A line of children walked past my door with one teacher in front and one flanking.
“Those are our three-year-olds,” I said, waving at the kids.
Several waved back. Our four- and five-year-old classes followed. Once everyone was out the front door and waiting to be picked up, I pulled an information packet out of my desk and turned back toward the trio.
“Blade, do you have any questions?” I asked. He’d been quiet throughout the entire meeting.
“No ma’am,” he replied. “I’m just here for the cookies.”
Smiling, I resisted asking him where he was from and which branch of the military he was serving in, and Link distracted me with another question. We chatted for a while longer before Emily committed to a donation from her firm and Link promised to run everything by his board of directors.
At about a quarter past five, Adina appeared in my doorway, worriedly glancing toward the front door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mercy, but we have a… situation.”
My schedule was often held hostage by any one of the sixty adrenaline junkies whose moral compasses had a difficult time distinguishing fun from crazy—so I was used to situations—but it was past time for the kids to be gone. By now, staff and volunteers should be cleaning up and preparing to head out for the night. Wondering what could be wrong, I excused myself from my guests and followed Adina into the foyer where the situation presented itself immediately. One of my teachers, Gena, stood between her four-year-old student, Toby Gibson, and a man I didn’t recognize.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t uncommon for strangers to pick Toby up. I had no children of my own, so I didn’t personally know the struggles of being a single mom, and I wasn’t trying to be judgmental. But, I dealt with enough single parents to distinguish those who were trying from those who just didn’t care. Toby’s mom, Sheila, had run out of fucks to give long ago. She played men like they were a game of musical penises, a fact directly represented by the constantly changing list of people allowed to pick Toby up.
I couldn’t care less who Sheila allowed in her panties, but I sure wished she’d show a little more discretion when it came to who she allowed around her son.
Despite his mother’s relationship issues, Toby was a sweet, loving little boy, a bit shy and reserved but his counselor was working on getting him to open up and be more vocal. I’d seen Toby leave with all manner of strange men without batting an eye, but the way he cowered behind Gena, made it clear that he was afraid of this one. It was my job to find out why.
“Sheila said I’m on the goddamn list and you people shouldn’t give me no trouble,” the man said, his words slurring together as he pointed a finger in Gena’s face, just inches shy of her nose.
Calling Toby to me, I crouched until our eyes were level. “Do you recognize that man?” I asked.
He nodded. “That’s Larry.”
“Has he ever hurt you or your mom?”
Toby looked like he was about to respond, but thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut.
“Toby, what the hell are you doin’ over there? Get your shit and come on. I don’t got all day to wait on your slow ass. The boy moves like goddamn molasses.”
“Sir, this is a preschool,” Gena said, standing taller. “If you could please refrain from swearing I—”
“If you could please refrain swearing,” Larry repeated, his voice mockingly high and singsongy. “Think you’re so prim and proper. Shit, you ain’t nuthin’ but a glorified babysitter. Now do your job and hand over my girlfriend’s kid so I can get out of your hair.” He staggered, and I hoped he’d fall off his drunk soapbox, but no luck. “And another thing—”
Before he could enlighten us with his clearly vast wisdom, I stepped in. “Gena, why don’t you take Toby to my office and try to call Sheila. I’ll handle this.”
Gena’s eyes were full of gratitude as she stepped back and took Toby’s hand, tugging him toward my office. Larry tried to follow but I stepped in front of him, cutting him off.
“What the fuck do you want?” Larry asked.
Deciding to try honesty, I said, “You’re clearly intoxicated, and we cannot let Toby leave with you. It would be best for everyone if you walk out that door and go home to sober up.”
“I ain’t intoxicated,” he replied.
I begged to differ as his stench filled the foot of space between us, burning my nose hairs. He was beyond intoxicated. Someone had marinated him in cheap booze, rolled him in an ashtray, and then baked him in the sun for a week. I tried breathing through my mouth, but that was worse, almost like tasting him. My tongue was going to need a bath after this was over.
“I only had one beer and I ain’t going nowhere without Toby. Promised his mom I’d pick him up so she don’t have to pay the late fee, and that’s what I intend to do. You people are always trying to screw over hard-working people with this late fee bullshit. You’re just trying to keep Toby here longer, so you can charge his mom more.”
Apparently honesty wasn’t going to do the trick, so it was time to switch tactics. “You’re right. You caught me, but I’ll tell you what, keep it between us and I won’t charge Sheila any fees. In fact, if you show me your photo ID, I’ll go make sure you’re on the approved pick up list and we’ll get you all squared away.”
“What?” he asked, his expression puzzled.
I couldn’t tell if it was the fact that I’d agreed with him, or the use of so many words strung together that had thrown him off. Regardless, I planned to keep it up. Confusion was the best stall tactic I knew.
“Photo ID. You said you’re on the list, so I need to see a driver’s license or some other official identification with your name on it, since this is your first time picking Toby up. It’s school policy.” His eyes bugged out like I’d asked him for the winning lottery ticket rather than a piece of plastic to confirm his identity. If he had a problem with that one, I couldn’t wait to see how he reacted when I asked him to prove his sobriety by spelling out his name in yoga moves. That’d be stall tactic number two. “It’s usually in your wallet,” I added, trying to be helpful.
Swaying, Larry took a couple of swings at his backside before he finally connected and retrieved a faded leather billfold. He flipped it open, leaned forward, and it closed again. Maybe I wouldn’t need additional stall tactics after all. Turned out Larry was drunk enough to stall himself.
“Tried Sheila’s cell and her last known place of employment,” Gena called out from my office door. “By the way, she hasn’t worked there in over a month. The cousin she listed has a disconnected number.”
Glancing at Gena over my shoulder, I replied, “Make the call.”
Gena frowned. She knew exactly which phone call I was talking about. Speed dial number three would ring the Child Protective Services. “Are you sure?” she asked.
I understood her hesitation. Our goal was to strengthen families, not to tear them apart. Calling CPS was a last resort, and with only four days before Christmas they’d be slow to place Toby and even slower to return him to his mom. That is, if they decided she should have him back. And, what if this was all just a big misunderstanding that Sheila could clear up quickly? Maybe she had some excellent reason for sending a drunk, most likely abusive douchebag to pick up her four-year-old son. Of course, we’d know for sure if she’d answer our calls or update her emergency contact sheet.
All I knew for sure was that we were twenty-seven minutes past closing on a Friday evening, and we had a duty to protect our children. Sometimes that duty came at a high price.
“Positive,” I replied.
Resolve settled over Gena’s features as she ducked back into my office.
Thankful for her compliance, I turned my attention back to Larry. He must have grown bored with the wallet-flipping game because he was trying to pry his credit card out of its pocket. I almost corrected him, but caught myself. If he wanted to extend this simple task, who was I to hurry him along? Trying not to breathe, I waited until he final
ly tugged it free and offered it to me.
“That’s your credit card, Larry. I need your driver’s license, please.” And a Breathalyzer because I really wanted to know how drunk he was. Hell, I felt like I was getting drunk from his fumes. Was contact drunkenness a thing?
“Fuck,” he replied, stuffing the card back into his wallet before showing me the plastic sleeve that held his license.
“I can’t read it,” I lied. “I need you to pull it out.”
He started to do that, and then paused giving me the side-eye. Suspicion darkened his irises and drew his lips into a hard line. “Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” he asked.
I absolutely was, but the sudden dangerous glint in his eyes made me realize that I had probably overestimated how far I could push him. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my mind screamed warnings at me. There was a reason Toby was afraid of this man, and in that moment I knew I should be, too.
“Of course not,” I replied, easing a step back. “It’s school policy to verify identity before releasing a student.” Words. Pretty, official words. They swirled around in my head before pouring out of my mouth in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation.
“Did you tell her to call the cops?” he asked, his voice deeper and darker than it had been before.
“No.” I shook my head, taking another step back. I could vaguely hear sirens in the distance, but that wasn’t unusual. Nestled deep in the High Point Neighborhood, police sirens were basically white noise that nobody knew how to turn off. They rarely made it into the neighborhood, though. People in High Point didn’t call the cops.
“Why would I do that?”
Larry sprung at me, surprisingly fast for someone who was still slurring his words. His fingers brushed the front of my shirt as I flung myself backward and crouched low, preparing to plant my size seven shoe right in his family jewels if he came at me again. But I didn’t need to defend myself. In a blur of motion, Larry’s hand was whipped around his body and he was shoved to the floor. Face to the laminate, his eyes bugged out as he glared at me with Blade perched on top of him.
That’s when the police finally barged in, announcing themselves as they spanned out to check the room.
“You lying little bitch,” Larry spat.
Blade dug his knee into Larry’s back. “You, my friend, need to learn how to speak to a lady.”
“She didn’t call the cops, asshole,” Link said, standing beside me. “I did.”
Chapter 3
Landon
I’d forgotten it was Christmastime until I tried to book my flight home. With such short notice, December 21st flights from Nashville to Seattle were slim pickings. I ended up settling on an early morning boarding time with a four-hour layover in Los Angeles. Since Fort Campbell is over an hour from the Nashville airport without traffic, I was awake by two am to catch my ride in. I tried to snooze in the gate waiting area, but two attractive twenty-something girls sat beside me and wouldn’t shut up about the band they’d come to Nashville to see.
The flight wasn’t any better. An elderly man took the aisle seat next to me, looked over the cammies I was wearing, and started talking about every person he’d ever known who’d served. I understood that the lonely old widower (he told me all about his wife, too. She passed away three years ago on Easter, her name was Marge, and she could bake the best apple pie he’d ever eaten.) needed someone to talk to, and although I was grateful for his niece’s son who’d done two tours in Afghanistan, all I wanted to do was sleep. Making a mental note to never wear fatigues on a plane again, I felt my eyes glaze over as he talked, sometimes nodding or throwing out the occasional “yessir.”
By the time I ambled off the plane into LAX, I was feeling the effects of having my six-foot tall body crammed into seats with no legroom, stuffed between people who didn’t know how to share a fucking armrest or shut up.
Damn, I was cranky.
And tired.
And the Los Angeles airport was a nightmare. Wall-to-wall people were trying to get somewhere fast, but most of them looked as clueless and lost as I was. I stared up at the electronic reader board searching for my next flight, but it wasn’t listed. Confused, I hunted down an airport employee and waited in line as she directed a dozen other people before getting to me.
Holding my ticket out to her, I said, “My flight’s not listed on the board.”
“No, it wouldn’t be. This is United. You need to get to Alaska. That’s concourse number four.”
Nowhere on my ticket did it say I was changing airlines. Feeling stupid and unprepared for not knowing this obvious information, I asked, “Okay. How do I get there?”
“You can take the train, or you can go outside and walk around the building but then you’ll need to go back through security.”
I started to ask her what train she was talking about, but she was already on to the next person in line and I was being pushed out of the way.
Deciding I could figure this shit out on my own, I started walking. I never did find the train she spoke of, but I did find my way outside. I searched for another employee to get directions from, but when I didn’t see one, resumed my march until I spotted a concourse sign. The number was increasing rather than decreasing, so I doubled back and went the other way. It took me about an hour to find the right concourse and make it back through security.
With almost three hours to go before the flight boarded, the gate was reasonably quiet. I found a seat on the edge of the waiting area, collapsed, and closed my eyes. Finally, nobody was talking, I was where I needed to be, and I could get in a power nap. Instead, memories of my mom flooded my mind. I thought about the last time I’d seen her. She was dropping me off at the recruiter’s, hugging me and telling me she loved me, but when she pulled away her eyes were so full of guilt and relief I could hardly look at her.
And she had to see the same thing in mine.
I loved my mom, but after Dad died, I couldn’t stand to be around her anymore. She had to blame me for what happened. Hell, it was my fault, so how could she not?
She didn’t know I was coming home.
I’d picked up my phone to tell her at least a dozen times since stepping foot back on US soil, but had yet to dial her number. Seven days ago, I stood beside my brothers and sisters as we buried Smiley before giving his Mom the flag that had been draped over his casket. She sobbed and lost it, and I felt like shit, but I stood there and took it like a man. Like the combat medic who couldn’t fucking save him.
The we headed to Marx’s funeral to do the same damn thing.
I’d faced two grieving moms and buried two of my friends, yet I still couldn’t seem to strum up the balls to call my own mom to tell her I was coming home alive and well. Truthfully, I was afraid she wouldn’t want me there—that she’d tell me not to come—and I knew I couldn’t handle her rejection any more than I could handle her forgiveness.
It was easier just to lock it all away and stay busy, so I didn’t think about my estranged relationship with the only family I had left. I rarely even called her anymore. A person could only apologize so many times.
And after the apologies, what more was there to say? Since I couldn’t talk about the shit I did in the Army, the few conversations we did have were made up of awkward silences interrupted by occasional ramblings about her job. Working was new to Mom. Dad was old-fashioned and wanted his wife home, raising me and taking care of the house, a role I’d never once heard her complain about. Even with him gone, she didn’t need to work, at least not for financial reasons. Between Dad’s life insurance and the money I sent home, she was set. But she also had to be bored out of her mind and lonely as hell. But now that she was working, she sounded almost happy.
After seven years, Mom was finally piecing her life back together.
Now, here I came to fuck it all up again.
SeaTac was almost as crowded as LAX had been. Bodies pressed in on all sides as I made my way toward the exit. Everything was lou
d, bright, and heavily scented, overwhelming my senses and making me want to lose my shit and start shoving people out of my way. Needing to get away from it all, I slipped into the airport restroom and ducked into a stall. Leaning against the door, I drew in a few deep breaths and forced myself to calm the fuck down.
My job was stressful. This… this was walking through a goddamn airport on the way to see my mom for a vacation. What the hell was wrong with me? Determined to pull myself together, I quit hiding in the stall like a little bitch and headed to the sink. Splashing cold water on my face shocked my system and helped me regain control. I looked at the man in the mirror, barely able to recognize him. The dark circles around my eyes made me look much older than twenty-five.
I felt ancient.
And alone.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Smack dab in the middle of a crowded airport, I was alone. For the first time in seven years I didn’t have brothers and sisters at my back, ready to cover my six, and I was lost without them. During training, they’d told us that the key to getting through shit was to focus on the job. But for the next forty-one days, I had no job—nobody to evaluate, nobody to stitch up, nobody to help—and no idea how the hell I was going to cope.
* * *
The dreary, cold Seattle weather felt both familiar and foreign as I waited for my Uber driver to arrive. Memories of rare snow days and sleds made out of plastic garbage bags lingered at the back of my mind, reminding me that the city hadn’t always been associated with negative emotions.
I used to be happy here.
The thought was staggering, setting me off balance as I climbed into the back of the car with just my backpack.
“That’s all your luggage?” the driver asked, eyeing my bag.
I nodded. “Don’t need anything else.”
As another benefit of my military training, I’d learned how to pack light. If I couldn’t carry it on my back, I didn’t need it. Besides, if Mom took one look at me and decided not to let me in the house, I’d have less to cart back to the airport.
Rescuing Mercy (Special Forces: Operation Alpha): A Dead Presidents MC Spinoff Page 3