by Meghan Quinn
“That’s . . . that’s good. So does that mean you’re not under your dad’s watchful eye anymore? Or did hell freeze over and you were able to work out your differences?”
“Hell is still hot as fuck. Believe me, there will be no solving our differences. The fucker is far too proud to ever act like a dad. I found somewhere else to live for the time being.”
“Good.” He pauses and then says, “Have you thought about the stuff I sent you?”
I shouldn’t have picked up the call. I knew talking to Hardie was going to put me in a shitty mood and within seconds it did. Now, he’s only fueling the flame.
After our last phone call, Hardie sent me an email full of all the ways I could reapply to get into flight school by earning my private pilot’s license first. It would cost me money, but it would be a huge step to making the sky mine again.
I haven’t even looked at it.
Even after working for a year on base, pilot’s license or not, I’d be competing for limited spots against first years finishing USAFA, not to mention the unmistakable fail from the year before. No. That dream has had to be shelved.
“Haven’t looked at it,” I answer honestly, my hand pinching my brow as a light breeze whips by me.
There is a low exhale on the other line, and I know Hardie’s irritated. “Why the hell not?”
“What’s the point? You really think I’d get in? There is a vendetta against me, Hardie. It’s not in the fucking stars for me, so might as well save myself the disappointment.”
“You don’t know that.”
I rub my forehead and stand up. “I know for a fact it’s not going to happen for me, so can you just fucking drop it?”
“I wish you would try.”
“And I wish you would stop fucking talking about it,” I yell, louder than expected. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I say, “Listen, I have to go. Be safe up there.” Before he can respond, I hang up the phone and pocket it. Fuck.
Hands on my hips, I look at Rory’s apartment and debate whether or not I should retreat to the comforting surroundings of her place.
I’m in no mood to be around her, so instead, I start walking. I don’t know where, I just walk.
I walk until my bare feet feel torn and battered, and the irony isn’t lost on me. How many years have I figuratively walked alone like this? Feeling like my heart was ripped to pieces. How many times have I shut out the world and hidden alone in my hatred? And yet here I am at twenty-three years old, still fucking on my own. Underwhelming.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I consider knocking but think better of it in case Rory is sleeping. The sun set a while ago, night creeping in, matching my dark mood. I still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Hardie took a perfectly fine day and turned it into a tortured few hours, regret and hatred coursing through me as I walked the streets of Manitou, contemplating what the hell I was going to do with my life.
Nothing.
There was nothing I could do.
I drew a shit hand and I had to face it.
Carefully, I push down on the handle of the door and quietly walk inside to find Rory’s night table light on, her body tucked into a ball to the side underneath her fluffy comforter. Trying to be as silent as possible, I lock up and turn toward my bed to grab a pair of shorts to change into. Fuck the shirt at this point.
Rory sent me a few texts while I was gone, wondering where I was, if I was coming back to eat dinner, or if she needed to be concerned.
All her texts went unanswered.
I didn’t know what to say, how to respond without sounding like a complete ass, so I ignored them.
Seeing her innocent body tucked up tightly, I regret ignoring her. She didn’t deserve my silence, especially since she made me dinner. Especially since she’d opened her heart to be my friend. She did nothing wrong, and yet I punished her. I punished her because I’m so goddamned ashamed of the man I am, of the constant plaguing voice coursing through me saying I’m not good enough.
As quietly as possible, I get ready for bed, change into my shorts, and fold up my uniform. Before opening the bathroom door, I turn off the light so it doesn’t wake Rory.
Slinking toward my bed, I tuck my clothes away in the little laundry sack Rory gave me and turn toward the bed. I should turn off the light for her.
Tiptoeing to her bed, I avoid looking at her to alleviate some of the guilt, and switch off her light. On my way back to my bed, her comforter rustles and I hear the faint sound of her voice. “Stryder?”
I pause, eyes shut, wishing I were anywhere but here right now.
“Yeah, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”
Instead—because this is Rory—she sits up in bed and rubs her eyes. “Where were you?”
“Walking.”
“Without shoes on?”
At the time it didn’t bother me. I felt numb to the world, but now I can feel the impact on my feet. They’re sore as shit.
“Yeah, no biggie. Go back to bed. Did you set an alarm for tomorrow morning?”
She rubs her eyes some more and scoots back against her headboard. “Come here.”
“Rory, just go to bed. No need to talk this out.”
“No,” she says firmly, looking more awake. “I was worried about you, and I deserve the right to talk to you. You can’t just slink off and not come back for hours.”
Feeling like the bastard that I am, I say, “I’m a grown man, Rory. I can do whatever the hell I want.”
Regret consumes me the minute the words leave my mouth, and an audible gasp escapes past her heart-shaped lips. She doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment, and yet I can’t stop myself from being a dick. This is why I didn’t want to come back right away, and even after a few hours trying to walk off my anger and pain, I’m still a fucking prick.
I scratch the side of my jaw and say, “Listen, I’m not in a good head space right now. Anything I say to you I’m going to regret. Just let me sleep it off, okay?”
She’s silent for a moment before tearing the covers off her bed and walking past me, her shoulder brushing mine until she’s in the bathroom, the door shutting harder than I expected.
I run my hands down my face and mutter, “Fuck.”
I hate everything about me right now. I hate that I hurt her, that she has to deal with my mood swings, that she’s taking the brunt of it. I consider going to Ryan’s house, not caring if she has a guy over when the toilet flushes, water runs, and then the door flies open, an angry Rory standing in the door frame.
“You’re a dick, Stryder.”
“I know,” I answer without hesitation.
“I care about you. Why can’t you accept that?”
My eyes travel up and down her body, taking in the way her little hands clench at her sides, anger ready to strike any minute from the whip of her tongue. “You’re wasting your time, Rory.”
Shaking my head, I walk toward my bed when she stops me, hand pressed against my bare chest, her eyes widening under the moonlight as she scans my torso, from my thick pecs to my carved six-pack, flexing uncontrollably at her touch.
Heat consumes me, desire ripping through me, the need to pull her against my chest taking over my entire body.
Everything pauses around us, both our breaths labored, our eyes bouncing back and forth, anger brewing, need consuming me.
I want her.
I want to claim her.
I want to make her mine.
Just a few inches, one swipe of my arm around her waist and she’s mine.
Do it.
Fucking take what you want.
Be the dick and throw all the rules out the window.
Claim what was yours to begin with.
But before I can gain the courage to make my move, she presses her hand to her forehead.
Stepping away, she clears her throat and throws me from my pep talk. “I don’t want to sound like a bitch here, Stryder, but I’ll pull the roommate
card if I need to.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my breathing heavy, my body thrumming with need. The way the muted light bounces off her, it looks like there’s a goddamn halo over her head.
“I’m letting you stay here, so at the very least, I deserve the decency of an answered text. I was…” Her voice tightens and she swallows. “I was worried, Stryder.”
Her brow pinches together and she bites down on the corner of her lip, her eyes watering.
Shit.
Without thinking about the consequences, I step forward and pull her into a hug so her cheek rests against my bare chest, her skin melding against mine. My heart lurches against my lungs, the burning need for this woman ignited to dangerous levels as she grips on to me, her smooth hands pressing against my back, easing the tension in my muscles.
“I was really worried,” she says, her voice weak, just about bringing me to my knees.
Moving my hand to her head, I press my fingers into her hair, the soft strands like silk. “I’m sorry, Rory. I’m really fucking sorry.”
Looking up, a stray tear falls down her cheek that I quickly wipe away with the pad of my thumb.
I couldn’t feel like more of an ass than I do at this moment. I made Rory cry, and that realization cuts deeper than finding out I didn’t make it into flight school. I don’t ever want to be the source of her tears, of her sorrow.
And yet, here I am, causing my beautiful girl to cry.
Not mine. Shit.
“Fuck, please don’t cry,” I breathe out heavily, feeling panicky.
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I started thinking of all the things you could possibly be doing, or the things that could happen to you, and when you weren’t answering, I thought maybe I did or said something wrong.”
“No.” I shake my head, bringing her into my chest again, cradling her head. “You did nothing wrong. Don’t ever think my shitty attitude relates to you. Okay?” I take in a deep breath. “That was Hardie on the phone, and his conversations are always hard for me to take in, to process.”
“Oh.” Lifting her head again, but still wrapped around me, her arms my comfort, she asks, “What did he say to you?”
“Just talked about flight school and shit I hate talking about. I don’t really want to get into it again.”
Understanding passes over her and she says, “And you just needed to walk?”
I nod. “It wouldn’t have been good for me to come up here right away. You think I’m a dick now, try talking to me right after I got off the phone. I was in no mood to be around you.” Cupping her cheek, my heart hammering I my chest, I say, “I don’t ever want to be in a bad mood around you, Rory. You deserve more than that.” My thumb passes over her cheek and for a brief second, I can feel her head lean into my touch as her eyes flutter shut, only to open abruptly, as if she caught herself doing something bad.
Searching my eyes, she says, “You don’t have to hide yourself around me, Stryder.” She has no idea how much of myself I am hiding. From her.
“I need to, Rory. If anything, I need to do it to protect you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.” Wanting to make sure she doesn’t see through me, I say, “You’ve done so much for me, given me so much, I don’t ever want you to think I’m taking that for granted.”
“I know you don’t. I just wish you would talk to me more instead of hiding.”
I tip her chin. “Hiding is what I do best.” Pulling away, feeling way too much for her in this moment, I grab the back of my neck and say, “I’m sorry for everything. I really am.”
She clasps her hands in front of her, looking shy, she says, “I know.”
Casting a glance at the stove, I notice the time is getting incredibly late for two people who need to wake up early in the morning. “We should get to bed. Early morning.”
She plays with the hem of her shirt and she fidgets in place. “Are you going to be okay?”
Answering honestly, I say, “I don’t know. I sure as hell hope so.”
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
I sigh. “You don’t have to worry about me, Rory.”
“Stop saying that.” She grows angry and steps closer. “If I want to care or worry about you, I can. You’re important to me, Stryder, whether you want to believe it or not. I’m not going anywhere, so I think it’s time you accept the fact that there is someone in this world who truly wants to make sure you’re okay.” Stepping in even closer, closing the space between us, I feel the heat of her body infuse mine. She presses her hand into my pinched brow, and God, her beautiful scent . . . “This anger you carry with you every day, I want to see it dissipate. I want to see the Stryder I first met. Outgoing and charming, the guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the guy who thrived off having a good time, living in the moment. He’s deep inside you, I know he is. I wish you would let him out.”
Growing serious, I step away, letting her hand fall to her side. “Pretty sure he died the day his dreams did.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, why did he die?”
“Because . . .” I don’t know what to say, how to answer her question.
“Because why? You didn’t get what you wanted? Newsflash, Stryder, we don’t always get what we want, and sometimes we have to deal with what life has handed us.”
I shake my head, running my hand through my hair. “There’s more to it than you know.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice swells with disappointment.
I know I’m going to piss her off, but since I’m not in the mood to talk, I say, “It’s not a story I want to get into with you.”
With that, I push past her and settle myself on my air mattress, letting self-hatred consume me.
Rory might think she wants my darkness, but she has no clue how deep-rooted it is. She doesn’t know how much of my life it has consumed or how I have no clue how to beat it. How to find freedom.
Chapter Thirteen
STRYDER
About seven months ago . . .
I sit in my car, staring at the five missed calls on my phone. Defeat in my shoulders, the world around me moving in slow motion, the feeling of living out a nightmare present in the forefront of my mind.
I can’t fucking believe it.
I didn’t make it.
Out of one thousand cadets, I didn’t fucking make it.
I rub my hand over my face and sink farther into my seat, the dark, stone-faced house I grew up in in front of me, looming over me, waiting for the announcement of my failure.
My dad knew today was the day. He knew I was supposed to find out, and it’s the reason why he’s called my phone five times and why I’ve ignored every call.
What am I going to say?
How am I supposed to break the news to the man that’s been busting my ass every day since I can remember, driving it into my head who I’m supposed to be? How am I supposed to walk into that house, look my father in the eyes, and tell him I failed to capture the dream I never thought I wanted? That instead of joining my friends in the sky, I’ve been grounded.
I can’t fucking do it.
The porch light turns on and the door opens. Shit. Slowly I watch my father’s silhouette come into view, strong and powerful, his force strong. I’ve felt it before, a powerful strike from his anger. It wasn’t often and nothing like Colby experienced, but I still have the knowledge of what it feels like to have my father’s fist connect furiously with my face.
And for some reason, my guess is I might feel it again tonight. Even though I could fight back. Even though my failure will justify his reproof . . . in his eyes.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I turn off my car, pocket my keys, and make my way to my father, who stands with his chest puffed, hands on his hips.
I can’t hide the bow of my head, the slouch in my shoulders, the heavy footsteps that pound against the paved sidewalk leading to my childhood home.
He doesn’t
say anything when I reach him. He turns into the house, leaving me to shut the door. In the grand entryway, the antler chandelier above me feels like a pound of thorns waiting to crash upon me as it casts its light on a dark moment.
“Tell me.”
Two words, spoken with such malice that I feel a shiver creep up my spine. Even though I’m as tall as my father and have maybe a few pounds on him, I still fear his wrath. I still flinch with his sharp movements. It might be the little boy inside me visualizing the many times I was reprimanded or punished, and in this moment, I can feel my body turtle in on itself. I can feel the boy with hopes and dreams of being a fighter pilot have his dreams squashed right in front of him. I feel him hurting, bleeding, slowly dying inside and becoming hard as stone, blackening a heart that was barely there to begin with.
Wanting to seem strong despite the hurt pulsing through me, I say, “I didn’t get in.”
The words fall out of my mouth, sounding robotic and unnatural as the air stills. Hands still on his hips, turned away, his head slightly bows before he shakes it.
“You’re pathetic,” he grits out, turning around now and walking toward me with powerful steps. He comes to within inches of my face, his nose practically touching mine. “You sorry piece of shit.” He cocks his fist back and punches me dead in my gut, crippling me to the ground. Not letting up, he kicks me in the side, careening me backward so I’m flipped onto my back, head pressing against the side of the door, my arm protectively slung over my stomach, my lungs captured by a coughing fit.
Squatting down, he grips the center of my ABUs and pulls me up so I’m close enough to notice the wild look in his pupils. Searching my eyes, sneering with disdain, he growls, “You’re the biggest disappointment of my life. You don’t deserve to wear this uniform, let alone carry the Sheppard name.” Shoving me back to the ground so my head hits the hardwood floor, he stands and says, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
The click of his shoes sounds in the entryway as he retreats to his office where he slams the door. I close my eyes, sucking in deep breaths, trying to regain my balance. When I open my eyes, I spot my mom at the top of the stairs, a wineglass in hand, her hair a complete mess. She doesn’t say anything. She gives me no indication of caring, instead she just stares. She’s never truly been a mom to me, always disheveled over the next re-station, never once caring to see how I’m feeling or to step in when my dad was unleashing his anger on me and my brothers. I can’t even remember a single conversation I’ve had with her. It’s almost as if she’s been a shell since the moment she married my dad.
