“So. What did he say?”
“There were a couple of guys, nothing too serious until this last one.” Stephen Barrington. Even his name chapped my ass.
“She never told you about him?”
Shaking my head, I stared at the glass in my hand. “No. Probably because Hannah knew I wouldn’t approve of the sniveling, pathetic lump of dog shit.”
“No man will ever be good enough for your daughter,” Cal said with a fellow father’s wisdom.
“Maybe not. But this guy was a piece of work.” My lip curled in disgust. “Wealthy candy-ass with soft hands and one of those fancy degrees, had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Never earned a damn thing on his own, including a VP position in his daddy’s company.”
“Financial security is not a bad thing.” Devil’s Advocate, thy name is Cal.
“No. But it turns out he was just stringing Hannah along. He already had a fiancée on the side, one with blood as blue as his, one more socially acceptable.”
Cal’s features hardened. “Hannah deserves better than that.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I made sure the Ivy League poser knew it, too, once Hannah was safely on a plane back home. Not personally, of course. All I’ll say about that was that when you became a Ranger, you became part of a brotherhood that spans the continents. And the older you got, the larger that network became. Hannah didn’t know it, but she had a whole goddamn army watching her six.
“She doesn’t deserve this, either,” I muttered.
“She’s a good girl. You’re all she has, Angus.”
“And what happens when I’m gone?” I asked, letting some of the frustration out as I slammed the glass back down onto the table. For the thousandth time I wished my daughter had a decent man to look after her. That’s what she needed. A man strong enough to handle my little kitten and treat her like the amazing woman she was.
“Christ, it never gets easier, does it?”
“No,” Cal agreed. Being a parent never got easier. Sometimes it got harder. For a few minutes we pondered that in silence, each feeling the bone deep sorrow that comes with knowing your kid is hurting and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
“Ethan’s a good man, Cal,” I said finally. “You raised him right. He’s going to come out of this all right. All he needs is a good woman.”
Cal blew out a breath. “Easier said than done, my friend. They’re not all like Hannah, you know.”
And just like that, everything changed. It was like in those cartoons I used to watch as a kid, where a light bulb suddenly went on above someone’s head. The two of us exchanged a glance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said slowly.
Doubt clouded Cal’s eyes, but for me, things had never been clearer. I allowed a slow, wicked grin to curve across my face. “I just hope my grandbabies don’t have your God-awful red hair.”
Chapter 3
Ethan
I was dead. That was my first thought as I made the excruciating climb up from the depths of the alcohol-induced coma I’d put myself in. I had died, remained passed out through my final judgment, and was now in Hell, reaping the seeds I’d sown in earnest.
A few interminable seconds later, I revised that theory. I wasn’t dead. Death would be preferable to the spike being pounded into my head and splitting my skull wide open. I tried to swallow, but my tongue felt too big for my mouth. I moved it experimentally and accidently touched my teeth, sending another wave of agony into the marrow of my facial bones.
Oh yeah. I’d really outdone myself this time.
The knock on my door that had instigated this unpleasant journey back into awareness was the only warning I had before the door flew open and slammed into the wall with an even louder bang. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know who it was. My father’s disappointment hit me in rolling waves, blending right in with the roiling nausea and intensifying it. I pulled the last vestiges of self-discipline -—the result of years of specialized training, your taxpayer dollars at work -—to keep from pulling an Exorcist and projectile vomiting across the room.
A moan and a nudge to my left told me I wasn’t alone, heaping a shit-ton of shame onto my misery. Damn. I must have been really fucked up to bring a woman back here. Most of the time it was their place, or if that wasn’t practical, a bathroom or dark corridor sufficed.
“Enough,” Dad said, his voice eerily resonant in my hangover, as if I was hearing it through a tunnel. It was the only word he spoke, the only one necessary. Before I could figure out how to raise my eyelids (which seemed to be superglued together), the door closed, followed by the sound of his retreating footsteps.
After a couple minutes of self-deprecating commands and sheer will, I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Reaching for the bottle of aspirin, I tipped it back, chewing a few tablets while allowing several others to slide down my throat, washing it all down with a handful of water from the tap. Leaning against the wall for support, I managed to relieve myself without making too much of a mess and stumbled into the shower. A string of colorful oaths crossed my lips before the icy cold water turned blessedly scalding, redirecting my pain foci away from my splintering head.
Shoulders slumped, I pressed my forehead against the tile in regret. This is what my life had become. An endless cycle of drinking, fucking, and pain. And now I’d brought it home. Shit.
When I was sufficiently numb, I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, catching my reflection in the mirror. For the first time in months, I really looked. I was still muscular, but leaner than I had been, a result of grueling physical therapy and not eating enough. My hair was in desperate need of a trim. Dark circles surrounded dead, bloodshot eyes. A couple of days’ worth of growth covered my jaw. Christ. I looked every bit the sorry son-of-a-bitch I was.
Slinging on a pair of jeans, not even bothering to look for a clean pair of underwear, I went back into my bedroom and scowled at the naked woman stretching languidly on the bed. I searched for something, anything that might explain what had drawn me to her... some redeeming quality I could use to rationalize my appalling lack of judgment. I came up with nothing.
Mild disgust -—for her and myself -—rolled through me as I processed the unnatural, flame red hair (the carpet definitely did not match the drapes), too-pale skin, and tattoos that suggested both questionable religious affiliations and a lack of self-respect.
That last thought almost made me laugh out loud. If the woman had any self-respect at all, she certainly wouldn’t be lying naked in my bed. A quick glance to the floor on the side of the bed had me breathing a small sigh of relief. At least I’d been coherent enough to use a condom. Or three.
I picked up the scattered remains of the woman’s clothing (what was her name? had I even gotten her name?) and tossed them on the bed. “Get up.”
Her eyes opened lazily. They were a muddy brown color, filled with sleep and a touch of hurt. I should have cared. I didn’t. What did she expect, wine and roses? She went home with a man she’d just met in a bar, for chrissakes. And, I realized as brief images of last night’s activities flashed intermittently in my recovering brain, let me do some pretty nasty things that, in the light of day, had me cringing inside.
“Get out.”
Hurt morphed into anger as she grabbed her clothes and tugged a miniscule piece of stretchy, glittery material over her overlarge breasts. Oh. Well, at least now I knew what had probably drawn me to her. I’d always had a weakness for full, round breasts. Except I liked them natural. These, quite obviously, were not. Too-perfect, large-tipped spheres pointed at me accusingly.
“You’re an asshole,” she said with not nearly as much rage as she should have.
And you’re a whore. I bit my tongue to keep from saying the words that filled my mouth, opting instead for something equally accurate. Maybe there was some tiny sliver of honor left in me somewhere, clinging valiantly to life. “No argument there.”
Unfortunately, my a
cknowledgement didn’t have the desired effect. Her eyes softened, and she looked at me with that same look I’d seen on so many other female faces in the last six months. The one that said she could be the one to “fix” me. Hell. What was it with women? I’d seen it my whole life, and it never failed to amaze me how they always went after the bad boys, the ones least deserving of their time and attention, thinking they could be the one to change them into Prince Fucking Charmings. It rarely ended well. This time wasn’t going to be an exception.
I guided her to the front door, resisting the urge to shove her through it. An unfamiliar blue Honda sat in the driveway, thank God, which meant she had her own ride home.
“Call me.” She made a point of tucking her lacy thong in the front pocket of my jeans. I scowled down at her, seeing the resulting heat in her eyes. What was she, completely mental?
“Not a chance,” I muttered, closed the door, and turned away. One situation handled, one to go.
“Dad, I’m sorry.” Figuring to head off what was sure to be a long-winded (though completely well-deserved) lecture, I entered the kitchen and avoided my father’s gaze as I poured myself a cup of coffee and a few more aspirin. After the heavy duty painkillers I’d been on for months, the recommended dose of the over-the-counter stuff was about as effective as a couple of butterflies’ wings pummeling me. Though given my current state, even those would probably hurt.
“Not half as much as I am,” he replied. The disappointment in his voice hit me like a bullet to the gut, but it was nothing compared to the mortar shell he launched next. “Go upstairs and pack. We leave in an hour.”
I turned disbelieving eyes toward him. “You’re throwing me out?”
His face remained stony and impassive. “I’m giving you a chance,” he corrected. “A shot to pull yourself out of this hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
Something akin to panic skittered along my spine, which was something, considering the places I’d been and the things I’d seen. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid of where I would go -—shit, I’d be content to pitch a tent and live in the goddamn woods -—but of the things I’d done for him to have gotten to this point. I couldn’t bring myself to say that, though.
“I said I’m sorry, all right? What else do you want from me?”
“I want you to start acting like the man I raised you to be. You are thirty years old, Ethan. You are not a kid anymore. Bad shit happens. Deal with it. That’s what responsible adults do.”
A mixture of regret and self-righteousness pushed away the panic. I tossed back the rest of the coffee, burning my throat in the process. I didn’t care. I welcomed it. Pain had become such a part of my life that I’d feel empty without it.
I rinsed the mug and left it in the sink. It sure as hell wasn’t my fault I’d taken more than my fair share of lead in Libya. Even less that my fiancée, the woman who was supposed to stand by my side forever, turned tail and ran at the first sign of adversity.
I was entitled to a little downtime, wasn’t I? It didn’t have to be here. There was no shortage of people and places willing to take my money and let me drown my sorrows in peace.
“Fine. You want me out of here? I’m out of here.”
Now I was a pretty big guy at nearly six-four, but all those genes came from my dad – and my dad wasn’t recovering from having his ass nearly shot off and suffering the effects of an epic hangover. In one smooth move he got up from the table and blocked the doorway.
“You’re not running away this time, Ethan,” he told me firmly. “You’ve got a job and a place to stay.”
I was mad, but I wasn’t stupid. Even my battered pride knew I had hit rock bottom. The image of myself in the mirror earlier this morning had driven that point home, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’d done enough wallowing. I sat my shaky ass down at the table. “I’m listening.”
“Remember Angus McGinnis?”
I frowned, searching my foggy memories for the name. “Your old Ranger buddy?”
Cal nodded. “He’s got ALS.”
I tried to think of what I knew about the disease. Not much, other than that’s what Lou Gehrig had and it seemed like a shitty way for a Ranger to go. “Shit, Dad. I’m sorry. But what does that have to do with me?”
“His daughter moved back home to take care of him, but she needs help.”
The short hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I got that tingling sensation in my gut all soldiers do when they feel themselves in someone’s sights.
“What kind of help?” I asked warily.
“Nothing you can’t handle,” he answered vaguely. Too vaguely. I knew a set-up when I heard one.
“Forget it,” I growled. “Not interested.”
“Don’t growl at me, boy,” my father said sharply, an unnecessary reminder that he was a Ranger, too, and outranked me. “She needs your brawn, not your brains. Not sure you have any of those left to offer anyway.”
It stung, but I took the hit. I certainly hadn’t done anything to prove otherwise lately.
“Here’s the deal. It’s a limited time offer. We don’t know how much time Angus has left. Could be six months, could be six years. The job involves heavy lifting, some personal care. It’s a live-in position. Room and board, plus a small salary. No booze and no women while you’re there. One fuck-up and you’re done. Think you can handle that?”
I ground my jaw, but remained silent. It didn’t sound too bad, except for the no booze and no women conditions. I & I (Intoxication and Intercourse) had pretty much comprised my life for the last six months. Then again, maybe this was just what I needed to get back on track. Hell, I knew I wasn’t making much progress on my own. I was stuck in this repeating cycle of self-loathing and bad choices and couldn’t seem to summon the will to get myself out.
“This is a chance to do something positive, Ethan,” he said, his voice just a tad softer. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me.”
My eyes snapped up at that. For as long as I could remember, my father had always been there for me. My mother left when I was just a baby, after coming to the eye-opening realization that being married to a man in the military and moving two kids around the world every couple of months was not her cup of tea after all.
It had been my dad’s eyes shining with pride when I announced I was joining the Rangers, following in his footsteps. It had been my dad who was there when my eyes first opened in that base hospital in Germany and who’d stayed by my bedside until I was released. It was Dad who’d brought me home and put up with all of my shit for the last six months.
The anger drained away, leaving only an oily film of regret and shame. Damn it. “All right, Dad. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”
He nodded, and I slunk off to pack.
“So tell me the situation,” I said forty-five minutes later as we hit the interstate and headed south. I felt nominally better, having taken a few minutes to take another quick shower (with soap this time), shit, and shave. I pulled one of the half-dozen bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches from the take-out bag and passed it over to him. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that my diet for the last twenty-four hours had been primarily a liquid one, so I grabbed one for myself, too.
Muskrat Falls, where we were headed, was only an hour or so away. The scenery grew increasingly rural as we chewed up the miles. Homes got fewer and farther apart. Acres and acres of fields and farmland created a patchwork of varying shades of green and brown. I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly, but it wasn’t the sense of peace that started settling over me.
At least I had been feeling rather Zen until I opened my big mouth. For the first time, my dad looked a little uncomfortable.
“About that. Hannah doesn’t know you’re coming.”
That breakfast sandwich I was enjoying so much a minute ago suddenly tasted like an MRE, one of those shit Meals Ready to Eat that GIs existed on. I took a big gulp of the not-so-hot coffee to wash it down.
&
nbsp; “Excuse me?” My headache, which had all but faded into a quiet background thrum, threatened to make a dramatic reappearance. “I thought she was hiring me.”
“Technically, Angus is hiring you,” Dad said evenly, keeping his eyes on the road.
Even my muddled brain was capable of reading the big, bold print between the lines. “She doesn’t want me there.”
He didn’t disagree. “She needs help, Ethan. She’s just a little reluctant to admit it. Like someone else I know.”
I ignored the barb and translated his words in my head, coming up with all kinds of unpleasant adjectives like willful, stubborn, and uncooperative. In my experience, applying any one of those to a female was bad news.
“You’re telling me this now?”
“Hannah is a good woman, Ethan,” Dad said, using the same soft tone of voice he used whenever he was talking about my sister, which told me he liked this girl. “But she is as stubborn as they come. She thinks she can handle everything herself, and she can’t. And besides,” he added with a small grin, “I’ve never known you to walk away from a challenge.”
Warning bells rang in my head like a concert of air sirens. If my dad was using the word challenge, the situation was even worse than I thought. I should have known this was too easy. Yet part of me, a part that had been dormant for a long time, sparked to life at the idea of doing something worthwhile.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone into hostile territory,” I murmured.
Dad smiled, the first genuine smile I’d seen in weeks. “That’s the spirit, son. Play your cards right and you might just get your man card back.” He laughed, as if he’d just made a joke.
Groaning, I closed my eyes, picturing a large, loud-mouthed, pain in the ass bitch getting up in my face. “Might as well tell me.” Forewarned was forearmed, as they say, and so far, I was buck naked and empty handed in a desert full of unfriendlies.
Letting Go: A Contemporary Romance of Snark and Feels Page 3
