sob forcing its way out of him. His head bobs as he sniffs back his tears, tears twenty-one fucking years in the making. He holds his gun, barrel pointed to his heart. “…right in here. This pain I can’t fucking take anymore. It’s like fear and anger and fucking hurt and guilt. The fucking guilt is the worst!”

  “Dave, man, you can’t have known—”

  “I should’ve been there!”

  “But you were here,” I remind him.

  He ignores me. “And now I have to somehow go home and face them. Face my brothers and my beaten mom and know that they fucking hate me because I’m here, fighting someone else’s war when there’s already one in my own fucking home.”

  I watch him stand and begin to pace, every single justified emotion coursing through him.

  Fear.

  Anger.

  Hurt.

  Guilt.

  “I fucking failed, Dylan!” he shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

  “Shut up. You did—”

  “I can’t fucking go home, man. I can’t face them.”

  I stand up, panic clear in my words. “You can stay—”

  “I can’t!” He looks up at me, his tear soaked cheeks reflecting the moon… his childish innocence portrayed in his loud cries. “I don’t know…” he says again.

  I take a breath, and then another, my entire body shaking. “Know what?” I whisper.

  His shoulders square, his lips pressed tight, he looks right in my eyes.

  Then he lifts his gun.

  My stomach drops.

  My hands reach out.

  And I don’t know what’s louder—my shout of his name or the gun going off—but I’ll never, ever, forget the sound that follows.

  Silence.

  Part II

  The Breaking

  Forty

  Riley

  “I feel like my face is on fire!” I yell.

  Heidi laughs, continuing to apply whatever the hell concoction she just made up. A face peel, apparently. Which, by the way, just seems like the dumbest name for a beauty product in the history of the world.

  “It stops burning after a few seconds,” Mikayla says.

  I open my eyes to try to look at her, only to be told to keep them shut by Heidi. “You’re twenty-one, Ry. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve had one. Didn’t your mom own a salon that did all this stuff?” She hasn’t stopped laughing since I laid down on the floor in front of her surrounded by pizza boxes, wine, and enough fr
uity smelling products to give me an asthma attack. I don’t even have asthma.

  “My mom and I are of a different breed. Obviously.”

  Lucy adds, “My mom was a real homey type mom. You know, the one who had everything organized, drove all of us to our activities, never forgot an important date. The house was always clean and dinner was on the table at the same time every night. I think that’s why I try to cook and stuff—because I want to be like her. I don’t know how she did it—raised seven kids plus Dad. I can’t even take care of Cameron.”

  Mikayla laughs. “Cam’s the equivalent of ten children sometimes.”

  “I just want to make you pretty for when Dylan comes home next week,” Heidi says.

  “Are you excited?” Amanda asks.

  “Excited and nervous and I don’t know.”

  “Nervous?” Amanda says.

  I smile. “When he came home for R&R, I had all these butterflies and I was so nervous. Dylan’s so…”

  “Intimidating?” Lucy asks.

  I nod.

  “So fucking hot,” she responds.

  We all laugh, then stop when we hear the key turn in the front door.

  “We’re all going to die,” Amanda whispers, grabbing the item closest to her—a cushion.

  “This is how all scary movies start,” Mikayla says, eyes wide.

  “And hot as fuck pornos,” Lucy retorts.

  I’d laugh, but I’m too busy wondering what the hell Amanda plans on doing with the cushion. Smother an intruder to death?

  It’s not until I hear Lucy gasp, her eyes on the entryway that I finally follow her gaze. With my face still burning, my eyes widen when I see Dylan standing in the doorway—his lips pressed tight, his shoulders rigid, and his eyes on all of us. He looks down.

  “Hi,” I whisper, a smile forming, cracking the peel on my face. “I thought…” I use Heidi’s shoulders to help me stand. “I thought you weren’t coming home for a week.”

  I pick at my shirt, wondering a: what he’s doing here and b: how much of an ass I look like.

  He doesn’t respond though, he just walks further into the house, down the hallway and toward our bedroom.

  “We should go,” Heidi says, and I nod, too confused to give any other reaction.

  I don’t wait for them to leave before going to the bedroom and knocking. I don’t know why I knock but I have this feeling in my gut that something’s off. Really off.

  There’s no response so I quietly open the door and peek inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze distant. It’s so different to the last time I did this. There’s no happiness to see me, no lust filled eyes welcoming me. There’s nothing. Not a single emotion on his face that lets me know he can even see me. “You came early,” I say, moving inside just a step and leaning against the wall. My body’s telling me to run to him, to kiss him, to hug him, to show him how much I’ve missed him. But my mind? My mind is telling me to stay put. And I have no idea why.

  He bends down and slowly unlaces his boots.

  I swallow nervously. “Did something happen or…”

  He licks his lips as he looks up. Not at me, but through me. He still doesn’t speak.

  I try to fake a smile, and when I do, I’m reminded of the gunk on my face. “I’m going to shower,” I tell him. “Then maybe I can heat up some food?”

  He drops his gaze again and continues with his task of removing his shoes.

  I take a breath. A loud one. One that has his eyes snapping to mine. And even though I know he can see me, he still doesn’t speak. His eyes follow me as I move across the room and to the bathroom. I leave the door open as I switch on the shower and undress, letting him know he’s welcome to join me. It’s not until I’m in the shower, my face clear of the peel that I finally see him move. He kicks off his shoes, then removes his pants, and finally his shirts. It’s all slow movements, like he’s in no rush to join me. Then he just sits there, his head lowered again. When he must hear the shower switch off, he gazes up at me. With my naked body on full display, I step out from the fog of the shower. He stands, his footsteps slow as he approaches. Then he leans against the counter, watching me dry myself. He waits until the towel is wrapped around me before taking my hand. My eyes drift shut at the contact. I’ve missed him. But the man in front of me is not the man I’ve been looking forward to seeing. His eyes—so blue—once full of hope and humor… they’ve changed. In the few weeks since I’d spoken to him—he’s changed.

  Gently, he pulls me to him until my chest is flush against his, his breath warm on my forehead but his hand cold on my cheek as he tilts my head up, forcing me to look into his empty eyes. “Hey baby,” he finally says, his voice weak.

  With a shaky exhale, I lean up and kiss him. Slow and gentle, just like his touch. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.

  He looks away. “Me too.”

  He holds me to him, his arms around my waist and his chin resting on my head.

  “Why are you home early?” I manage to ask.

  He doesn’t respond, just holds me tighter.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m tired, Ry,” he says, releasing me. “I’m so fucking tired.”

  I take his hand and lead him to bed, my mind racing with so many thoughts I can’t focus on one. He climbs on the bed and gets under the covers, his hands behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. I remove the towel and stand still, just for a moment, trying to gauge his response. Again, there is none. His eyes, his body, his everything remain still. I walk over to the bedroom door, switch on the hallway light, and turn off the bedroom one, before making my way back to the bed, wondering the entire time what the right thing to do is. It’s obvious his mind is elsewhere. It’s also obvious he’s not interested in me. I lie next to him, my arm around his waist and my leg over his while I rest my head on his chest. I wait for his hands to move, to touch me, even if it’s not for sex but we’ve always, always fallen asleep in each other’s arms but tonight… nothing.

  He doesn’t move.

  Doesn’t bring me closer.

  Doesn’t react to my naked body wrapped around his.

  Almost four months he’s been gone and nothing.

  The childish, immature side of me wonders momentarily if there’s someone else. But I know Dylan. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  Tears fall from my eyes before I can stop them because I don’t know what the hell has happened to him and worse, I don’t know how to fix it.

  Three weeks.

  It’s only been three weeks since I last spoke to him. Since we made plans. Since we told each other we loved one another and that we missed each other and now this. What is this?

  I wipe my eyes, hoping he doesn’t realize, but the shaking of my shoulders gives me away. He sighs. Loudly. As if he’s annoyed that I’m lying here, naked, in the arms of my boyfriend and I’m lost. I’m so damn lost.

  “I’m just tired, Riley,” he mumbles.

  “That’s all?” I ask.

  He sighs again. Then he does something which causes my next flood of tears. He moves my arm and lifts his knees, pushing me off him before turning his back to me. “That’s all,” he mumbles. “Now leave it alone, okay?”

  I don’t know how long I lie in restless silence, eyes closed, fighting silent sobs, releasing silent tears, wondering how I went from laughing with the girls to trying to predict his next move, next words.

  After a while, his phone rings. Silently, he reaches over me to get it from my nightstand. He doesn’t even look at me when he answers, “Yeah?”

  A slight pause. The male on the other end speaks, but his voice is low, muffled by Dylan’s face. Another, “Yeah,” from Dylan. Followed by an, “Okay.”

  He hangs up, throws the phone on the bed, then slowly gets up and moves toward the closet.

  I sit up, holding the blanket to my naked chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Going out.”

  I shift and start to get up too. “Who was it
? Was it Dave? I want to meet him. I can be ready in five.”

  “No.”

  “No to what?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed now.

  “No to all of it, Ry.”

  Ignoring the shattering of my heart, I whisper, “I thought you said you were tired.”

  He finishes shrugging on his jeans before looking at me, his jaw tense. “And I thought I said to leave it alone.”

  “Dylan…”

  He puts on a shirt and then a hoodie. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and slips on his shoes. Sighing, he rubs his eyes with one hand, the other reaching for his phone. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

  “Is there someone else?” I blurt out. Because nothing makes sense. Nothing.

  His shoulders tense, so does his entire body. “Jesus fucking Christ, Riley. This is the last goddamn thing I need. Especially from you. They’re guys from my unit—”

  “You just left your unit, Dylan,” I interrupt. “I haven’t seen you in months.” I wish I was stronger. I wish my words came out stronger, too. But they don’t. They’re weak and pathetic and needy, which is exactly how I feel.

  He inhales deeply, as if doing so will give him the calm he needs when he actually looks at me. But it doesn’t do either of those things, because all I can see is anger. He shakes his head, his angry eyes on mine. But he doesn’t speak. Why the fuck won’t he talk to me?

  Suddenly, he marches to the open bedroom door and slams it shut behind him. I cringe, listening to the rattle of the windows from the force of his actions.

  Then another door slams—the front door. Followed by a screeching of tires out on the street. And then…

  Silence.

  I reach for my phone, my first impulse is to call Eric and ask him if he knows anything. If he has any advice that may help in the situation. But I don’t. Instead, I start to type out a message.

  Riley: Dylan’s Home

  I stare at the flashing cursor at the end of the words that once meant so much to me… now making absolutely no sense. This doesn’t feel like home.

  With tears blurring my vision, I delete the text and write another.

  Riley: Dylan’s back.

  It still feels wrong. Because the man who just stormed out of the house isn’t Dylan. I don’t know who he is.