Broken Arrow

by Tymber Dalton

  The more Brooke thought about it, considered their extended ring of friends from the old days, the more she realized there were probably a bunch of them who might not be swimming in the deep end of the kinky pool, but they probably had a toe or two dipped into it.

  Brooke hadn’t asked a lot of probing, personal questions, but it was obvious that Rebecca, Toby, and Logan were a poly triad. As were Noel, Scott, and Keith.

  And Tilly and her guys.

  In fact, come to think of it, several of Eliza and Rusty’s friends who were kinky were also poly.

  Hmm. Duly noted.

  Still, Cody and Justin, while hunky, were gay.

  Weren’t they?

  She damn sure wasn’t going to embarrass herself throwing herself at them when she didn’t even know if they were poly or not, much less if they were kinky.

  It’d been too damn many years since she’d last been laid.

  Way too many.

  And that guy had been a jerk who she’d only tolerated for a few weeks because he was a hunk with a gorgeous ’69 Stingray.

  Unfortunately, what she first thought was false bravado on his part that would hopefully fade turned out to be a raging case of head-in-ass disease. She cited her dad’s health and needing to take care of him as the reason she had to stop seeing the guy so he wouldn’t get pissed off.

  Fortunately, he was as stupid as he was gorgeous, and had bought her excuse.

  Which, in retrospect, she only felt a little bad lying about.

  She found Dixon sprawled on the couch and watching a televangelist spout nonsense about the clit being the doorbell to hell, or some bullshit like that.

  “Ha!” she said, pointing at him. “You got your tail caught, didn’t you? Animal Planet wasn’t good enough for you, huh?”

  “Maow!” Dixon sounded particularly offended and jumped off the couch, turning his ass to her to walk into the kitchen.

  “Jerk.” She walked over and switched the TV to a network’s evening news broadcast, silencing the preacher in mid-anti-clit rant. “I’m not the one who put it on that channel, you know!”

  She pulled up short. “I really need to get laid,” she muttered to herself.

  * * * *

  After a shower and nuking leftovers for dinner, she settled onto the couch with Dixon and the first volume of The Walking Dead books. She got so into it that she almost missed The Big Bang Theory.

  It had taken her a little while to get into the graphic novels. Once she did, she realized how much backstory was there, what was different between the TV series and the books, and why Cody enjoyed reading them.

  Yes, she was looking forward to spending Saturday morning with the two men. It would be fun to get back into the swing of things. She hadn’t gone to the range in close to a year.

  I’d better make sure they’re still there. It would be really embarrassing to drive all the way down there just to find an empty store.

  She used her iPad to pull up the center’s website. Sure enough, not only were they still there, they’d completed the archery range expansions they’d been talking about the last time she’d been there.

  Excellent.

  She started yawning a little after nine o’clock, early even for her. But when she realized how late it’d been the night before when she finally got to sleep, she didn’t fight it. She shut off the TV.

  Then she turned to Dixon.

  “Or should I leave it on for you to watch late-night shopping shows and infomercials?”

  “Maow!” Sometimes, he had a funny little squeak to his meow that made her laugh.

  “Off it is.” She set the remote on the entertainment center where Dixon couldn’t step on it. “Bedtime, buddy.”

  She thought maybe he wasn’t going to follow her into the bedroom, but he finally did. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror and brushed her teeth while staring at the scars on her legs.

  No, they weren’t nearly as bad as they’d been when she’d first been wounded. Her legs had been splashed with gasoline when the IED took out the vehicle she’d been riding in, resulting in burns to her shins, calves, and thighs. The worst of the shrapnel had gone into her left leg, which had also been broken in three places by the blast, since she’d been sitting on the right side of the vehicle when it detonated closer to the driver’s side.

  That was all a blur, really.

  As were the next couple of weeks, due to anesthesia and painkillers. She remembered begging one of the nurses to tell her parents she was alive, and to please not take her legs, but beyond that there was a sickening mental ache in her soul if she struggled too hard to try to recall any of that.

  She was clear-headed by the time she was sent to Walter Reed and finally able to see her mom and dad when they flew up to visit. At that point, she’d already had three operations to put pins in her left leg, and skin grafts for her burns.

  One thing the whole experience had cruelly taught her—no matter how bad she thought she had things, it could always be worse.

  Horribly worse.

  She was lucky enough to walk out of there on her own two legs.

  There were five guys she’d shared a vehicle with who’d arrived home far sooner than she had, in five flag-draped coffins.

  As she settled into bed, Dixon decided on his nesting spot for the night along her back and started purring as he made himself comfortable. Apparently her failure to block the televangelist channel from the cable lineup so he couldn’t accidentally change the channel to it had been forgiven.

  Yeah, if I don’t want to end up a crazy cat lady, I reeeaaallly need to get out and socialize more often. Even if it’s only to socialize.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday morning, when Brooke’s alarm went off at 4:31, she groaned.

  It wasn’t raining.

  It wasn’t farking cold as hell.

  Dammit.

  She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom. After using the toilet and splashing water on her face, she brushed her hair and pulled it back into a secure bun that wouldn’t come loose and try to poke her eyes out or choke her with her own hair.

  Yes, long hair was a pain in some ways, especially as a mechanic. Down to the middle of her back, it was the one attribute she truly felt secure about. Sure, she had a few grey strands here and there. After all, she was thirty-five.

  But it helped her compensate for the scars on her legs and the ones on her soul.

  Under her sports bra and oversized T-shirt she donned the comfy running leggings she preferred for warmer weather, the ones that breathed and kept her from marinating in her own juices. Tossing on a pair of nylon shorts over that, her socks and sneakers, she pulled a headband on to help tame whatever loose strands of hair escaped.

  Followed by five minutes of stretching before she ran, spent psyching herself up to actually make it out the door. Although once she had her sneakers tied onto her feet, she usually knew she was good to go at that point, even though she didn’t want to.

  This morning’s playlist was heavy metal. She changed every run day for a different sound, not wanting to get bored in addition to already hating the routine.

  She set the alarm, locked the door behind her, slipped her spare key into the little pocket in the waistband of her shorts, and set out to Black Sabbath blaring in her ears.

  Running was a pain in the ass, something she loathed despite its benefits and therapeutic nature. She liked having run more than she actually liked running. Some mornings were more trotting, or an escape-from-slow-zombies race-walking pace, than running. Every once in a while it was a slow walk, depending on her pain levels.

  She had three routes she took—two miles, three miles, and five miles.

  Rarely, she would traverse half of the two-mile path, and return home, then venture out again as far as she felt she could go without not being able to make it back under her own power.

  Sometimes, her bones ached, her tendons threatened to kill her, and her knees and ankles called her every
bad name in the book and then some.

  Sometimes, she was in tears before she even made it five minutes from home, and not always because of the pain.

  But she did it. She wouldn’t not do it—unless raining or really, really cold—because of all the people who couldn’t do it. Because she knew how lucky she was to be able to even think about doing it, and bitch about doing it, much less trying to do it.

  Could she join a gym and plod along on a treadmill in an air-conditioned building while CNBC talking heads debated one stock over another on a large-screen TV in front of her?

  Sure.

  It wasn’t the same.

  And she hated the thought of using a public shower, but that was another issue entirely.

  * * * *

  Brooke unlocked the gate at the shop a little before 7:30 and paused as her protesting muscles told her to wait a goddamned minute while they recovered from the car ride.

  I haaate run mornings.

  She actually hated mornings, period, but she’d been getting up early for so many years now that it was an ingrained habit, not a willing choice.

  Just like the running.

  The morning ran smoothly, Carl able to get the Fairlane’s hood latch kit installed after UPS delivered it shortly before ten. The Maverick’s brake job was finished and tested, the customer on his way to get it. She also had a line on a possible replacement for the Mustang’s bad carb, one she could scavenge the piece off of that she needed.

  Today when the afternoon thunderstorms swept in, they were ready and all they had to do was shut the roll-up doors. They even had an empty bay.

  Bob stood in the office, sipping a soda and staring at the weather radar on the TV screen. “So what are you doing this weekend?” he asked her.

  Fully aware of how close he was to her father, she said, “I’m going to take a couple of friends down to Venice tomorrow morning. They want to try archery.”

  “That should be fun.”

  “I hope so. Then dinner with Eliza and Rusty tomorrow night.” She didn’t like to lie.

  But that wasn’t a lie. Just because she chose not to detail who else they’d be dining with, or what they’d be doing after dinner, didn’t make it a lie, either.

  Technically.

  Once Bob and Carl had headed back into the shop area, she called Cody.

  “One Ford Fairlane Ranchero, running well, and with a new anti-theft hood latch kit, is ready for pick-up,” she said when he answered.

  “Awesome. We’ll be by to pick it up as soon as we get out of work. I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

  “No problem. I just hope I didn’t come off pushy Wednesday night.”

  “No, not at all. Like I said, it would have sat in the garage for months, not running and letting the carb get gummed up. Then I would have had to have it towed to your place anyway. The way I figure, it’s saving me the price of a carb overhaul, in addition to everything else.” He hesitated. “We still on for tomorrow morning, I hope?”

  “Absolutely. Pick me up at eight. The place will be open by the time we get there.”

  “How does one dress for archery?” he asked.

  “Comfortably. It’s an indoor range, though, so it’s not like we’ll be sweating our asses off.” Which was a good thing, because she’d be wearing jeans.

  When she got off the phone with him, she sat back and smiled. It was funny how, now that she’d decided Eliza was right and she did need to get out more, that it seemed like she suddenly had a social life again.

  Baby steps, sure, but it was more than she’d had in…years.

  And it beats the hell out of sitting around, alone, and talking to Dixon.

  * * * *

  Cody awoke far earlier than he usually did on a Saturday, ten minutes before the alarm he’d set to go off at six thirty to make sure they didn’t oversleep. When he rolled over, he realized Justin was already awake, too, lying there with his hands laced behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Justin said. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “Why are you awake so early?”

  “Why are you awake so early?”

  “I asked you first.”

  Justin sat up. “Probably for the same reason you are. I can’t wait to see her.” He swung his legs out of bed, rose, and headed for the bathroom. “I really like her.”

  Cody sat up. “Yeah.” He smiled. “She did a great job on the truck, huh?” It now sat safely parked in their garage again.

  “Yes, she did,” Justin called back from the shower. “I didn’t expect any less.”

  Cody followed him into the bathroom after shutting the alarm off. From the kitchen, the smell of coffee brewing drifted into the room as the automatic timer kicked on. “Please don’t let me blow this with her,” Cody said.

  “I won’t let you go overboard, if that’s what you mean. Let’s take things easy and see where they lead. Maybe, depending on how things go today, we can talk about dinner and watching The Walking Dead tomorrow night. Have her over for pizza or something.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. But let’s not overwhelm her. I didn’t see any hint of her being kinky. We come on too strong, too soon, we might freak her out.”

  “Exactly.” Cody went out to pour their coffees, bringing Justin’s back to the bathroom for him as he sipped his own. “But if Eliza’s trying to play matchmaker—”

  “I’m not going to assume anything.” Justin sipped his coffee. “And neither should you. Now, let’s get our showers so we’re not late.”

  * * * *

  Brooke was ready to go when the men arrived ten minutes early. She’d been fighting Dixon to keep him away from one of her bows, with which he’d suddenly decided he had to do mortal combat to the death.

  “You can’t operate a bow,” she told him. “You have no thumbs.” She held him as she went to let the men in. “Hey. You’re just in time.”

  “Why?” Cody asked.

  “Because Dixon is being a butthead.” She put the cat down once the front door was shut.

  Ten minutes later, they were on their way, Cody driving his car and this time Justin riding in the back.

  She liked that they refused to let her sit in back. They were gentlemen.

  Maybe Eliza can help me find someone like them. Only not gay.

  Then again, wouldn’t Eliza have done that already if she had a viable prospect?

  Except that, before now, Brooke had never opened the potential dating pool to kinky men.

  The archery center was relatively busy, but fortunately for them, most of that business was for the retail store, not the archery range. They had one end to themselves. She bought several targets and a couple of spare bowstrings, since hers were old to begin with, and one now had Dixon spit on it. She also bought herself a new package of bow string wax. She had extra wrist guards and finger tabs the men could borrow, but she’d brought the gloves she’d always worn for practice.

  “You might find my bows a little light for you guys to shoot,” she said. “If you really want to do this, you’ll want to get your own bows, set up for your measurements and draw.”

  She’d brought four modern recurve bows with her. After setting up a target on the backstop at the end of the range, she strung one of her bows, waxed the string, and then nocked an arrow.

  After taking a deep breath and praying she didn’t embarrass the crap out of herself, she released it.

  It flew straight and struck just inside the center bull’s-eye, at the top of the circle.

  Both men let out appreciative noises while she silently gave thanks that she hadn’t lost her touch too badly.

  “That was okay,” she said. “Not my best.”

  Justin snorted. “Seriously? You hit the damn center.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t hit dead center.” She nocked another arrow and tried again.

  This time, it hit dead center.

>   She smiled inwardly, pleased with herself. Yes, it’d been at least a year since she’d last shot.

  It used to be a relaxing hobby for her, a way to de-stress.

  “Hey, we could set up a target on our property, couldn’t we?” Cody asked.

  “I didn’t see how big your backyard is.”

  “No, we own property. Five acres. One day, we’ll get around to building a house.”

  “Oh, yeah. that’s plenty big enough.”

  It didn’t take the men long to pick up the proper technique. She was glad neither of them were know-it-all jerks who refused critique. By the time they finished a little after eleven, both men were consistently striking the target in or near the center region, even if few of their shots were actual bull’s-eyes.

  “This was really cool,” Justin said as they helped her carry everything out to the car. “Thank you for doing this with us.”

  “Yeah,” Cody said. “Can we do it again soon?”

  “Well, sure,” she said. “But you’ll probably want to invest in bows of your own if you’re going to do it on a regular basis. Mine are kind of light for you to shoot.”

  Cody snorted. “They didn’t feel light.” He flexed his right arm.

  “We’re going to be sore tomorrow, won’t we?” Justin asked.

  She smiled. “Probably. Right hands, shoulders, arms. Guess I should have warned you ahead of time, huh?”

  That drew a laugh from Cody. “That’s okay. Everyone has a little sadist in them.”

  She wasn’t sure, but it sort of looked like maybe Justin, standing right next to him, leaned in and nudged him a little, but then he closed the trunk.

  “I don’t know about you guys,” she said, “but I’m starving.”

  Chapter Nine

  They ate at a small sandwich shop on Venice Island that the men had heard about.

  “So how long were you in the service?” Cody asked.

  He’d caught her in midsip of her iced tea, which she then proceeded to cough all over the table. As the men helped her mop it up, she choked out, “How’d you know about that?”