Service and Sacrifice

by MariaLisa deMora

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading by Whiskey Jack Editing

  Copyright © 2019 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Published 2019

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-29-5

  DEDICATION

  Our debt to the heroic men and valiant women in the service of our country can never be repaid. They have earned our undying gratitude. America will never forget their sacrifices. ~ President Harry S. Truman

  To the service men and women who’ve given so much, including the ultimate sacrifice, and the ones they’ve left behind: Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This story is the culmination of my brain working overtime while riding on multiple memorial rides for fallen warriors. In watching the emotional responses and facial expressions of the riders and passengers who roll alongside me, I’ve been blessed to witness an etched grief that will not pass. When we ride for a warrior, no matter when or how they died, we live for them.

  It doesn’t matter if the one we’re honoring was personally known by the individuals riding, because in those moments the dead belong to us in a way people may never understand. It grieves me deeply that we’ve buried far too many of our brightest and best men and women, and while their service is necessary and fills me with gratitude, I wish there were another way.

  This story is also in response to too many Memorial Days and Veterans Days where the media is quick to parade images of grieving spouses, timed to gain the most viewers. Obscenely invading the private moments spent remembering what their life once was, flaying them open for the world to see.

  Amanda and Alex have a hell of a story to tell, if you care to listen. While this book is first in the Borderline Freaks MC series, it sits in a unique space because it’s also an isolated tale of loss. There was so much grief my shoulders bowed carrying it to the page, but it’s also about a deep and abiding love. So much love, that full and flowing emotion must be experienced to be believed.

  To those who have served or are serving, and to their families—I offer you my gratitude and thanks. Thank you for a job well done, for taking up the watch in my place. For keeping the security of our country under duress and in the face of adversary. For those who stay behind, thank you for supporting your loved ones as they willingly place themselves in harm’s way.

  Your sacrifices are seen and appreciated.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Service and Sacrifice

  “Thank you for your service” is what we’re taught to say to military men and women in gratitude for our freedoms won at their expense. Less often do we thank their families, those left behind to hold down the fort, to manage the day-to-day struggle of keeping everything up in the air until their loved one returns.

  When you can’t count on anyone else to save you, there’s only one real choice.

  Amanda lost her husband to war. Alex lost part of himself. Through a series of glancing encounters, Amanda and Alex find reasons to continue on. And together, they’ll discover hope and peace can be found in the most unexpected of places.

  One

  Amanda

  Amanda leaned against the side of the car she’d borrowed from a neighbor and watched carefully as the numbers ticked up in the pump display. Her palm was slick against the ratcheted handle as she slowed the dispensing rate, then slowed it again, waiting until the total hit the even twenty bucks she had in her wallet. She’d retrieved the money and just returned the nozzle to the holder before turning to twist the gas cap into place when she heard the hum. Or felt it, really.

  A throbbing thrum of something tickled the soles of her feet; then the racket grew louder, sending tiny thrills of shivery sensation up her legs and into her belly. It seemed to echo off every building around, the sound folding back in and on itself until there was nothing except this primal thunder. The first bikes appeared moments later, and she steadied herself against the car door as she watched the double line of vehicles slow, signal, and swoop into the station. They split into a pattern only they recognized, machines and men pulling up three and four deep on every pump.

  She looked left and saw a pair of bikes had appeared just in front of the car, unsmiling men staring at her. Not a glare, nothing overtly threatening, but more as if she didn’t matter. As if her existence factored so little they scarcely noticed her except for the fact she stood beside the only pump blocked by a car. She glanced right and found two more bikes a short distance off, barely giving her enough room to back up and leave. She nodded her thanks, getting one chin lift in response before she clambered into the car.

  Then right back out, because she still had the money clutched in her hand. She stared at the two men in front of the car, but they were no longer looking at her, heads turned to talk to each other, pointedly ignoring her polite wave. She looked the other direction and held up her hand, pointed at the money, then at the door of the station. Chin lift guy shook his head and made a shooing motion with one hand while the man next to him laughed, lips splitting in soundless humor at her predicament.

  “Park, then pay.”

  Amanda shrieked and whirled, one hand coming up to cover her throat in a useless defensive move. One of the other men had dismounted from his bike and was standing right in front of her. A black bandana was wrapped around his head, and dark sunglasses kept his eyes from view as he leaned in aggressively and repeated himself. “Park.” He shoved his hand towards the store, pointer finger extended. “Then pay.”

  He smelled of oil and gasoline, and faintly of an attractive something she couldn’t define. Wide shoulders and massive arms strained the seams of the jacket he wore, folds creased into the elbows telling of long hours of wear. With a short, untrimmed beard and a tattoo crawling up the side of his neck, he looked every bit the kind of terrifying man she’d avoided all her life.

  Amanda Stewart didn’t go for bad boys. She’d never once walked on the wild side. Married at eighteen to her high school sweetheart, she lived a safe and sane, and predictable life. Her family had moved on, parents retiring to warmer states and her brothers scattering to the winds, but she still lived in the same town where they’d all grown up. In fact, other than a rare trip, she’d never ventured outside the state where she’d been born and was so okay with that even her siblings laughed at her.

  She might have carefully crafted her life as best she could, but everything else was in disarray. Almost five years ago her husband had come home unexpectedly, his travel unscheduled, all their future plans waylaid by an enemy sniper in the mountains of Afghanistan. Amanda had sat stiffly on the first pew of the same church where they’d married, and then again in a folding chair next to the raw earth mounded beside a freshly dug hole, accepting the condolences of their friends and family, his commander, and a few of the men who’d walked so many miles alongside him. The sun was past zenith when the startling booms of the salute r
ang out and had dropped to kiss the horizon before she’d given in to the urging of her brothers and swayed to her feet to toss in her handful of clay. Folded flag in her lap, she hadn’t been refusing to leave so much as she just couldn’t imagine going anywhere else.

  A year later, their house had gone back to the bank, because without the active duty pay, she couldn’t afford it. She’d held on to the car, scrimping and scraping money together every month for the too-large payment, while she’d bounced among her dwindling friends from couch to guest room—and for a short time before she’d gotten a small efficiency apartment, to the back seat of the car. Not that anyone knew about that last bit, because she’d been determined to not let anyone pity her.

  But now even the car was in danger, because the transmission had threatened to give out last week. The shop owner was an old classmate, and he’d promised to hold the car for another month to give her time to pay for the repairs, even after he’d told her the vehicle wasn’t worth the cost.

  It didn’t matter to her, because Martin had picked it out, had loved it, had wanted it. And what Martin wanted, he got, in so many things. Beautiful, faithful wife, check. Ostentatious house, absolutely. Impractical car, you got it. Military career always volunteering for dangerous missions, outstanding choice, sir, there you go.

  So here she was at nearly thirty, borrowing a car to drive to her low-wage job at the big-box store one town over. Still pinching pennies because putting more gas in the car meant fewer groceries in her already skimpy pantry. In so many ways she felt like life had passed her by, misplaced in the wake of young love and stability, of service and loss.

  And the man standing too close, who looked angry now, was terrifying. “Jesus, lady, you deaf or something? We need that pump.” He reached up and took off the sunglasses, tucking one temple piece into the neck of his shirt, exposed now because he’d unzipped his jacket at some point. Probably when he teleported over here. His green eyes were flat and cold, filled with a heavy dose of the don’t-give-a-shit attitude she was sure he had been born with.

  Wordlessly, Amanda held out the money, not certain what she hoped to accomplish with this mute appeal. Maybe to have him back off, or understand, or see how frightened she was, fingers shaking so the bill looked nearly ready to take flight.

  “Yeah, I get that you gotta pay, lady. Just—” He gestured behind him again, towards the front of the shop. “Park first.”

  She looked to the side. There were bikes everywhere, scattered in groups and wavering lines across the parking lot, and she didn’t see a way to drive past them to the slotted spaces in front of the store. Glancing behind, she saw the other two bikes had rolled closer, and she felt a wave of panic when she realized she was effectively blocked in. She whirled and shoved the money at him again, fist clenched to hold the trembling at bay.

  He stared at her a moment, crinkles in the corners of his eyes becoming more pronounced, gaze never leaving her face. Then he turned his head to shout over his shoulder, “FNG.” Curls of hair escaped from the back of the bandana, dark blond and thick.

  That acronym, that title, was familiar. Martin and his friends had joked about the scrubs in their platoon, the newbies, fresh off the farm sometimes: Fucking New Guy. Amanda studied the patches on the man’s jacket and saw another thing that felt familiar. A military insignia that matched the memorized one worn by Martin in his dress uniform. “Oorah,” she whispered, and he whipped his head back to her. “Thank you for your service, Marine.”

  This time, instead of lady, she earned, “Ma’am. My duty and honor.” Something Martin had said in response to people at diners or grocery stores—she looked around—or gas stations, when they’d interrupt whatever he and she had been doing to offer their thanks.

  Duty and honor. She scrubbed at her nose with the back of her wrist, then absently looked down and ran a thumb over the tattoo on the underside of that wrist. Right over where her pulse was strongest, where the skin was weak and the blood ran hot. Where the blade had missed the intended target, her eyes blinded by overflowing tears.

  The man reached out and cradled her hand in his, and she looked up to see the top of his head fringed by more of those curls. Chin angled down, he was studying her tattoo, and any question of whether he knew the meaning was gone when he lifted his face to hers. Eyes narrowed, he stared hard at her a minute, and she realized at some point he’d started examining her tattoo by touch, moving along her skin so the pad of his thumb now traced the scar.

  “Brother?” The lifting sound at the end told her he was guessing the who but knew the what and why, and she took a breath because it had been a long time since someone had just known like that. Since there’d been a nearly wordless understanding.

  “Husband.” She swallowed around the words that wanted to escape after, forcing them down before they got free. Lover. Best friend. Soul mate.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He gave her wrist a squeeze, then retained his hold, keeping her in place. He folded her fingers around the bill and told her, “Don’t worry about the gas. It’ll be on me, ma’am. Where was he?”

  “Helmand.” If this man had served overseas, he would know that name—and from the grimace on his face, she knew she was right. “Thank you.”

  “How long?” A man stepped up behind him, and over his shoulder the Marine gave a brusque order. “Put her gas on the card, man, my tab.” Then his intense eyes were back on her and she stared at him as he repeated his question. “How long?”

  Amanda closed her eyes. “One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days.”

  “Oh, honey.” Strong arms wrapped around her, and it was so good, so unbelievably good that Amanda let herself sink into the embrace, uncaring how rough the zipper felt against her cheek, how irresponsible it might be to allow a stranger to cradle her like this, because someone was granting her permission to give up being strong for one minute. “This week, huh?”

  She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  It took a minute, and when it came, the words were gritted out, voice trembling with something like anger. “Suckass kind of anniversary.”

  She nodded again.

  Another period of silence filled only with her heartbeat, his friends’ murmured conversations and bursts of laughter seeming far away. “What’ll you do to remember him?”

  “Visit the cemetery.” Something she did every week without fail. Rain, snow, heat—it didn’t matter. She kept her self-appointed trek where the only certainty was in the solo arrival and lonely vigil.

  “The one here in town?” His voice rumbled under her ear, and she felt pressure against the top of her head. “On the highway east of town?”

  “Yes. That’s where he is.” Something his parents hadn’t wanted, but she was glad she’d stuck to her decision and that finally her requests had been honored. They would have preferred somewhere bigger, a location they felt more deserving of their son’s loss, someplace they could hold up as a proper memorial. But if he’d been across the country, or even in the military cemetery downstate, it would have made her visits more difficult. She pulled in a breath and caught the elusive scent again. This close, it was filled with notes of masculinity she hadn’t noticed before. “Thank you.” Amanda stepped back and let her arms drop, not even having realized when she’d wrapped them around his waist. Holding on like he’s a life raft.

  He released her, then reached out and trailed fire along her wrist, mapping the scar until he pressed against the semicolon she carried there. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

  She ducked her head and settled into the driver seat of the car, surprised when the bikes were gone from in front of her. There were four parked in front of the store, the rest having disappeared sometime during that interlude. The car door closed gently, then two taps on the roof to send her on her way, just like Martin had always done.

  Amanda glanced at her mirror as she drove away, seeing the tall man still standing next to the gas pump like a surprising sentinel.

  Two


  Monk

  Alex Waterman watched the old car bounce over the low curb that separated the gas station from the street and traced the woman’s route with his gaze until she rolled out of sight. He couldn’t remember ever seeing someone carry as much pain and grief while still keeping themselves upright. The look on her face as she’d counted off the days told him how she’d measured the painful hours of each one, holding out hope the next sunrise would prove nightmares didn’t exist, rising from her lonely bed to wrestle them to heel. Day after day, and at some point she’d given up on that route, seeking a final solace. Even that had been denied, or she wouldn’t have had that damn tattoo to prove how she’d survived.

  “Monk, you ready to roll, brother?” Alex looked up and smiled at his club name, brain changing gears until he was fully back in the moment with his patch brothers in the Borderline Freaks Motorcycle Club. He knew Blade, the one who’d spoken, would also be the one who’d moved Monk’s bike without having to be asked. “We sent the main column on, just us hung back with you.” Unspoken were the questions about the woman, who and why probably first on their tongues. The problem was Monk wasn’t sure what had happened, not really.

  One moment he’d been annoyed that a good ride on a good day was being disrupted by a bitch who couldn’t be bothered to show the least bit of decency and move her goddamned junker out of the way so they could fuel, and the next he’d been holding her while she breathed through her grief, every swell and collapse of her ribcage pained and rough, like something was killing her slowly from inside.

  “Yeah, man. I’m ready.”

  The rest of the ride, rolling hard and fast to catch up with the group, then through two more fuel stops, and finally halting at a diner everyone liked near the state line, Monk couldn’t drag his mind away from the woman. “Husband,” she’d said, and infused that single seven-letter word with so much loss it stole away his breath. The expression she’d worn was like and yet unlike every war widow he’d had to see. Personal notifications if he was stateside, and those were the hardest. It didn’t matter if they’d looked outside to see who was at the curb; taken unawares, each face carried pain and disbelief and fear. Jesus. So much fucking fear. Door flung wide on a scream of “No,” or opened gently with children in arms and already tear-streaked faces, women took the news as best they could bear it. Men did too, because he’d had to make more than one distaff notification, too, that their beloved wife, cherished mother, or favored daughter wouldn’t be coming home again.