by Lynda Aicher
“Do you have any damn clue how selfish your goddamn actions have been?” Rig went on. “Are you done being an asshole?”
He understood how he’d hurt those who’d wanted to help him. What they didn’t understand was his inability to accept their help. How ashamed he’d been over his disabilities, and still was. He’d spent thirty-nine years building up and maintaining his physical strength, honing every muscle to respond quickly and on reflex to any threat—only to wake up unable to feed himself, let alone talk or piss.
The pause lengthened on the phone, words flowing in and out of his mind before he could speak. In the end, he said only what was needed. “Tanner’s here.”
“Shit.” The breathy response held the note of understanding edged with pain that’d probably been in his own words. “Three hours?”
Finn glanced at the clock and calculated the needed prep. “Sure.”
“I’m on it.” Rig cleared his throat, the low rumble barely reaching him through the connection. “We’ll meet you there.”
He ended the call, the silence settling around him to magnify the awareness prickling over his neck and grinding into his skull. His hands started to tremble, the motion so slight most wouldn’t have noticed. He did, though. Every quirk and hitch was amplified into a glaring blast of his current failings.
But he was working on it. Getting better each day.
Would he ever get back to his former self?
He turned around and braced his fists on the counter. His thoughts rambled on in a jumbled tangle that he tried to sort through for the most relevant thread. Tanner’s frown deepened the longer he remained silent. He should speak, say something, only the words weren’t there.
Poof, they’d all evaporated in the blink of time it’d taken him to assess the lingering fallout of his head injury and subsequent coma.
“Three hours then?” Tanner asked.
There it was. He yanked ahold of the line and reeled it in until he found the connection to his voice. “Yes.”
“How long will the drive take?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Do we need to get anything? Call anyone else?”
“No. Rig’s handling it.”
Tanner moved around the peninsula bar, placed his hand over one of Finn’s clenched fists. He dipped until he caught Finn’s gaze. His voice was firm when he spoke, conviction pure and strong. “We’ll get through this.”
They would. But how?
He’d been trying to figure that out over the long months since he’d woken from his coma, and was still as lost on the answer as he’d been when he’d first learned how drastically everything had changed.
“We should get ready,” he said, siphoning strength from the simple fact that no explanation had been needed between them. Between any of his military brothers. He’d been waiting for Tanner to execute what his many therapists had said he should’ve done months ago.
They hadn’t understood his refusal, but the Kick team had. They were ready now, and with Tanner here, he was too.
Chapter 2
Finn tucked his Bluetooth earbud into his ear and started the metronome app. The consistent tick, tick, tick flowed into his brain on a steadying beat, soothing and centering. He stood there a moment and simply heard the rhythm, letting his mind coalesce around it. He’d taken the therapy that’d helped his focus and coordination and applied it to every aspect of his rehabilitation, determined to heal as quickly as possible.
Absorbing the beats, he strapped his phone to his calf and laid his dress blues out on his bed. Each item ignited the pride that’d filled him since he’d first been called a Marine when he’d finished boot camp.
Semper Fidelis—always loyal. The Marine Corps motto had burrowed far deeper and more solidly into him than he’d ever imagined when he’d signed his recruitment papers. A defiant and lost kid with eighteen years of misguided beliefs and something to prove to himself, he’d dove into a family that’d welcomed him and hadn’t looked back at the family that’d rejected him.
The new-material smell of the uniform countered his ingrained knowledge and screamed yet again how much he’d changed. His first act upon getting home had been to order this uniform. He’d lost too much weight and muscle mass to honorably wear the one that had fit him before the accident.
The metronome clicked off every motion as he slowly dressed, one of many acts he’d never take for granted again. Every article of clothing slid another piece of his past into place while fortifying his present.
He was a Marine.
Nothing would ever take that from him.
It wasn’t his identity—he’d moved beyond that long ago. But it was an essential component of who he was. He’d dedicated fifteen years of his life in service to the Corps, fighting for the freedoms so many took for granted. There was no removing or diminishing the love he still had for the brotherhood he’d found there.
He brushed his fingers over the blood stripe on his trousers, memories rushing back of the hits he’d taken upon earning the stripes. It was a part of the traditions that united and set them apart, like the medals that clinked on his left breast when he slipped the jacket on. Every one earned through the sacrifices he’d willingly made.
The tremble returned in his hands when he buttoned the jacket. Nerves or muscle spasms? Most likely both.
He straightened his collar, tugged on the sleeves until the arms pulled tight and crisp. The white belt went on last. He’d had to adjust it to fit his leaner frame, which he hated. This body wasn’t his. It wasn’t the one he’d honed and took pride in for years. But today wasn’t about him.
This was for Chris.
His chin lifted automatically, another layer of purpose settling within him. The uniform was about more than his service. About more than what it meant to be part of this exclusive membership. He was one of “The Few, The Proud.”
It was a reminder of all he’d achieved and who he’d become as a result of being a Marine.
He grabbed his white gloves, tucked his cover under his arm. One slow breath was all he allowed himself before he left the safety of his room. His descent was slow, each step precisely landed before he took the next. The stairs creaked on the second, ninth, and twelfth step, a mark of the home’s age and his comfort with habit.
The low tick, tick, tick continued, counting off his actions and focusing his mind on the tasks before him. The flat, flesh-colored device in his ear was barely noticeable and passed as a hearing aid to any who spotted it.
The soft steps and systematic creaks on the stairs signaled Tanner’s approach. They’d separated to prepare, even though they’d dressed together hundreds of times before. They’d seen each other naked and at each other’s absolute worsts over the years. Dirty, bloody, bruised. This was different. He wasn’t ready to be so exposed before him, to blatantly display his weaknesses.
He pressed his shoulders back, his attention stance bursting forth without thought. Tanner stepped into view. Fuck. The sucker punch to his gut landed hard and swift. He’d thought he was prepared to see Tanner in his dress blues, in the formal military uniform that was one of the most recognizable and distinguished in the military. Hell, he’d seen him in this very uniform more times than he could remember.
Now, though, standing in the dimly lit space of his kitchen, he couldn’t catch his breath. Tanner was proud, stoic, and more gorgeous than Finn had a right to think. His pulse raced, a wave of longing and want threatening to crack his own stoic veneer.
“You look good, Marine.”
Tanner’s compliment struck close to his heart, the remark an inside joke they’d shared with Chris. He smiled, a sad remembrance softening the hardened core he’d encased himself in.
“You too, Marine.” Doubt plagued him on the validity of Tanner’s words, but he refused to let them take hold. “We should go.”
“I’ll drive. You navigate,” Tanner said, heading to the door before Finn could comment. Tanner’s superior rank had Finn bi
ting his tongue and following without complaint. Fuck, it wasn’t like he could drive even if he wanted to.
But in truth, he’d follow Tanner anywhere. His trust in his brother ran that deeply, and right now, he needed Tanner’s confidence and assurance more than he’d ever needed it before.
—
The rain had stopped by the time they’d reached the Willamette National Cemetery. Tanner followed the winding paths through the almost three hundred acres of land set aside to honor veterans of the U.S. Armed Services.
“Turn here,” Finn directed.
Six vehicles were parked along the edge of the road not far down, nine uniformed men and three in suits standing beside them. Finn sucked in an audible breath, stiffening.
“What is it?” Tanner asked, easing up on the gas. It’d been over five years since they’d served together, but he could still sense every reaction that came from Finn. The hesitancy and anger that rolled off him in the kitchen. The insecurity he’d tried to hide. The shame at his condition he had no need to feel yet still carried. Now this—prepared defensiveness.
Finn glanced at him. “I uh…” He winced. “I’ve pretty much shut these guys out for the last few months.”
Tanner nodded, understanding rolling into empathy. “I get it. I’m sure they will too.” He came to a stop behind a black truck and shifted the car into Park. A glance at the assembled men confirmed his assessment. “We have a job to do right now. That’s all anyone is thinking about.”
“Right.” Finn nodded, lips pressing tight.
God, he was so damn courageous. Did he know that? Did he know how much Tanner respected him? How in awe he’d been of him for his bravery and kindness? Still was? He’d stand beside Finn anywhere, had followed him into battle more times than he could remember and never once questioned his own safety. Finn had always taken care of his men. So had Chris, his second, who’d reinforced the watch that brought their team home mission after mission.
Tanner grabbed his cover and gloves from the backseat and waited until Finn was ready. Hell, this sucked in so many ways. He’d attended dozens of funerals for fallen brothers over the years, but nothing had prepared him for the ceremony ahead.
Hell, he’d only found out about Chris’s death what? Eight, nine hours ago? The truth of what that meant hadn’t sunk in yet.
“Let’s do this,” Finn said, his voice filled with the determination he’d taken into every mission. He shoved the door open and got out, the motions hitched when they’d always been smooth.
Tanner swallowed, studiously ignoring the changes in his brother. Finn wouldn’t want them acknowledged and he wasn’t about to call attention to them. The slight tremors and snag in his gait. The slump of his shoulders when he wasn’t forcing his posture.
He got out, slid his cover on his head. The white gloves were next, the last one finalizing his armor. It’d take everything he had to get through this without losing it. But he would. Chris would come back and kick his ass if he so much as thought of cracking.
“Tanner,” Rig said as he approached. “Good to see you back.”
“Good to be back.” His response was standard, but the sentiment was true.
He did the round of handshakes through the group of men who were now partners in the company Chris and Finn had started after they’d left the Marines. The one he’d helped fund with the intent to join them, only he never had.
He paused when he reached Axel, the Navy corpsman who’d served on their special-ops team for two years. “Axe.” The team medic, Axel had patched wounds and kept them moving when injuries should’ve held them back. His quick thinking and triage skills had saved the lives of many who were injured during combat.
“Toe Pick.” Axel grinned, the dreaded nickname yanking at Tanner’s memories and filling him with warmth. “Good to have you here.”
Tanner hauled him into a hug, the backslaps hard and confirming. “Likewise.”
Greetings finished, the group turned in unspoken unison to face the vibrant green grass, shadowed indentations marking the rows and rows of buried servicemen, servicewomen, and their spouses. Among the Christmas wreaths, flowers, and other holiday arrangements that peppered the area, a bottle of Scotch stood tall and clear on the level ground halfway down a row, a stack of shot glasses beside it.
Chris’s favorite.
This wasn’t a traditional ceremony by any means. Chris had been given his rightful Marine funeral honors at his burial. This here was just for them.
His brothers, friends, comrades. The men who’d loved him deeper than blood and would forever miss him.
They formed two lines, Finn heading up one, Tanner the other. Rank didn’t mark their order, at least not that he noticed. But he was aware, even here, that as a master sergeant, he was the highest-ranking—only active—Marine there. Which meant they’d all be looking to him.
He snapped his chin up, called out his command, and took his first step, Finn pacing him on his right. Each step brought a wave of sorrow he acknowledged but dismissed. Thoughts would bring the grief he was determined to block.
They reached the bottle of Scotch, the amber liquid rich in the cloud-covered light of mid-afternoon. He stopped, turned, and moved to the left, making space for Finn to step up next to him. Down the line, the others did the same until they were arched around the grave of their brother.
Shit. He swallowed, eyes rigidly locked on the gravestone. He couldn’t make eye contact with anyone or his composure would be lost. That these guys had waited for him to conduct this private service meant more than he could voice.
A breath. A dozen rapid heartbeats. A twist in his stomach that didn’t loosen. Then he raised his right hand in the slow salute Chris had earned for his honorable service as a Marine, not to mention the years of friendship. Respect flowed through him and down the line of men in an intangible link that came back on a dull vibration of sorrow.
He lowered his arm, the salute ending on the same three-second count it’d taken him to raise his hand. A beat later Finn started his own slow salute in tribute to Chris. Tanner caught the action out of the corner of his eye, noting the smoothness of the movement. How long had Finn practiced to get that down? Hours? Days? Months?
Fuck. He bit his tongue, swallowed yet again. No. He would not cry no matter how badly the tears stung the back of his eyes. Fucking…
The slow salutes continued until everyone had completed their display of respect. There was a pause, a rustle of clothing, then the lone call of a bugle trumpeted into the silence, “Taps” a mournful last cry of rest for the dead Marine.
Shit. Fuck. Hell.
There was no stopping the tear that slid from his eye to roll down his cheek. He dug his teeth into his tongue even harder, the pain a minor diversion from the storm ripping his chest in two.
He’d been physically separated from Chris and Finn for a long time. He couldn’t imagine what Finn was going through. What any of these men were experiencing, having worked closely with Chris over the last years. Thankfully, he didn’t have to look at them and see their pain, when he could feel it trembling between them on every sorrowful note that rang through the air.
The void of Chris’s absence was growing the more his death sunk in. It spread through Tanner’s heart and penetrated the barricade he’d locked around his emotions. Dark and heavy, grief flooded in to expose the emptiness and the finality. To shred his detachment and bare the truths he’d locked down.
Chris had been a dependable force at the end of the phone line or video call. Always there to listen or commiserate. Always instigating and uniting. The bond that’d solidified the three of them. The inseparable trio—until now.
Chris was gone, Finn was healing, and Tanner was lost. But he loved Finn with everything he had and that truth set his path. He had five weeks to show his brother to his right that he was still here for him.
That he would always be here for him—even when he had to leave.
Chapter 3
The last
somber note floated ominously through the cool air, slithering down Finn’s nape to sink a final dagger through the hole in his heart. He’d heard that tune almost every day for fifteen goddamn years. A validation that they’d survived another day.
Until the day they didn’t.
Chris hadn’t fallen in battle for his country, but on a fucking whitewater trip. He’d died doing something he’d loved, and that should have made it better.
But right now, he couldn’t find any joy in the thought. Death was death. Period.
Why was he saved and Chris lost?
The question was unanswerable and fruitless. He’d witnessed the deaths of too many good men to think he would ever figure it out.
Beside him, Tanner inhaled, the deep suck of air a break in form that no one would call him on. Hell, they’d all had months to come to terms with Chris’s death and it still tore at him. His brother to his left had only had hours.
Another breath and Tanner stepped forward. Finn matched his stride, hoping the tremble in his legs was hidden beneath his trousers. Fatigue was setting in, his body pushed past his pathetic endurance. Fuck if he would let it show.
They stopped, side by side, before the gravestone. His throat closed up, tears stinging his eyes until he finally let them fall. The epitaph was short, the final line meant for him and Tanner. By Tanner’s choked grunt, he understood that too.
Always on your left and right.
Had the fucker planned that? Of course he had.
“Son of a bitch,” Tanner mumbled.
“He got the last word,” Finn choked out. He sniffed, blew out a breath.
“He did,” Tanner agreed. “Damn controlling asshole.”
“The best.”
This was why he’d waited for Tanner. The thought of paying his respects alone had been too overwhelming. Sure, the other guys would’ve been there, but none of them understood like Tanner did.
None of them had loved Chris like they had.
The others approached, their shoes silent on the soggy grass, their presence protecting their six like the shield they were. Unconditional support. Brothers all of them even if they hadn’t actively served beside each other.
