The Return Home: The Aegis Network (the SARICH BROTHERS series Book 4)

by Jen Talty

  “Why don’t I get us all some coffee, and I have banana bread in the oven.” Catherine leapt to her feet and practically raced toward her home.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Kinsley protested. Now was not the time to gently prod into this man’s private life.

  “So, I take it my screams in the middle of the night woke you up, and my mother has been over here asking you to talk to me about it.”

  “Yes on both accounts.” No reason for her to lie. Besides, she’d already offered.

  “So, what do you charge?”

  “I’m not on the list for military insurance.”

  He let out a short laugh. “Do I need to ask the question again?”

  “No,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Non-insurance patients, my fees are one fifty an hour.”

  “Do you see patients on weekends?”

  “I have some Saturday appointments.”

  “For as long as I’m here, my mother isn’t going to let this go, and she means the world to me, so I’ll schedule a few appointments, but I don’t want them to be in your office.”

  “That’s unconventional and frankly, you’re wasting your money, and my time, if you aren’t going to take this seriously.”

  “I’ll give it a fair shot, if you agree to see me a couple times a week,” he arched a brow, “outside the office. Say, on the beach, or at dinner, or just sitting on that dock over there.”

  She glanced over her shoulder in the direction he pointed and swallowed. “This sounds more like you’re hiring me to be an escort.”

  He laughed, then coughed.

  When she turned back around, he clutched his side. “I’m just not comfortable talking about personal things in an office.”

  “It would be unethical of me to see you as a patient in any place other than my office.”

  “All right then,” he said. “What if I just confided in you as your neighbor’s son, not as a patient?”

  “I can’t take your money, and I’m not your therapist, but I’m happy to listen.” She should say no, but she couldn’t deny the emptiness that he tried to hide, and he did it pretty well. But that noise that echoed in the night made her skin crawl. Whatever haunted his dreams was so horrific that she feared if he didn’t deal with it, he’d be forever changed and not in a good way.

  “Thanks,” he said, leaning back. “Can we start today? Say four and we can sit down on the dock, maybe have a glass of wine.”

  “Four works for me.” She smiled. Her heart raced. He had a charm about him that would be irresistible if she wasn’t careful.

  “Here comes my mother,” he said.

  Kinsley turned her attention to Catherine, who carried a tray of coffee and loaf of fresh bread. Kinsley reached out, praying her hands didn’t shake as she took the tray. “This smells delicious.”

  “My mom makes the best,” Dylan said, slicing the bread, and taking a large piece, popping half of it in her mouth. “But I should be going. I have a busy day.”

  “Doing what?” Catherine asked.

  Kinsley took a slice and bit into the warm bread. A mini orgasm went off in her mouth.

  “I’ve got a date,” he said.

  “With who?” Catherine held her coffee mug halfway to her lips.

  “Kinsley.”

  Kinsley coughed and gagged as half the treat lodged in her throat. “It’s not a date.”

  Chapter 4

  Dylan grimaced as he carried a second lawn chair to the dock, his strength drained from merely walking across the street.

  “What are you doing?” his mother called, racing across the street with a bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “I told you I’d bring everything over and don’t you go bringing it back after your date. I’ll take care of it.”

  “It’s not a date, and yes, Mother, I’ll leave the chairs for you to bring back.” Thankfully, it was book club night for his mom. Teasing her about him going on a date had been a stupid idea. Asking Kinsley to meet him for a drink even dumber. He should cancel.

  “What is it then?”

  “I’m doing as you asked, and I’m going to talk to her about the dreams.”

  “I’m so glad. I hear she’s a very good therapist.”

  His mother helped him set up a tray of cheese, grapes, crackers, and a nice bottle of red wine, all his mother’s idea.

  “And it’s a beautiful night to watch the sunset,” his mother said.

  “It’s four in the afternoon.” He stretched out his leg with the boot as he twisted the corkscrew, his ribs throbbing and his raw skin burned. It felt good to have the gauze bandages off, but his arms, chest, and back looked like someone had tried to play connect the dots with a cattle prod.

  “There is a second bottle on the wine rack.”

  “Is this the wine we had at Mia’s?” The cork slid out with a gentle pop, and he lifted it to his nose, inhaling the rich, full-bodied scent of butterscotch mixed with a hint of vanilla.

  “They gave me a case for my birthday.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m still a beer kind of guy, but they did teach me to appreciate this stuff.”

  His mother ran her fingers through his hair, looking him over as only a mother could do. She’d been the family’s rock, and Dylan often wished he could be a better son, but every time he came home, a few days would pass, and he couldn’t wait to get back in the action. It wasn’t his mother, or his family.

  It was him.

  He couldn’t sit still or be in one place for any length of time.

  “I worry about you, Dylan.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” He took her hand and kissed her palm.

  “If I didn’t think you needed to deal with…” His mother let out a long breath, and her eyes filled with tears. “You really scared me last night.”

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, but it’s not uncommon to have bad dreams after going through what I did.”

  “My mind goes wild on what could have happened when I look at your scars.” She bent over and kissed his forehead like she used to do when he was little. “I know you can’t talk to me about it, and your brothers couldn’t stay since they are taking time off for the Fourth of July celebration, but whatever is going on in here,” she tapped his temple, “is eating you alive, and it’s breaking my heart.”

  It would destroy his mother if he told her that the dreams included his father. Actually, they were centered around him. “I’m not going to let it fester. I just need time.”

  She nodded.

  The sound of a door closing caught his attention.

  Kinsley glided down the front porch steps wearing a pair of red shorts that stopped a few inches above her knees, showing off a set of tanned, firm legs. Her white blouse hung off both of her shoulders and that damn raven hair bounced like the opening of the hit TV show Baywatch where the lifeguards ran in slow motion, captivating the audience.

  “Close your mouth and stop gawking,” his mother said, tugging at his ear.

  “Ma, stop it.” He rubbed the side of his head.

  “Behave like the gentleman I raised, and I wouldn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” What grown man was terrified of his mother?

  The four Sarich brothers, that’s who.

  “You know, if I didn’t feel you needed a trained professional, I’d be trying to fix you and—”

  “Mom, really? We’re going to go there this second?”

  “Go where?” Kinsley asked with a bright smile.

  His breath hitched.

  He blamed it on the broken rib.

  “You make sure this one behaves,” his mother said, blowing a kiss as she jogged across the street, waving with a wicked smile.

  Dylan let out a long breath.

  “Your mother is something special.” Kinsley sat in the folding chair, holding out one of the glasses.

  “Yeah, she is.” He filled their glasses. “Here’s to my mom.”

  The plastic
goblets clinked under the bright sun as it danced on the waterway. Growing up poor in Jupiter was an oxymoron, considering Jupiter Island has the highest concentration of wealth in the United States. His mom worked as a cleaning lady, and now owned her own cleaning company and could afford to move, but until recently, she hadn’t ever thought about it.

  Hopefully, she’d retire.

  She worked entirely too damn hard, and it was time for her to kick back and enjoy her life.

  “God, I love it here,” Kinsley said, resting her head back on the chair. Her neck stretched, and her skin begged to be kissed.

  He tugged at his ear.

  “Are you from the area?” He wanted to ask her age, thinking she might be close to his, but that would be rude, and this wasn’t a date. This was a listening session. Specifically, he was supposed to be talking about his dreams, not finding out what made this chick tick.

  “I’ve lived in West Palm and Orlando, but always loved coming here, so when I decided to open my own practice, I landed here. Being able to walk to the beach, or Ground Hog’s, you can’t beat that.”

  “No, you can’t.” Dylan swirled his wine, watching the dark-red liquid hug the sides. “I know your dad is still in Orlando, but what about the rest of your family?”

  A sarcastic laugh filled the afternoon air. “My mother’s current husband has a winter house in Boca, but they live in Jersey in the summer.”

  “Current?” He rolled his head. The bright rays of the sun caught her sapphire eyes. He’d never seen eyes quite that shade of blue before and with her dark hair, and slightly bronzed complexion, she had to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Yeah, this makes husband number six. Too bad it will end soon. I actually kind of like this guy, and he’s her age instead of being my age, or older than dirt.”

  Dylan covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. Not just because he didn’t want to insult her, but it really hurt.

  “Here’s something that will make you laugh. I want to fix your mother up with my dad.”

  “Which one?” He winced.

  But she took the comment in stride, smiling, shaking her head. “The one whose sperm created me.”

  He grabbed his side, holding it tightly, trying to keep his damned rib from snapping in half again while laughter spewed out of his mouth like a wide-open fire hydrant. “Are you close to your dad?”

  “Very.” She reached for a grape and popped it into her mouth, licking her plump, pink lips. “He’s the best.”

  “My brothers seem to like him.”

  She nodded. “We didn’t make the connection with me until we heard of your accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” he ground out, squeezing his fist. “It was a well-thought-out ambush, and someone had been tipped off that we were coming.” He took a large gulp of wine, letting it burn his throat, kicking up his heartburn. The smell of death seeped into his nostrils like the stench of a landfill in the hot summer sun.

  “Is that what haunts you in your sleep? The ambush?”

  “It’s with me day and night, but only a small part of the nightmare,” he said behind a clenched jaw. The desire to retreat into silence and change the subject pelted his gut like stones kicking up from a gravel road under monster tires. “Do you interpret recurring dreams?”

  “I’ve studied dreams and dream analysis, but I usually try not to focus too much on the dream or what’s in it, other than feelings, at least at first.”

  “Why is that?” His nightmare was so vivid, that every time he snapped awake, he had to blink the visions away, only they didn’t leave.

  “Let’s say your dream includes a machine gun. Generally speaking, people will see that as an act of aggression, so they would say, you’re angry at someone or yourself. If you’re shooting the gun, it could represent the need to kill destructive behaviors, not that you want to kill anyone.”

  “Sounds like a lot of psycho-babble.” There were guns in his dreams, but he doubted that’s what they meant.

  “Exactly and often by focusing on the actions, or objects, or even people in a dream, we misread what the mind is trying to do.” She crossed her ankles as she took a sip of her wine. “Can I assume you spoke to a therapist before coming to Jupiter?”

  “I did as required when I come off any mission where actual combat is involved. They ask standard questions, I give honest responses.”

  “But you don’t elaborate,” she said, keeping her gaze on the water.

  “I do not,” he admitted. “They did ask me about the dreams, as I had them in hospital, freaking out half the staff. But they started out as a replay of hearing my men being tortured to death.”

  “Any normal man would have nightmares,” she said, shifting her chair and looking him square in the eye. “I know good men died, but I don’t know the details. Maybe if I did, I could help more.”

  “It’s all classified,” he raised his glass before downing the last few drops and pouring another hefty serving. “I can’t discuss the details with you, though I’ve said too much as it is.”

  “All right. I’ll work with what I do know, but before I ask my set of probing questions, did they give you medication for PTSD?”

  “I’m not taking it. I know I have all the classic signs, but the neurologist says I shouldn’t take it until we know more about other symptoms.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “I’ve had balance issues, memory problems, and I didn’t do well on an exam that I’m an expert in, but that was two weeks ago and I’m much better.”

  “When is your follow-up appointment?”

  “Next week,” he said.

  “Brain trauma could very well be affecting your dreams,” she said. “You mentioned recurring. For how long?”

  “When I was younger, I had some dreams after my father died. It was always about not being able to save him, or anyone else in the dream. They mostly went way, though occasionally came back when I’d return home from a mission. But now I dream about my men being tortured. It was always the same until about a week ago.”

  “Did the dream completely change, or just new elements?” she spoke in an even tone. The timbre of her voice floated over his ears like drizzling honey coating a slice of warm bread, making him feel at ease.

  “My father was added.”

  “How so?”

  “I keep killing my father over and over again. With every scream I hear from my men, I kill my dad in my dream.” He closed his eyes tight. Did he really just admit to that? It had to be the most fucked-up dream any man could ever have.

  “That’s an interesting twist, considering your father has been dead for over ten years.”

  “Twist?” He jerked his head, arching his back, and groaned as his muscles revolted against the quick moment. “That’s a weird reaction.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that killing someone in your dream doesn’t necessarily mean you want to kill them, or want them dead, but a manifestation of an event, in this case, the mission, and how it relates to the death of your father.”

  He opened his mouth three or four times, but nothing came out. Her analysis made way too much sense and was so simple, but that didn’t change the way it made him feel as if he’d been the one to pull the trigger the day his father died.

  Or the man who handed his men’s captors weapons of horror.

  “They don’t relate at all,” he said.

  “Sure they do. People died. That’s connection enough.” She leaned over, plucking a few crackers and cheese chunks off the plate. “Will you try something for me?”

  “What’s that?” he asked, terrified she wanted to do something crazy like hypnotize him.

  “I want you to keep a dream journal. As soon as you’re awake, write down what you can remember from the dream and how each element made you feel. Make sure you date the entries and if you wake multiple times in a night, put down the time as well.”

  “What if I feel numb insid
e?”

  “Write it down.”

  “You don’t think that would be weird, or bad?” he asked. Not that he felt numb, but he did feel like a freak. Didn’t matter that many good soldiers went through something similar.

  He wasn’t just any soldier, and he should be able to push past this.

  “Dreams are our subconscious, not our waking minds.”

  “How is keeping a journal going to help?” The shrink he’d spoken to at the hospital also mentioned keeping track of the dreams, but they were so vivid he couldn’t bring himself to write them down.

  “If you focus on your emotions in the dream, sometimes it shows us what is really upsetting to us in the real world. But I also want you to write down your actions.”

  “These dreams are not for the faint of heart,” he said.

  “I’ve heard it all and have had my share of screwed-up dreams. I think it’s important for you to step outside of the nightmare and look at it from a different point of view, and the best way is to write it down. Also, if the dream is changing, focusing on the new details could be telling.”

  “I suppose I can give it a try.”

  “I want you to understand that some of this may have to do with your head injury, so keep that in mind as we talk about your entries. One other thing I want you to do is to keep track of all your symptoms. Date. Location. Time. Even things like what you had to eat or drink.”

  “Why?”

  “Will you do it?”

  “I will if you tell me about a fucked-up dream you’ve had.”

  She held her empty glass of wine out to him. “I’m going to need another glass of wine after telling you this, but maybe it will help you understand that it’s not always the actions in the dream.” She pushed a lock of hair back behind her shoulder.

  He set the bottle on the ground, making himself a few cheese crackers. “So, hit me with your dream.”

  “This is probably going to be the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard.”

  He enjoyed how her cheeks flushed red and her sapphire eyes danced in the sun. He could sit her with her forever and not think twice about what he shared.