“Nah. My mom and pop went AWOL when I was a baby then I was foster.” Donavan’s tone spoke volumes, sounding like he had shit caregivers from day one till now.
“Daggon it! You shoulda said something. I’ll give you my parents.” McIntosh chuckled, his gray eyes almost longing. He never used the phone to call family either. “The LGT,” he mentioned his dad a rigid Lieutenant General, “would love you.”
It wasn’t the first time Donavan had heard something like that. Their lead, Trip, always harped on seeing something in Donavan, something good. He knew that they mistook his hard glare for a lack of fear when in his mind every time he pointed his gun, Alexander Castle was his mark.
That scene faded from his dreams. Donavan told himself to wake up.
He and McIntosh had joined the same task force. They were at a stand-to before dawn. Hyped up and at the ready, Donavan’s eyes narrowed out toward the ravine below. There was virtually no observation from that area, and the best vantage point for any insurgents below.
“Shhh . . . shh . . . shhh . . .” McIntosh’s chest expanded and compressed rapidly. He sure as shit wasn’t ready for their assignment. A local had warned that rebels planned on attacking.
It didn’t help that an IED explosion against the Humvee had gone down right before their eyes just two days ago, killing a member of another team and injuring two more. It seemed like they were dodging bullets daily now.
McIntosh placed his finger on the trigger of his handgun.
“What are you . . .” Donavan began. They didn’t have orders yet.
Almost as if in a trance, McIntosh didn’t even turn to look at him. The barrel turned toward his own temple, eyes pools of terror. McIntosh was going to commit suicide! In a split second, Donavan’s hand swiped the gun from McIntosh’s face. “Hunter, what the fuck are you doing?!”
The shout quaked out of Donavan’s mouth just as the sound of intense fire from a compound below rained up toward them.
Donavan gasped for breath. Fuck! Thank you, Jesus. He woke up before the worst could happen. They were under attack in seconds. And man, did he think Hunter McIntosh was crazy for his attempt to off himself before the enemy could. Though it didn’t seem like it, things got better for them after that. McIntosh became his brother in less than a second. They had learned to save each other’s lives, finally making the rest of McIntosh’s family proud of him.
“Then you ruined that for life,” Donavan whispered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck.
After all these years, he hadn’t thought about Hunter or the rest of his team. Not since what he’d done to them, and the time he had been holed up at Fort Leavenworth. He had two years of hating himself for what he’d done to some of the guys that were his brothers. He wished he had let Hunter McIntosh finish himself. Shit, on a few occasions while locked up, his finger itched for placing the trigger at his own temple. The moment he was released, Donavan shed them all from his mind. It was fucked up but necessary. He didn’t need to drown in the guilt of it all.
He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. Donavan pushed himself up into a seated position in bed before exiting without making too many movements so as not to disturb Avery’s sleep.
Swish. Donavan’s fists zoomed left to right in rapid succession as memories continued to shift through his psyche. Badass memories of him going from hotheaded to just good enough to make a unit that caught the eye of an alpha company.
“I was held at Qatar. I was appointed JAG as legal counsel but couldn’t care enough about the trial. I did two years Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. All because, one day, in particular, I just couldn’t get you out of my head.”
He continued swinging with the thoughts of what he’d told Avery in his mind.
Everything . . . he had yet to tell her every single thing that had happened. And he’d condemned himself for how he had answered Avery’s question.
“Did you have PTSD?”
“Didn’t matter, I took the dishonorable discharge. I wasn’t going to no inpatient treatment facility. No talking it out. No mentioning the girl who got away because I couldn’t cut it in the army and come back a better man . . .”
Why of all times would he be plagued by these old nightmares? Donavan stopped moving. It had felt like his heart had detached itself from the rest of his body and was going to beat right out of his chest a minute ago. He glanced over at Avery Castle and every seed of anxiety faded into oblivion.
Wisps of kinks shrouded her face. The scarf she’d worn to keep her hair straight had fallen off last night, and he almost smiled at how she’d argued about sweating out her good hair.
What he wouldn’t do to reach over and caress the tresses away from her mouth just to see if she was smiling. She had to be smiling in her dreams. Avery turned, nestling her hand over her eyes. As if on key, the humongous rock that was Avery’s engagement ring twinkled in the early morning sunlight. Well, it was humongous by the general population’s standards, maybe not her fathers. He’d done bad shit to afford it, and everything else he had, he’d put into restoring their home. And so what, diamonds and trinkets weren’t in their new future, but hell, the moment she walked into her old bedroom last night . . . It took everything in him not to stop time, take a photo, and have it tatted on his chest by the first tattoo artist he encountered.
For half a second, Donavan had considered Avery’s one-time inquiry as to if he had PTSD. He needed to be of sound mind for the birth of their child and Junior too. Then just as quickly, he disregarded it. While heading across the hall, Donavan chalked this morning terror up as the stress of the day. They had a meeting with someone who could help their bed and breakfast succeed in a couple of hours. He continued past the nursery that he’d just about finished to the first soon-to-be-B&B guest bedroom that was past Junior’s room. He grabbed the decorative pillow that Avery told him countless times to leave alone. Not stepping one foot into his son’s room, Donavan tossed the pillow with all his might. Junior’s fist rose at the last second, punching the pillow to the ground.
“Roarrrrr!” He jumped up into a seated position. “Safe mode!”
Damn, Donavan had the upper hand with silence. But he had to hand it to his son, given the circumstances, he would’ve done the same thing. He signed, “The term is stealth mode, son. I’m proud of you. You weren’t asleep, were you?”
“Nope.” Junior shook his head.
“I guess it didn’t hurt that I’ve woken you up like this for months. Tossing ice cold water on you was your mom’s idea.” Donavan came into the room, laughing at the notion. Their son could sleep through a tsunami.
He sat down on the baseball shaped beanie bag while Junior rummaged through his closet for jeans and a shirt. When his son turned around, Donavan caught his attention and asked, “How are things going at school?”
Yesterday, when he had asked, Avery had almost caught on. They couldn’t tell her about the bully. For one, she was ten times crazier than Donavan ever was when it came to family. He could remember the times he got in trouble for fights at school. First, there was her slapping the dog shit out of him and saying that she’d have to fix things because he had to graduate on time. Then she’d get his story, and if he had a valid reason to be angry—but not fight—Avery’s convictions slipped her mind, and she’d want to fight for him too.
Donavan knew that after telling her about Junior’s problems at school the scenario would go as follows: Donavan would beat the shit out of his bully’s father. Avery would beat the shit out of his bully’s mother. How pleasantly dysfunctional.
“Dad, I was thinking.” Junior unconsciously twisted at the shirt in his hands. “Can I . . .” His gaze fell.
Donavan stood up. He went to his son, kneeled before him and told himself to be more like his father, Greg, the man who had changed his life for the better when he turned seven. “Donavan Hardy Junior. You look a person in his or her eye when you have something to say, and you keep those shoulders back, son.”
&nbs
p; Junior stood up straight, his gaze finally landing on his father. “I want to hear, Dad.” A hoarse sob broke his voice. “I want to be able to hear.”
Shock burned the surface of Donavan’s skin. Before he could overanalyze how to react, his arms were around his son. He hugged Junior tightly. Donavan recalled the first time Greg hugged him. He’d been caught off guard and pushed his dad away. It had taken him awhile to adjust to being cared for. Donavan knew he’d always be in over his head when it came to taking care of someone else’s life—someone that meant the world to him—but he’d do his best. He patted his son’s head.
“I’m making pancakes.” Avery’s groggy, cheerful voice came from the door.
Donavan hadn’t heard her come up. He was wrapped up in the moment. He pulled away from Junior and signed, “Everything is going to be okay. If you want to hear, we can fix that.”
“Hey, I just declared a national holiday—a day after a literal holiday. I’m cooking pancakes . . .” Avery’s head popped into the room. Her eyes were augmented with the happiness that only good sleep could bring after the hot night they had.
The bliss faded from her gaze, though, when she looked to her fiancé. Donavan had hardly got out that everything was fine before she hurried to Junior, breathing heavily as she tried to kneel. “What’s going on?”
“Mommy.” Junior sniffled.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Her arms wrapped around Junior, and she went to sit at the edge of the bed, holding him closely. When all her son would do was cry, Avery finally turned her attention back to Donavan.
A weight sunk heavily on his broad shoulders. He and Junior had talked about how to handle his bully. First, words don’t hurt, no matter what people said. Donavan had become proud that Junior was growing a thick skin. Second, if that little motherfucker hit him, lay his ass out! And they’d practiced a few techniques that Donavan had learned growing up and while in the army. The third sucked. He still didn’t know how to handle his response to Junior when the little guy had first asked about possibly hearing one day in the future. Donavan had been ecstatic. He wanted the best for his son, but on the other hand, he’d grown up with the boy’s mother and knew that Avery had always seen her disability as something to take pride in—except in her father’s eyes.
“Sweetheart.” He began looking into her now distraught eyes. “Now isn’t the time to baby him. Junior has a bully at school.”
“Since when? Should we put Junior back in his old school?”
As his son clung to her, Donavan reached over and caressed her cheek. He knew very well that each move they made with their son put a little distance between themselves and the Carlsons. He had no issue with them, since they’d done a helluva better job raising Junior as a baby than he himself could’ve done while rotting away in an army prison for two years.
“No, beautiful. He’s got to learn how to handle these types of situations and develop a tough skin.”
There was a mixture of relief and concern in her eyes. “Alright, Donnie. I’m just . . . it’s our first time dealing with this.”
Donavan wasn’t ready to talk to Avery about Junior’s other issue. For now, he tried to distract her.
“Hey, we have an interview with the journalist today. Remember? We have to make a good enough impression. It’s the best free advertising.” He hoped that would help Avery concentrate on other things. “Can you get ready for that while I talk with Junior. This is a father-son thing, okay?”
She bit her lip for a second, and then let go of their son. “Okay.”
When she left the room, Donavan squatted down in front of Junior, who was now fiddling with his thumbs. Glossy, honey brown eyes gazed up at him.
The moment transported him back to another time. “I don’t fucking cry,” a much younger Donavan once told Greg. It had been after he’d tried out for baseball, and the coach gave him the flyer of the things he needed. The prices for the cleats, the uniform, every-daggon-thing was so expensive. He didn’t care for the Hardys, and little Donavan didn’t ask anybody for shit. Matter-of-fact, he’d ditched school that day, and the reason there were tears in his eyes was because he’d got caught trying to steal something from a liquor store. He couldn’t remember what, but he had plans on selling whatever it was. He was feeling like an asshat for getting caught. He wouldn’t get to play baseball, and he just knew that was the last straw with the Hardys.
Donavan found himself saying the words Greg had said, “You cry if you need to, son.”
He bit back his own tears in response to his son’s. Junior’s skinny chest compressed and fell rapidly with him sniffling. He rubbed the top of his hair then signed, “You cry, then we will talk about what you really want to do. Do you want to hear because that fu—that kid keeps making fun of you, or is it something you really want to do?”
“I wanna hear,” Junior blubbered.
Donavan pawed at the back of his son’s neck, looking him in the eye. “All right, Donavan Junior, but I will be asking you again because we don’t make decisions unless we’re cool. Got that?”
Junior wiped his palms over rivers of hot tears and gave a confident nod.
4
Hunter
The chilly February weather amplified everything—like the scent of dog shit—which clung to Hunter as he sat in his wheelchair, positioned at the bottom of the on-ramp to Interstate 10. Yesterday had been pleasantly warm, yet during the late hours of the night, a raindrop had sloshed onto his forehead as he attempted to sleep in one of the nicer parks in Tucson, Arizona. His forearms still hurt from wheeling himself as quickly as he could to the nearest McDonald’s to wait out the rain. When the rain had stopped, he’d returned to the park, but it was still dark out and cold. His clothes had frosted against his skin and had now just started to dry, and it was midday.
Hunter lifted his face upward, basking in the tiny bit of warmth the sun held.
Screech. Tires assaulted the asphalt. A symphony of horns beeped and blared as a SUV stopped parallel to him. Lips set into a line, Hunter backed his wheelchair up and started to wheel east, in the direction of oncoming traffic. The SUV backed up and made a hard turn, lurching up on the sidewalk before him. Hunter’s eyes locked onto the driver’s. The bastard was trying to kill him!
Hunter’s hands squeezed the armrests of his chair as he glowered through gray eyes that matched Sergeant Major Hawk McIntosh’s.
The door burst open. The asshole was immaculately dressed in his Army service uniform with all the shiny bells and whistles attached.
“Get the fuck away from me.” Hunter began to back up so quickly that he almost feared running into the cars now zipping onto the on-ramp.
With swift strides, Hawk grabbed Hunter’s hands to stop him from moving. When Hunter reached up to slap him, his older brother deflected it and snaked a hand out to grab his collar, yanking him from the seat. Hawk glanced down at Hunter’s nub where his left leg used to be.
“That’s better. You looked like a cunt sitting in that motherfucking chair.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Where’s that prosthetic you got when Mom forced Pops to ask for leave from active duty so that he could be there to support you while you got it? She even made cupcakes after that.”
“Leave—”
“Oh, you wanna be a fucking cripple?” Hawk dropped Hunter down, enough so that he had to use his one leg for leverage.
“Shit.” Hunter gasped, twisting his ankle while being half held, half pushed toward the front passenger side of the SUV. Using his other arm, Hawk opened the door. Hunter watched as people drove by, a few glancing over in bewilderment. When he was tossed into the seat, he gripped the dashboard and the side of the door, attempting to get out.
“Try me,” Hawk growled.
Hunter settled back in the seat, eyelid twitching as Hawk patted his shoulder.
“Funny, I almost recorded this whole scene. You know, like how happy and whiny folks are on Facebook when family comes back from act
ive duty. But I guess a smile for your brother was too much to expect from a lil’ pussy like you.” The door slammed.
5
Avery
With every move she made these days, Avery pulled in a gulp of air. Hands gripping the banister, Avery used it for all the support she could get, while hauling all that ass and tummy of hers up the stairs. Donavan had just texted that he had to watch his adoptive father, Greg. Carly worked as a dental assistant, and she’d called in enough in the past due to Greg’s extreme flares with multiple sclerosis. The day Donnie returned to Avery’s life, he had started to make amends to Greg Hardy for being MIA much of the time after the death of his adoptive mother.
Now, they were both depending on her. It was Donavan’s connections to an old friend at Gem on the Block that had gotten them this feature today. Avery meant to follow through with a successful piece for their business. It wasn’t going to be easy though. This feature was with Maxine Winters—the chick who had run for Associated Student Body president in the eighth grade against Avery.
Avery had won. Maxine Winters had lost. She had blabbed that it was all about the Castle money. Maxine had been one of the students who had attended the academy due to the gracious generosity of families such as the Castles. While taking the stairs, Avery thought about how Maxine had tried to tempt Donavan. She had underestimated Avery. The second her eyes had landed on Donavan Hardy nobody in this world was going to take him from her. Lord knows Avery was in love with him before the term had solidified in her mind. But still, it didn’t stop Maxine from trying through their school years.
Donavan could smile, and she’d write a dream story about our Bed and Breakfast. With a huff, Avery made it up the last step. The sun room, library, ballroom, and dining room were all in perfect order for the journalist’s arrival. So, Avery would be damned if she didn’t make herself useful by checking the five guest bedrooms, one of which might grace the pages of their local magazine.
Make Me Stay II: A Second Chance Romance Page 4