Against the Ropes

by Jeanette Murray

  “Well, you are fast,” Sweeney said, grabbing a plate and pulling the steaks off the grill. When Brad made a noise, he sighed and put one back on. “Forgot, you like yours completely dead and burned to a crisp.”

  “Just so that it’s not still looking at me when you put it on my plate.”

  “For those of us who like them the way God and all fine dining establishments meant them, we eat.” He set the plate down, tossed a steak on Greg’s plate, and one on his own. “Potatoes should be done in a minute.”

  “So what happened?” Brad waited while Greg chewed. “I mean, clearly you cleaned yourself up, but why? Nobody could catch you, you said so yourself.”

  “Nobody could catch me. But I ran into a brick wall. A kid I couldn’t beat in a fight. We’d been friends, before.” If one could call a partner in crime a friend. Now, he wouldn’t. Back then, it was the closest thing he’d had to anything resembling friendship. “He stole a stereo, I hid it until we could hock it. He decided he wanted to sell it in secret for all the profits, we fought, he kicked my ass.” Greg grimaced, taking a sip of beer while Sweeney grabbed the potatoes and Brad’s fully cooked steak. “He left me with the merchandise, so I got hit for that, too. When I came to, I was cuffed to a hospital bed.”

  “How old?” Graham asked quietly.

  “Almost seventeen. I could have been tried as an adult.”

  Graham nodded. “I probably would have pushed for it.”

  “Thanks.” Greg gave his friend a slap on the back. “Helps to know who you can count on.”

  “He’s consistent,” Brad said in a helpful tone. “Back to the story.”

  “Not much of one. Someone saw something in me. Not sure if it was the judge, or the attorney that pushed for it. All I know is, I’m standing there, wearing orange—”

  “Not your color,” Graham added.

  “Thanks, Fashion Police. I’m standing there with bracelets that connect and this judge is reading me the riot act. I’ve got my tough guy face on, the one that says I don’t care, doesn’t matter, who gives a shit. And somehow, he just decides to cut straight through the BS. He notices I’ve got good grades . . . when I actually attend school. I guess he put two and two together on the foster-family round robin I’d been playing, and decided to give me an option.”

  “Military or juvie,” Graham cut in.

  Brad shushed him. “Let the man tell his story.”

  “Yeah.” Greg sipped his beer, pushed a piece of steak around on his plate. Despite the fantastic cut of beef, he just wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. “Let the man relive the most embarrassing, horrifying time in his life.”

  His friends sat in silence, waiting.

  “Military or juvie. I guess he assumed there was enough time for real jail—or prison—later on if it came to that. The way I was heading, it would have been inevitable. So I picked the military. Figured it was just a different kind of jail, but at least the uniform impressed the ladies. Plus, after four years, my record would be expunged. So technically, I don’t have a record. Someone had to do some serious digging to find that stuff.”

  “Ah, a true patriot. In it for the chicks and the clean record.” Sweeney toasted him with his beer. Brad scowled, as if unimpressed.

  “So you went into the military at seventeen?”

  “I was just shy of my birthday when I got busted. I spent the last remaining weeks under my probation officer’s thumb. That lady was on me like barnacles on a schooner. I didn’t have the chance to screw it up. The day after I turned seventeen, the judge signed me over to the military, and emancipated me. Off I went like a good boy. Found out the military wasn’t that bad after all. Got a degree, moved to the officer side of life, kept clicking the yes button when they’d ask if I wanted another few years. Why not? Decent money, decent health care, and it wasn’t the life I led before. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

  “You fixed it already.” Brad settled back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. He watched Greg with an intensity that would have had him squirming if he hadn’t known that would satisfy his friend. “You straightened your shit out yourself. The military gave you the opportunity, but you made the choice. So, good work.”

  “Aw, thanks, Dad.”

  Brad held up a middle finger.

  “Not to be a sap, but he’s not wrong.” With a mouth full of potato, Graham grinned. “Nice work, asshole.”

  “Aw, my adoring fans.” He fell silent, pondering the next step from here. His friends seemed to accept the reason for his sketchy past without much trouble. But his friends weren’t the woman he loved and lied to for weeks. “I didn’t steal anything from the gym.”

  Both friends made disgusted noises, with Graham throwing a piece of potato skin at him.

  “Shut up,” he said, annoyance clear in his tone.

  “Just stop,” Brad encouraged. “Nobody who has three brain cells to juggle thinks you did jack shit. Obviously, it was a setup. You just happened to have a pretty decent backstory to make people think twice.”

  “But you probably have an alibi for most of it. I mean, you were with Reagan, right? Either at practice, or with one of us hanging out, or with her. That’s pretty solid.”

  Greg gave the JAG officer a raised brow. “This isn’t a court case. There’s no trial, so I don’t need an alibi. She knows I didn’t do it. Pretty sure almost everyone does. My past getting out would be embarrassing, but I doubt it will really move the needle on people assuming I’m guilty.”

  His friends looked at each other for so long, Greg growled, “What?”

  “What’s the problem then?” Brad asked.

  “Reagan’s pissed, that’s the problem.”

  “Pissed at whoever dug that junk up? Hell yeah, she should be pissed. We’re all pissed.” Sweeney gave him a confused look. “So?”

  “She’s pissed because I never told her. Now she’s playing clean up when she’s already behind on the story.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sort of fucked that one up.”

  “Ya think?” Graham asked.

  “Ho, boy,” Brad muttered. “Word of advice from someone who just went through this shit . . . get your ass over there now and talk to her. Put your foot in the door and don’t let her shut it until you’ve said what you need to. She’s smart, and she can make up her own mind from there.”

  Greg picked at a corner of the label of his beer with a thumbnail. “And if she closes her door for good?”

  Neither of his friends spoke for a while. He started to feel sweat gather down his spine, along his upper lip and at his temples. “You’re not going to tell me to walk away quietly, are you? Do the noble thing or whatever and give her up for her own good?”

  “Hell no,” Graham said, looking offended. “I’m sorry, are we or are we not Marines? When was the last time you heard a CO say, ‘Men, sit here and let everything we worked for walk away. Don’t fight. Don’t bother being proactive. Just sit here and piss and whine your life away. ’Murica.’”

  Greg gave a watery laugh, then swallowed hard. “Very inspiring.”

  “What our theatrical brother over there is saying,” Brad added quietly, “is if she closes the door, you wait until she moves off to the side, kick it down and keep fighting.”

  “And if she gives me a hard slap for it?”

  “Marine,” Brad reminded him. “You’re not in the Air Force. You can take a slap and keep on moving.”

  “Oo-rah,” Graham added, toasting them.

  “Somehow, I doubt Reagan will be impressed with the caveman act.”

  “Then you’re doing it wrong.” Graham put his feet up on his coffee table.

  “Or it’s not something that appeals to her.” Greg surged to his feet, setting the bottle down with a clink. “But you’re right about busting down the wall. Charge the front lines. Take no prisoners. Leave no stone unturned.”

  “Leave no cliché untouched,” Brad added dryly. “Just go. Fix this with your lady friend, be careful, and stop m
oping around.”

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant Cranky Pants.” With a salute that had Brad throwing a pillow at his back, he darted for the door. He halted when Graham yelled his name. “What?”

  “You okay to drive?”

  Greg looked at his still half-full beer. “That’s all I had. You wanna insult me some more?”

  “Look, I’m not in the mood to disrupt my training to stand up with any of you jack wagons in court on a DUI charge, so sue me for checking.”

  He gave another salute and closed the door behind him.

  That was the last closed door he hoped to see for a while.

  CHAPTER

  25

  If the carpet hadn’t already shown several worn spots, Reagan was sure it would now.

  She’d been pacing her apartment for two hours now, and there was only one conclusion she’d managed to make in that whole time.

  She did absolutely no good thinking while pacing.

  Huffing, she dropped down onto the sofa and rubbed at one aching calf muscle. Maybe other people relied on the blood flow they got from the cardio workout of walking in a circle, but she preferred to do her thinking in a more civilized manner: in bed, lying on her back, with a spoonful of peanut butter.

  Five minutes later, that’s exactly where she was. She used the spoon to trace the water marks on the ceiling, one eye closed. It was sort of like picking images out of clouds. “That one looks like a bunny, that one’s a train . . .”

  “I’ve lost it,” Reagan said to nobody. “I’m talking to myself, picking shapes out of water marks and eating peanut butter from the jar. I’m seven cats away from being the crazy cat lady.”

  The apartment didn’t answer.

  After speaking to her supervisor one more time, she knew what she had to do. She needed to get ahead of the story before whoever found Greg’s records went public. She just wasn’t sure how much of a fan of the plan he would be. He hadn’t even told his girlfriend about his childhood.

  And what a knife to the heart that was. She’d bared her own shame about her background. Growing up poor, being ashamed of their financial status, being ashamed of her shame, the guilt she felt . . . the ugliness of herself, she’d shared that with him. And he hadn’t reciprocated. Hadn’t even tried.

  The kinder, gentler side of her debated, maybe he would have, eventually, given more time.

  When? After a year? On their wedding night? On their twentieth anniversary? He’d had weeks, and ample opportunity. It wasn’t a stretch to think he’d hoped he could get away with keeping that part of himself quiet forever. He’d started fresh the day he jumped on the bus to basic. He’d said so himself. He wanted everyone else to believe so, too.

  And that list of charges . . . She shuddered. Reagan was a mature enough woman to be able to pick out her own flaws. She knew, without a doubt, it was a horrible thing to feel, but it didn’t change the instant recoil she’d done when she thought about who Greg had been as a teen.

  What led a man like Greg into those situations? Into those actions?

  She might have known . . . except he wouldn’t freaking tell her.

  The pounding on her door almost had her dropping her peanut butter spoon on the sheets. That would have just been the endcap to a delightfully shitty day. Sticking the spoon in her mouth, she shuffled in her bare feet toward the door. As whoever it was pounded again, she yelled out a garbled, “I’m coming!” around the spoon and sticky peanut butter. Whoever it was could just damn well slow their roll and give her five freaking seconds to get to the door.

  But when she opened it, spoon still lodged in her mouth, she fought against the urge to slam it shut again.

  That wouldn’t be the mature thing to do. And she was Mature Reagan. Professional Reagan. Can Handle Anything Reagan.

  He looked her up and down, then raised a brow. “Nice outfit.”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  Not so mature or professional, but she could call a mulligan on today and try again tomorrow. Looking down, she had to admit he was right on the clothing. She was still wearing her skirt, but the jacket had long been ditched in favor of her favorite University of Wisconsin hoodie that was a size too big. And her hair, she knew, was a tangled mess from lying down on the bed. Her makeup was either smeared or long gone, most likely, and her eyes were red from the crying jag she’d indulged in on the way home from the gym.

  So yeah, she’d looked better. But as his own moral ground was damn shaky, he could have ignored that.

  She leaned against the door, and heard him sigh on the other side.

  “Reagan, come on. Open up.”

  She shook her head—despite the fact that he couldn’t see her—and had another spoonful of deliciousness.

  “Reagan, please.” His voice sounded more hoarse.

  She simply waited.

  “Reagan.” It sounded almost like a plea. “Please. Baby . . . we need to talk.”

  It was the “baby” and his tone—defeated—that had her opening up again. The look he gave her was so bleak, it almost broke the few pieces of her heart left. “I’m not sharing my peanut butter.”

  He looked surprised a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Just let me talk and I’ll get out of your way.”

  She motioned for him to come in, debated running to her room for a minute to change and pull her hair into something less manic-looking and wash her face clean. In the end, she did wash her face, because it felt good on her puffy eyes and seemed like a clean slate, and brushed her hair to pull it into a no-fuss ponytail. But she’d be damned if she changed in her own house just to listen to a five-minute story.

  He sat on her couch—in the middle, of course—and waited for her to sit. So she did . . . in the computer chair. With one eyebrow raised, he silently called her on it, but she simply crossed her legs as calmly as she could, like she was fully dressed in a meeting instead of in her apartment about to have her heart shoveled out, dressed like a loon.

  “Reagan . . .” Greg stopped, sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. “Can you come over here, please?”

  “You wanted to talk. You can talk from there.” If he wanted a pushover, he picked the wrong woman to start a relationship with.

  No, not relationship. That word implied a give-and-take. A mutual sharing. Not a give-and-give-and-get-nothing-back.

  He watched her, probably considering his odds, then just ran his hand over his hair once more before sighing and settling back. “My mom didn’t want me.”

  She blinked. Didn’t want him . . . to come visit? To join the military?

  “Didn’t want me, period. She gave me up. Dumped me, actually. I guess the reason I’m as lucky as I have been is because she gave me up to begin with, instead of trying to raise me with no help, no resources, and no real desire to bother with a kid.” The corner of his lips tilted up, and her breath caught at that hint of vulnerability. “So, thanks, Mom.”

  “Greg,” Reagan breathed, but he didn’t hear her.

  “Bounced around to a few foster homes. People seem to have stages they prefer when it comes to the temp kids. They like the infants, but when they start crawling, they’re done. Or they like the toddlers, but when they start getting mouthy, they pass them on.” His chest moved in an imitation of a laugh. “You can guess how many families want to deal with surly teenagers, especially the ones who already have a rep for being uncooperative and, well, sort of douchebags.”

  Suddenly, her stubbornness to sit alone in the chair seemed so stupid, so petty. But to move now might have broken the moment, and she knew he was finally ready to purge.

  “Some were okay, none were great. Some were downright shitty. More than once, I ran away. I would have been better on my own.”

  No, never on your own.

  “So when people, a few guys around the city, some from school and some not, started paying attention, I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. I was their lackey. ‘We’re your family, Greg, do it for your family.’” He sighed and cl
osed his eyes. “Such an idiot.”

  That unlocked whatever hold she’d had on her own control. She ran the three steps toward the couch, jumping to his side. He let out a big “oof!” as she landed against him, holding tight. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts smashed against his ribs and her nose pressed into his shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said in a shaky voice, wrapping an arm around her. “What’s this?”

  “I hate this story.” She could barely choke out the words, because she knew she couldn’t cry and make it through the rest of the talk. And they had to talk. Now that the dam had been torn down, the rest had to be purged. But if she cried . . . game over. “And I just . . . I need this.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while, just rubbed her back. “I thought you’d hate me because of it.”

  “No. I’m still pissed at you. Seriously, numbingly pissed. But I’m not going to hate you. I know who you are now, and whatever was behind you will stay there.”

  “Except it won’t. Clearly, someone’s out to get me.”

  She pinched his arm, and he yelped.

  “Damn, woman, what was that for?”

  “Just finish your story. We’ll talk later.”

  He settled back against the couch, Reagan still wrapped around him like a barnacle. And she had no intention of leaving him.

  * * *

  HER belief in him filled him with awe. Even knowing what he’d done, seeing it in black-and-white, along with that horrible mug shot, she was willing to sit here like this with him. She didn’t think he was tainting her presence, her life, her career. She was giving him the chance to stay. He’d damn well earn it.

  “I was mostly the lookout,” he began again, “a few times I was a distraction or a diversion. But my hands were largely clean of the major lifting when it came to any crime. Petty stuff, more than anything. The kind of stuff a judge would slap you on the wrist for as a kid, maybe do some community service. I got caught a few times, which you saw on the sheet. But other than moving to a new foster home each time, the penalty wasn’t too severe. Never enough to make me quit. Because each time I moved, my crew found me. The foster families were never consistent . . . the crew was. It just reinforced in me I was making the right choice to stick with them. Follow in their footsteps. Screw the man,” he said, feeling an ironic sort of humor in the whole thing.