by Hart, Taylor
This reminder of the past ticked Scar off. He stabbed a bite of egg without paying any attention to it and shoved it in his mouth. At the first bite, he realized the eggs were over easy. He hadn’t wanted over easy. He almost spit it out, but managed to swallow.
The waitress was back, sliding the other plates next to them. “How is it?” she asked, not looking at him, but at his brother.
“Great.” Steven nodded.
“You got my eggs wrong,” Scar said, shoving the plate a bit toward her, all traces of his earlier flirtation gone.
She jerked to face him, glancing at the eggs. “No, I didn’t.”
“Uh, yeah, you did.”
“You said ‘light’ eggs. That means over easy.”
Scar was seething now—not just at her, but also at his brother and his talk of dreams. “Light means not burnt, rubbery scrambled eggs.” He pointed at his brother’s plate. “Like his.”
Narrowing her eyes at him, she picked up the plate and turned on her heel. “Fine.”
Scar’s heart rate kicked up a notch as he watched her go.
“Nice,” his brother said. “Scare off the poor waitress, why don’t you? Couldn’t you just give her a break and eat the eggs? No, Scar Walker can’t have his eggs messed up.”
Scar refused to pin his brother to the wall and throttle him; he wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction. Instead he focused on his pancakes, dribbling the syrup onto them. “Whatever.” At least this breakfast would be over soon.
For a few minutes, he and his brother ate in silence. The waitress brought his new plate of eggs to him and didn’t say a word. Neither did Scar. Was he being a jerk about it? He didn’t care.
Finally, his brother pushed his plate back and said, “So …”
Not knowing how to respond, Scar was tentative. “So?” What did his brother want?
He looked rigid for a moment, then let out a long breath. “Maybe we can just try to be normal or something.”
Scar frowned at him.
Steven lifted a hand in expectation. “Act like brothers or something.”
Scar let out a light laugh. It was ridiculous, thinking they could have a normal breakfast. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted when he’d left the note, to have a normal conversation with his brother? Steven was the one who’d come with a chip on his shoulder, but he didn’t point this fact out. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steven let out another breath.
Scar didn’t know if he could stand all this breathing.
Steven gestured to him, searching for something to say. “So how is it playing with the Kincaids?”
Scar was a bit shocked by the question. Did his brother really want to know about his football career? He tried to answer it as normally as possible. Wiping his mouth, he flashed an arrogant smile. “They’re good guys, but I’m gonna push up to first-string this year.” He winked. “Zeus is going down.”
A slow smile crept onto his brother’s lips. He put his fist out. “Well, yeah you are. You’re a Walker, after all.”
Scar fist-bumped him, a bit amazed by this turn conversation.
For a few moments neither of them spoke, but he sensed Steven had something else to say.
Finally, Steven leveled with him. “I’m glad you left a note on the boat. Granted, I’d like to have your number, but I’m glad you contacted me.” He sighed. “Things are happening. Life is changing. I still have hope that we can change too, bro.”
This caught him off guard. His brother was making peace? Scar studied Steven’s face again. He looked older somehow, like a lot older. “What’s going on with you?” Scar asked, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.
Steven picked up a napkin and systematically ripped it into tiny pieces. “Just found out Kari is pregnant.”
Kari had been Steven’s girlfriend since high school. Shocked, but not wanting to respond the wrong way, Scar plastered on a smile, hoping it didn’t look fake. “That’s great.”
Letting out a skittering breath, Steven put the last vestige of the napkin down. “Not really. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to be a father. I’m planning to ask her to marry me.” Steven’s tone was carefully level, but he was terrified—Scar saw it in the way he ran his fingers through his hair, then swallowed, picking up the water with a shaking hand.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Scar said, meaning it. “We can’t do worse than Dad, right?” He thought of all the times his father had hit him for no reason at all.
Steven scoffed. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
Scar continued to eat, not wanting to think about his father and the bad childhood they’d had. He and Steven had stepped up to run San Diego Cruises. He’d been sixteen and his brother only fifteen when their father had turned into an alcoholic. “You got this, bro. Listen, I’m sorry, but after the funeral, I just couldn’t stay. I left you to manage it all, and …” He trailed off.
His brother waved a hand. “I’m not interested in the past, Brandon, but I would like to be in your life now. I know it might not be in San Diego, but you could come by and go out on a tour with me while you’re here. Tell me about your project.” He gave him a lazy smile. “I’m sure it involves you wanting to save something by sacrificing yourself, but I’ll listen.”
Holy crap, were they actually getting along? Feeling hopeful, Scar thought about what he’d said about his phone number. He didn’t have his phone with him; he’d left it at the hotel because he was going surfing. “I’d like that. Let me give you my number.”
His brother shrugged. “I left my phone in the truck.”
Scar got up and took a pen off the hostess stand, then scrawled his number on a napkin. “Here.” He shoved it at his brother. “Call me so I have your number. I’ll come by, and we’ll talk.”
His brother grinned. “Sounds good. Do you remember what Mom used to tell us growing up?”
Scar had mixed feelings about this line of thinking. “You mean before she left?”
“Yeah, before … all of that.”
“Tell me.”
“Lately, I’ve been thinking we have to try to take the best from Mom and Dad and what they left us. Do you remember what she used to tell us after we fought? Love is simple. You love each other; you forgive each other. That’s how it works. Wash, rinse, and repeat.”
Scar hadn’t thought about that for a long time.
The waitress was back. She ripped off a paper from her pad and directed her comment to Scar. “Your beautifully scripted receipt, sir.” She dropped it on the table between them. Her words were clearly intended to mock him, though he wasn’t sure how.
His brother laughed, reaching for the receipt, but Scar beat him to it. “No, bro, when I’m home, I pay. Please, it’s the least I can do for leaving you with everything.”
Acquiescing, his brother stood. “Yeah, it is.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Especially since you run with those big dogs on the Titans now. Woot!” He made a fist-circling motion.
Unable to hide his delight, Scar grinned, standing and high-fiving his brother.
“I have a tour, so I’ll catch you later.”
“Great.” Scar watched him go and decided maybe things could be different.
* * *
Later that night, Scar’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, so he didn’t answer it. Only naïve or lonely people answered phone calls from unknown phone numbers, right? Whoever it was didn’t leave a message, and after a bit, an uneasy feeling settled over him. He couldn’t get the number out of his mind. Even as he watched SportsCenter on the hotel TV, he kept wondering who would’ve called.
On the SEAL force, he was known for his intuition. These days it was what made him good at being a quarterback. He had intuition about more things than a human could concentrate on at a time, and it made it possible for him to get the ball down the field while avoiding eleven elite athletes doing everything possible to rip his head off.
A thought popped into his mind as he was getting
ready for bed. Maybe it was Steven. Duh. Yes, of course. He picked up his phone and called the number.
After two rings, a woman answered. “Hello.”
Her voice scattered his thoughts. “H-hello?”
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Who is this?” Scar asked, with a bit of military snark in his tone. “You called me a half hour ago.” He kept his voice stern.
She hesitated. “Is this that jerk from this morning? What, did you get my personal number to call and give me crap about your eggs?”
The feisty redheaded waitress’s face popped into his brain. “Is this …? Are you that waitress?” He scoffed. “You called me first.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did. I’m calling you back.”
“I did not call you.” With that, she clicked off.
Chapter 2
Shayla eyed the soldier from yesterday when he walked into the diner, the one she’d accidentally called last night. She didn’t know how his number had gotten into her apron, but it was annoying.
Even better, he was seated in her section at the moment. “What can I get you to eat?” Her voice was canned, the one she used for all of her customers.
“Hey.” He said it in a tone reserved for closeness or friendship.
Allowing herself to meet his eyes, she pushed away the fact he was hot. Way hot. She tried not to sink into those blue eyes, like the ocean sky in the morning when it was clear at Hotel del Coronado. She loved the ocean by the resort. When she was seventeen, that ocean had inspired her whole promise to herself that she would find a way to live in San Diego on Coronado Island. And she had.
She managed a polite smile. “Good morning.”
The side of his lip tugged up, and she wondered if he would say anything about the phone call and argument last night. He passed the menu to her. “Eggs, bacon, and water. Please.”
She lifted her eyebrows, surprised at the “please.” And he hadn’t made a crack about the eggs! Walking away, she tried to deny the fact that the man was handsome.
It’d been a rough three years after high school, working a full-time job at the coal mine and waitressing on the side, but she’d saved enough money to cover her first two years at San Diego State. Not only that, but enough to live on Coronado Island. Granted, she lived in a dump, but it was worth it if she got to be near the ocean, to walk on the beach every day if she wanted.
Too bad she was already a month into her time in California and hadn’t gotten to do any of the things she wanted to do. The summer class she’d started ate up a lot of her time, and what little was left went to work. Still worth it.
It didn’t even matter anymore that her boyfriend, Jason, had dumped her the day before she’d moved here so she’d had to come by herself. Sure, the breakup and last-minute change of plans had been hell. But she was figuring it out, and she was proud of herself.
Living her dream meant everything to her, and she was doing it. So what if she was a bit lonely? So what if her parents and family in Kansas thought she was crazy? So what if it would take forever to save the money to do all the things she wanted to do around San Diego because her car had broken down on the way here and she’d had to blow most of her fun money to fix it? She didn’t care. She would figure it out.
Rushing to the computer next to the kitchen, she put in his order and wondered why she was even thinking of her parents or Jason or any of that garbage.
She greeted two other tables filled with families, then dropped a water with lemon on the soldier’s table and once again tried not to notice what he was doing—staring out the window at the ocean.
Even though she flew around the restaurant, her attention remained on this guy. He was older. Definitely not a new soldier. There wasn’t a “bright and shiny” to him. His jawline was hard, his features chiseled. That scar down the side of his face was interesting, something he wore with pride. A battle wound. He wasn’t trying to hide anything, and she could respect that. Sure, he had a bit of anger to him and he was kind of a jerk, but she couldn’t imagine what he’d probably gone through in his life. It was clear that he could tick her off in an instant, but today, he looked different somehow than he had yesterday.
Delivering food to another table, she saw the soldier’s food was up. She steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation, then picked his meal up and took it to his table.
“Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t look at the food. “So, did you ever figure out how you got my number?”
She pulled the napkin out and put it on the table. “I guess it got mixed into my receipts and ordering papers.” She didn’t apologize or admit she was wrong. There was something about his surly smile that wouldn’t let her say it.
With two fingers, he pushed the napkin back. “You keep it.”
Embarrassed, she grabbed a pitcher on one of the side cupboards and filled his water. “I don’t need your number.”
“You know, most girls would cry for that number.” He took a bite of eggs. Apparently these ones were more to his taste.
Just looking at his cocky expression made her temper flare up. “Well, then, I guess you can sell it and make some money—or better yet, give it away for free and see all the tears of joy.” Of course, she noticed the way his T-shirt stretched over his muscles and the way every part of him seemed to be ripped. But he didn’t need to know that.
A boyish smile softened his face. “True.”
Turning away from him, she focused on the other tables, checking one family out and then bussing some tables. She glanced back at him to see him watching her, much to her annoyance. Rather than deal with his scrutiny, she busied herself with getting the silverware out of the dishwasher and rolling them into napkins.
When she came back, the first thing she noticed was the soldier was gone and there was a fifty on the table. Guiltily, she looked around. She felt bad about taking the whole fifty, like she was doing something wrong. Sure, it was San Diego. Sometimes, very wealthy people would come in and tip fifteen, even twenty bucks on a small ticket. However, this would make his tip almost forty dollars.
After she picked up the fifty, she noticed the same napkin as before. There were other words scrawled next to the phone number. Call me if you’re interested in talking.
The words felt foreboding. She didn’t know if he meant them to be comforting or not. It was strange. Taking the fifty and putting it with the rest of her money, she cleared the table, looked out the window, and saw a blue Ford Mustang convertible pull out of the parking lot. She wondered if he would come back the next day.
At that moment, a man with a beard, surly eyes, and a tucked-down hat walked in and bypassed the hostess station, heading for a booth in her section.
A weird feeling crawled up her spine. She didn’t think she’d seen him before, but lately she’d been a bit paranoid, feeling like someone was always watching her. They passed each other, him brushing a little too close while she tried not to make eye contact. A whiff of body odor almost made her gag.
She stiffly walked up to the manager’s station, which doubled as a hostess station. Bob, the owner, stood there, a pencil in his hand and the crossword in front of him.
“That guy in three, I’m sorry, I don’t want to wait on him.”
Bob pulled a toothpick out of his mouth. His cheeks were ruddy, his hair greasy beneath his hat, and his dark eyes traveled to table three. “Hmm. Creeper?”
She liked Bob. He was a no-fuss kind of boss. You show up, you do the work, you get paid. End of story. But you better show up, and you better do the work, or he’d fire you in a heartbeat.
He picked up a pad and pen. “I got him.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, she headed to the back to the silverware that still needed to be rolled in napkins.
She thought about the exam she had at four that afternoon. She was prepared for it. That’s what she really loved about the early morning waitress job: it still allowed her to have time to study and go to cla
ss. For now, she was only attending community college. She hoped after a year she could get approved for in-state tuition and attend San Diego State full time. She wanted a degree in business and had dreams of owning her own chain of stores one day. She’d been raised on a farm, but she’d always helped her father manage the accounts and even think of new ways to bring in money for their family.
When she walked out of the kitchen a few minutes later, the creeper guy was gone. She picked up water and filled her tables, then moved to Bob, who answered her question before she could ask it. “The guy just took off, said he wasn’t hungry.”
“Weird,” she said.
Bob’s eyes creased with concern. “You tell me when you’re leaving. I want to walk you out.”
Even in the light of day, Bob would be a welcome escort.
Chapter 3
When Scar returned to the Hotel del Coronado, he took a moment to appreciate the place. Even though he hadn’t gotten as much done on the project today as he would have liked, he really enjoyed the hotel, which was saying a lot because he usually hated hotels. When he’d been a lowly officer in the Navy doing his BUDS training, he’d run past this place every day, but he’d never dreamed he’d be staying here.
The hotel had been around since the eighteen hundreds, and it was a bit posh. This was by far the best hotel in San Diego. The staff was amazing, the beach was pristine, and—best of all—the gym was impressive. He changed into his workout clothes, thinking that he’d punish himself for five miles before starting in on the weights.
After doing the treadmill, Scar felt the fog begin to lift from his mind. He got off and went to the weights, focusing on some band work. He always brought his bands. He strengthened his shoulders, pecs, and delts, finishing off with some lunges and dead lifts. Not enough to be sore tomorrow, but enough so he wouldn’t feel bad sitting in a meeting all day. The one thing that never bothered him about being on the practice team was all the physical training it demanded. That was part of why he liked it so much. He had to keep in peak physical shape, which wasn’t a chore for him.