Broken

by Enders, KC

  Gingerly, she takes the keys from me and hits the unlock button three times in rapid succession. “Thank you for that, in there. For everything really. I’m, uh … that hasn’t happened in a while. I’m … well, just thank you.” She waves a hand toward the store and then me. A tight, nervous smile pinches at the corner of her mouth.

  “You okay to drive? Need me to call someone for you?” The offer automatically tumbles from my mouth. It’s what I do. Swoop in, do a good deed, try to do even more.

  “We don’t know anybody here. I just told you that,” the kid, Jake, says. Attitude dripping from every syllable.

  “Jacob Wyatt Triplett, mind your manners and get in the car,” she says. No nonsense.

  She comes across as a take-no-shit mom. But when the car door flies open, a white-and-black dappled hound dog lumbers out, wandering toward the back of the car before he stops and stares at me. It’s a little unnerving, the way he looks at me like he knows me.

  “Damn it, Bronson. Get back here.”

  She lunges around the car door and snatches the dog’s collar, guiding him back into the car. The dog grunts and settles into the seat, staring me down. She cuts a warning look at her son and closes the door. She rests a palm on her forehead. Shoulders slumped beneath her oversize cable-knit sweater.

  Defeated. This beautiful woman looks defeated.

  The last time I saw that look was the day my world turned upside down and the pieces of my life tumbled all around me. I shake my head, pushing the ghosts of the past away and focus on the woman in front of me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I’m drawn to her. I want to press my fingers to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist again, feel the way her pulse sped up when she looked into my eyes.

  “I am, and thank you.” She smiles and slides the key ring back and forth through the single key and fob, the medallion glinting in the sunlight. “I’m so sorry you had a front row seat to the shitshow I’m hosting today.” Another quick, “Thank you,” and she steps past, barely brushing up against me as she climbs in the driver’s seat.

  With an awkward wave, she’s nothing but receding taillights turning at the corner by the time Chance saunters out of the store.

  He taps at his phone with one hand as a bag swings from the other. “Out of your league, Clark,” Chance mumbles, using the stupid-ass nickname he gave me, as he glances up from his phone.

  He thinks it’s hysterical to fuck with my call sign. The rest of the former SEALs we work with stick with calling me Superman. As if that’s not bad enough.

  “Shut up, asshole.” I climb into my pickup—my baby—and run my palm across the polished walnut steering wheel, cool in the winter chill.

  Chance folds himself in and drops his head back, banging it on the glass behind the bench seat. “She’s hot as fuck, man, but she’s got a kid.”

  He’s just knocking it out of the fucking park with his observations.

  “Saw that. Thanks for pointing it out though.” I rev the engine, hoping she doesn’t die on me.

  Nothing more than a little hiccup, a minor belch of exhaust, and she lurches forward out of the lot before settling nicely into second gear.

  “Fucking hell, Miles,” Chance bitches, wiping a hand down the front of his shirt. “You need to fix this piece of shit. See if Dempsey can help you figure out what’s up with it and lock that shit down. Or better yet, get some new fucking wheels. Something from this century.”

  “Crossing a line, man,” I say out the side of my mouth. Nobody talks shit about my ’52 Chevy pickup, Maggie.

  I found her in a heap, just as down on her luck as I was. After dragging her home, I spent the better part of a year pouring all my pain and frustration into her. And in doing so, I brought her broken ass back from the brink. She did the same for me.

  Chance isn’t wrong though. I do need some insight on why my girl is stuttering all of a sudden, and I don’t know anyone better with old cars than Liam Dempsey. At the next stoplight, I tap out a quick text to see if he’s in town, shoving my phone under my thigh when I’m done.

  Still an active SEAL, Liam has stuck with the teams, but he’s worked closely with Cole Security for years. Personally, I think it’s just a matter of time before he joins us full-time.

  The ride back to the office is mostly silent, punctuated only by the occasional grumbling complaint from Chance. He’s got no room to complain about my truck when he jumps at the opportunity to ride along instead of driving himself.

  Back inside, I set the bag of food on the corner of my desk and slide into my chair. I sift through a backlog of emails while I eat, making note of project changes and deadlines that have shifted. I love my work. Never saw myself in the private sector, but it was the right thing for me to do. Sometimes though, I need more. More to do. More tasks to fill my time. A family. Just … more.

  Hours pass, and yet my mind continues to bounce right back to the fainting beauty from the convenience store. I don’t know what her story is, but I know PTSD when I see it, and that woman has been through something. I roll my shoulders and force my head from side to side until a satisfying crack echoes through the room.

  “Jesus, Clark. That can’t be good for you,” Natalie Dempsey, Liam’s wife, mutters as she drops a stack of files on my desk.

  Chance’s personality is obviously infecting the office if Natalie is calling me that now.

  A laugh pushes its way out of my nose as I lean back in my chair and knead at the knot that’s firmly twisting at the base of my skull. Maybe I should cut out early today. Grab a drink—or six. So much for cutting back on drinking.

  “I need a breakdown on this situation in Africa. Doesn’t have to be right this minute; end of the week is fine,” Natalie adds quickly.

  I flip through the file on top. Relief settles in sweetly as I appreciate just how organized she is. “Fine?” I ask, lifting a brow at her word choice. Fine is never good. Nothing is ever fine.

  “Legit fine. I have a sit-down with Mark on Monday and want the weekend to go through your evaluation,” Natalie says, referring to Mark Dixon, one of the owners of the company. She shifts toward the door and moves to leave.

  “Hey, Natalie,” I call, stopping her before she leaves. “You think Liam would mind taking a look at Maggie for me? She’s stuttering, and I can’t put my finger on what the problem is. I texted him earlier, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

  I hate asking for favors, for help. Any of that stuff. I’m the guy who steps in and fills the gap. The one everyone can depend on to take care of shit.

  Laughter floats over her shoulder. “I’m sure he’d love to get his hands on her. What is it with you boys and naming your cars? He’s been swamped at work, but come by the house for dinner next week. I’ll let Liam know you need his delicate touch, and maybe you can remind Shane that playing rugby is a privilege. He’s tanking in math. Shit. I need to make an appointment with his new teacher.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and taps at the screen. “Next week though. See if Chance’ll come with you. He looks like he needs a home-cooked meal or an intervention—something.”

  Minutes later, she’s out the door for the night, still tapping wildly at her phone.

  I thumb through the files she left me, making notes. Natalie might not need this immediately, but it’s not like I have anything other than work and coaching two rugby teams to fill my time. No one waiting on me at home, just an empty apartment, a glass of whiskey, and whatever takeout I end up grabbing on my way.

  Almost an hour later, I shut down my computer and wind my way through the office.

  “Thank fuck,” Chance grumbles as I hit the last set of lights. “You finally taking off? Want to stop by Hot Tuna, grab a drink? Maybe some ass?” He’s sprawled back in the receptionist’s chair, a smattering of dust under where his boots are crossed on top of the desk.

  “Aw, you waiting around for me, Tin Man?” I nod to the mess he’s making and say, “You clean that up, and I’ll meet you there.�
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  Boots thud to the floor, and the chair screeches back until it hits the wall. Chance swipes a lazy hand across the surface of the desk, sending dust flying. “I’m good. I’ll just ride with you,” he says, following me out the door.

  It’s probably for the best anyway. If Chance rides with me, I won’t have to worry about him making any stupid decisions, like driving when he’s been drinking. I love the guy like a brother, but lately, there have been times I wonder what’s going through his head.

  “So, I’m going to bring Maggie over to Dempsey’s sometime next week. Natalie said to bring you with, and she’ll feed us. You in?” I pump the gas pedal a couple of times and crank the engine.

  The engine sputters, seems to contemplate giving up the ghost, and then reluctantly turns over. Fickle fucking thing. The sooner Liam takes a look at her, the better.

  Chance shifts in his seat and cranks open his window. He slings his arm out into the cold air, catching it in his hand as he stares out into the night. “I don’t know. Don’t want to infringe,” he mumbles.

  He’s got that look in his eye again, the one that hints at memories better left in the past. His last tour was a maelstrom of shit, and though I was dealing with my own mess and in the process of separating from the navy at the time, I will forever feel like I let him down by not being there for him.

  “Not infringing if you were invited, man. And make no mistake, you absolutely were.” My words are meant to reassure him, but with Chance, there’s never a guarantee on which way things are going to go.

  I seriously wish that there was something more I could do for him. I look out for him as much as I can, but the guy is shit with letting people in. Just like my ex-wife.

  He shifts and fidgets, left hand tapping against his leg as it bounces to whatever song or beat he’s got going through his head. Forever moving, dodging and weaving his way through the maze of civilian life.

  Chance was the most gung-ho motherfucker on my team—young and committed to the navy. I had no doubt he’d be a lifer, but what he saw on his last mission, the ones he lost, fucked with him hard.

  “We should get some fresh ink,” he declares, spinning the conversation in a totally different direction. “It’s been so long for you; you’re practically a virgin. Gotta bust that cherry all over again.”

  Chapter Three

  Chloe

  My desk is clear. The whiteboards are sparkling clean, and the chairs are upside down on the students’ desks. Well, all but two of them. I glance at the clock above the door and then check to see if the time differs from that on my phone. It doesn’t. And as the hands creep past my meeting time—the one specifically requested by the mom of one of my students—I decide to make the phone call. I don’t have another option, and having my parents close to fall back on was one of the perks of moving.

  “Hey, Dad. Are you busy?” I ask, dropping my head into my hand.

  “Not with anything important, sweetie. What do you need?” my dad says.

  I sigh and suck it up. “I have a meeting with a parent, and she’s running late. Can you pick Jake up from after-school child care? I think this is going to run long, and I can’t be late getting him again. They’re going to start charging me extra, and God knows, he’s already cranky about having to stay after. He’s convinced it’s just for babies.”

  “You got parents complaining about their kids’ grades already? You haven’t really been there long enough for that, have you?”

  “I don’t think so … maybe? God, I hope not.” Stepping into a classroom midyear isn’t easy, but the job was available, and I needed to make the change. I was ready to make the change.

  “I’ll grab him. Maybe take him out for a burger or something.” My dad’s warm chuckle wraps itself around me.

  This is why I moved here. To be closer to my parents. To have a good man in Jake’s life. And for help.

  After confirming the time and hearing a quick, “I love you,” from my father, I scroll through pictures on my phone. Deployments. Reunions. My life with Dallas.

  And my heart sits heavy in my chest.

  I miss him.

  Five years later, almost six, and it still hurts to think about all the things we didn’t get to do. All our hopes and dreams. If he’d lived, he’d be close to his twenty-year mark with the army. In my heart, I know Dallas would never consider retirement at first eligibility, but it would have been an option. A full career with time to do something new with his life, maybe enjoy some time together. Deployments are hard, weighing heavy on the framework of the family. Army life is not for the faint of heart.

  “Mrs. Triplett? I’m so sorry I’m late. There was a thing at my office and …” Mrs. Dempsey drops her bag to the floor and rifles through it, handing me a tissue. She sits on the edge of her chair, a knowing smile on her face, watching as I dab at the tears I didn’t notice were gathering on my cheeks. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I force a smile and reach across the desk to shake her hand. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was crying.”

  Her gaze drops to my desk, where a tear rests on the screen of my phone, magnifying Dallas’s easy grin. Sadness, pity, or maybe something almost like understanding clouds her eyes. “How long has it been?” she asks in a soft voice.

  My mouth presses into a tight line. This is not the reason she’s here in my classroom. My display of emotion feels unprofessional. “Five, almost six years.”

  “Was he active duty? Did you lose him overseas?”

  My eyes well up again, and that kind of pisses me off, so I bat away the tears. “He was active, Special Forces. He was stateside, on his way home from the airport, and he stopped for coffee before our son’s kindergarten graduation. There was a robbery, two teenagers, and … he was stabbed and killed. He didn’t make it.”

  The words hurt, even now. The shock of that day, of hearing the news, of how I crumbled. The only things that kept me upright through that mess were the fact that Jake needed me and that I had the support of Jack and the rest of Dallas’s team. His brothers.

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  “Yeah, it sucked.” I force a smile and try to lighten things.

  This long after the fact, I thought I’d be better. Not necessarily over the loss of my husband, but certainly not having panic attacks in gas station convenience stores.

  Natalie Dempsey reaches across the desk and pats my hand. “It’s not easy to lose them, no matter how crazy the shit they put us through is. Jesus, the stories I could tell you, but that would require some wine. Maybe a lot of it.” She glances over her shoulder at the clock above the door and then back to me. “Do you have any other meetings tonight? Anywhere you need to be?”

  I purse my lips and shake my head. “Just chatting with you and then off to my parents’ house to pick up my son,” I tell her.

  She pushes her chair back and stands, throwing her purse over her shoulder. “Good. Let’s get out of here and grab a glass of wine. If nothing else, it’ll make my kid’s crappy math grades easier to handle.”

  I hesitate but only for a minute because since moving to Virginia from New York, I haven’t had a single night out. Not even a glass of wine with a friend. Hell, I haven’t really even made any friends here.

  With my voice low—because I’m pretty sure the school district wouldn’t be cool with this form of parent meeting—I agree, saying, “So much easier.” I backpedal when I see concern flashing across Mrs. Dempsey’s face. “Oh my God, that’s not how I meant for that to come out. Shane will be fine, but wine is never a bad idea.”

  Somehow, between getting caught crying in my classroom and then implying her kid was a terrible student, Natalie Dempsey and I became friends. We leave formality behind us and climb into our cars to discuss Shane and his math grades over wine at her house.

  I follow Natalie as she winds through town, turning into the driveway of a lovely house right on the beach. Since I don’t want to block anyone in, I park on the street between an SUV and
a pretty, classic green pickup truck. The polished dark wooden side rails call attention to the beautiful restoration work. This truck is someone’s pride and joy.

  I follow Natalie inside the quiet house, where she pauses just long enough to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and two long-stem glasses.

  Natalie leads me out on to her deck overlooking the ocean. It’s cool, almost cold, outside, but the setting sun dancing on the water and the low rumble of the waves make it so there is no place I’d rather be.

  “You pour, and I’ll go grab us some snacks,” Natalie says, handing me glasses and the wine bottle. “I have a feeling I’m going to need sustenance to get through the bad news.”

  She slips through the sliding glass door, and I set up our drinks.

  It’s comfortable out here on the deck. Waves rumble softly in the distance, and saltwater scents the air. I wonder where everyone is. With all those cars out front, it looked like there should be people here.

  Natalie returns a few minutes later with a cutting board piled high with cheese, crackers, a variety of sausages and meats, and a pile of grapes.

  My stomach growls at the sight, and I lean forward in my seat to pluck a piece of prosciutto and some cheese from the board.

  With her glass clutched between her palms, Natalie rests against the railing and surveys the beach before pausing on a group of guys throwing a ball. “Okay. Looks like they’re good for a minute. How underwater on his grades is Shane? Are we looking at summer school? Is he going to get held back?” She scoots between two patio chairs and lowers halfway down before standing again. “He’s not going to graduate, is he?”

  A laugh huffs its way out of me. “Not necessarily. He can pull his grade up easy enough, but he needs to actually do the work and practice the problems, and then the tests will be a piece of cake.”

  She quirks a brow at me, finally taking her seat.