Strong Hearts

by Maddy Barone

  “No.” He moved into the apartment and sat gingerly on the couch. “Just a little disagreement over the war in Iraq.”

  She knelt in front of him, trying to get a good look at his face. “Your nose must be broken. And you’re going to have two black eyes. And you’re moving too carefully.” Under the T-shirt she could see the bulk of a wrap. “Broken ribs?”

  “A couple.” He shifted his weight, not quite hiding a wince. “We’re not gonna make the movie. Sorry.”

  She stood up. “You should be home.”

  He looked up at her, looking utterly miserable. “Wanted to see you.”

  Disgust warred with worry inside Denise. “Okay. Can you drive home? I’ll follow you in my car.”

  With great care, Brutus got himself into his truck and Denise drove behind him to his house. All the way over, she fumed. Another fight. She had known him only two months, and this was the third fight she knew about. Well, the third he’d admitted to. He had shown up a couple of times with bruises that he attributed to on the job injuries. Why would he lie about it? But doubt niggled at her. They were going to talk about this now. She had allowed him to wave her off and make a joke out of his previous bruises, but this was more than just bruises.

  She got him settled in bed against a mountain of pillows with an ice pack over his eyes before she pulled a chair up beside the bed.

  “Geez, Dee.” He lifted the ice pack to look at her. “You can sit on the bed. I’m not broken.”

  She shook her head and moved the ice pack back over his eyes. “We need to talk.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like, “Here it comes.”

  “Brutus, I hate it when you fight.” She held up a hand when he moved the ice pack again to peek at her. “You keep that on for the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Brutie, don’t joke about this. In fact, don’t say anything until I’m done. You always say the fights are nothing, just blowing off a little steam. But this isn’t blowing off steam. A broken nose, two broken ribs? No, Brutus.”

  “Dee, it’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

  “That’s what I mean!” A little embarrassed by her shout, she cleared her throat. “So far, you haven’t been seriously hurt or seriously hurt anyone else. But if you keep fighting, how long can that last? How long before you send someone to the hospital? Before you are hurt so badly that…” Her voice broke. “Brutus, I can’t bear it.”

  He tossed the ice pack aside and reached for her hand. “Aw, Dee. I can handle myself. It’s okay.”

  “This time it’s okay.” She gripped his hand in both of hers. He winced slightly, so she opened her fingers to look at his raw knuckles. “Next time, who knows? Why do you fight so much?”

  “Everybody fights. It’s just for fun.”

  “Fun? Fuck that.” She surged up and paced away from the shocked look on his face. She struggled to control herself before turning back. “Look, Iraq screwed a lot of us up. If we are going anywhere as a couple, we have to get this figured out. I think you need to talk to someone.”

  Shock flattened into a scowl. “Talk?”

  “Yeah, talk to someone who can help you deal with stress.”

  His mouth pressed into a flat line. “A shrink? You want me to talk to a shrink?”

  “Not a shrink. Someone like Colonel Flowers. He’s the chaplain with the Guard.”

  “A chaplain? Are you off your rocker?”

  Denise took a deep breath and sat down again. “He’s good. He did two tours in Iraq himself, so he knows what it’s like.”

  “No. I’m not talking to some holy roller, and I’m sure as hell not talking to a shrink.”

  “Okay.” She took his hand. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. Brutus, I’m just scared that you’ll get hurt or hurt someone else. Every time I see a bruise on you, I worry. It scares me to see that you’ve been fighting.” She tried to blink hot tears back. “It makes me sick. I care about you too much to be able to live with that fear.”

  Brutus lifted his head from the pillow to look at her. “Aw, Dee, don’t cry. I can’t take it when you do that.”

  She sniffled. “Sorry.”

  He pulled himself laboriously to a sitting position. “Sweetheart, if it will make you feel better, I’ll stop fighting.”

  “Will you?”

  He pulled her hand to his lips to kiss. “For you, I would do anything. You have my word, I won’t fight anymore.”

  “Will you talk to someone? Maybe Dusty?”

  He sighed. “Okay, sure. I’ll talk to someone.”

  Chapter Nine

  Brutus carefully stretched, taking care to not put strain on his broken ribs. He signed off on the maintenance checks and nodded at Wolfe. “The bus looks good.”

  “Yep.” Wolfe gave the hood of their ambulance an affectionate pat. “Let’s turn this paperwork in and go on break.”

  They left the garage and entered the station house. Captain Stewart stepped into the hall and fixed Brutus with a hard stare. “My office,” he said.

  Brutus’s heart sank, but he nodded.

  “Catch you in the lounge,” Wolfe said, keeping almost all his pity from his voice.

  Brutus nodded again and followed the captain to his office.

  “Close the door,” the captain said, settling into his chair behind his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Brutus sat straight, his hands palm down on his knees, and waited for the lecture.

  The captain started out mildly. “This is your first day back on the job for a week. How’s it going?”

  “Good.”

  Stewart nodded, seeming to examine Brutus’s facial injuries. “According to the medicals, you are restricted to light duty for at least another week due to broken ribs.”

  Evidently, he wanted an answer. “Yes, sir,” Brutus said.

  “Broken ribs sustained not in the line of duty.” The mildness was wearing away. The captain didn’t raise his voice, but it gained a razor-sharp edge. “No, you were injured in a barroom brawl.” Stewart drummed his fingers on his desk. “I can’t have my people down for stupid reasons like that. You’re not riding a desk in some advertising agency’s office. You know the people of Dallas depend on us to help them in emergencies.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This has been a recurring issue. This is the first time a fight has prevented you from carrying out your duties, but you’ve come in multiple times with bruises and lacerations. I want it to stop.”

  Brutus swallowed, but the captain went on before he could speak.

  “I’m recommending you see the department’s counselor.”

  Brutus’s stomach sank down to his shoes and them flung itself up to his throat. “Sir,” he began, but Stewart help up his hand.

  “Hear me out, Gunnison. You are one of my top people, but you are worthless to me if I can’t depend on you. You need to speak to a professional to get a handle on your temper. If not the department’s counselor, then your clergyman, if you have one.”

  “My girlfriend agrees.” Brutus swallowed heavily. “We discussed this. She suggested I see a military chaplain.”

  Stewart nodded brusquely. “Good enough. Get it done, Gunnison. If this happens again, you may be looking for another job. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brutus felt strangely hollow when he entered the lounge. Wolfe sat at one of the small tables in the corner, an advanced game of solitaire spread in front of him. Brutus headed toward him, but detoured to grab a cup of coffee before joining his buddy.

  Wolfe looked up with one eyebrow raised when Brutus took the opposite chair. “So, how did that go?”

  “It sucked. The captain is royally pissed.”

  Wolfe flipped a card over and grunted. “Can’t blame him.”

  Brutus put his coffee on the table with more force than he’d intended. “Listen, Wolfe, I don’t need crap from you too.”

  “Sorry.” Wolfe collected the cards and
began shuffling. “Poker?”

  “Sure.”

  While his buddy shuffled and dealt, Brutus got up and fetched a bowl of pretzels, their traditional betting currency. He looked his cards over and discarded two. “I’ll take two.”

  Wolfe passed him a couple of cards. “Your eyes are looking, uh, even more colorful today.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  It was true. In the past week his eyes had gone from black and blue to purple and red. His nose was almost normal now, so he was on the mend. Carrying any heavy weight was impossible with his ribs, though, so he was still on light duty.

  “It’s not your best look. You gonna fold?”

  “No.” He tossed a couple of pretzels on the table. “I’m in.”

  They played in silence for several minutes before Wolfe spoke. “How long are you on the bench?”

  Brutus immediately regretted the shrug. “Another week.”

  “What exactly did the captain say?”

  “If it happens again I’m canned.”

  “Damn.”

  Brutus forced himself to relax his grip on his cards. “I know. And he wants me to see a shrink.”

  Wolfe’s eyes said he knew how Brutus felt about that, but mercifully he didn’t comment on the shrink. “Maybe you should ease up on the fighting.”

  “I already promised Dee I would.”

  “That’s good.” Wolfe added a few more pretzels to the pile. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been worried about you.”

  Brutus rolled his eyes and hissed at the pain. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, mom.”

  Wolfe chuckled. “Okay, son.”

  Brutus lost that hand, won the next, and came out two pretzels ahead. “Dee means that much to me. I’ll quit fighting if it makes her happy. Hell, I think I might love her.”

  “You sound like a man facing a firing squad. I thought being in love was supposed to make a man happy.”

  Brutus snorted, and winced. “Real funny, Wolfe.”

  Wolfe gathered up his winnings, popping one pretzel into his mouth, before dealing the next hand. “Yeah, I’m a comedian. So, you going to see someone?”

  Brutus hunched over his cards. “I’ll think about it.”

  He did think about it. Once he was home after his shift, he got online and looked up Colonel Flowers. He held his phone for long minutes, staring at the screen before, slowly, reluctantly, tapping the number listed. It rang. It rang again. Brutus stroked Rowdy’s head. A woman answered.

  “Hello,” she said cheerily. “Flowers residence.”

  Brutus froze, hand clamped over one of Rowdy’s ears.

  “Hello?” said the woman again.

  It was a struggle to breathe. Rowdy’s whine jerked him out of his funk. He let go of Rowdy and hung up. He sat for a minute, panting for breath. He was not a coward. He just didn’t want to talk to some stranger who would try to drag all the most horrible memories of Iraq out of him. It wasn’t necessary. As long as he kept out of bars, he would be alright.

  Denise thought everyone could be fixed by talking to a shrink. Well, sure, that’s what she was going to school for. But he didn’t need to be fixed. He just needed to make a couple minor changes to his life and it would be good.

  Over the next few weeks, Brutus was careful to avoid any situation that would put him in a position where he would fight. The only bar he went to was Billie’s, and only with Denise. It worked--he didn’t get in another fight. Denise was happy, so he was happy. Mostly. The only problem he had was that he was having symptoms that were worryingly like withdrawal. His hands had an annoying tendency tremble at odd times. He was restless and couldn’t focus, even when doing things he enjoyed. If Denise wasn’t with him, he couldn’t sleep. His temper frayed to the point that he snapped at Wolfe and even Denise. He’d never heard that fighting could be an addiction. Alcohol, yeah. cigarettes, sure. Drugs, absolutely. Well, Brutus told himself stoutly, even if fighting was an addiction, he could beat it. He just had to stick it out.

  One night after they had made love, Denise asked if he had contacted Colonel Flowers.

  “I called him,” he replied truthfully, and hurried to head off further questions . “Have you heard anything definite about when Stella’s dad is coming?”

  “He’s flying in on the night before Thanksgiving. I’m leaving for home that afternoon.” She tucked her head on his shoulder. “With any luck he’ll be gone before I have to come back to Dallas for work.”

  “How much do you know about him?”

  “More than I need to.” She seemed to regret her harsh tone. “I got most of the details I know from my uncles. Mom never said much, just that he lied to her right from the start. Uncle Rob said the asshole never actually said he wasn’t married, but since they were having sex, Mom just figured he was single. She fell hard for him. She fell so hard that she didn’t even notice all the little signs that he was a liar.” She pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “I’m glad I have you.”

  Heat crept up Brutus’s face. “I’m not perfect,” he warned her.

  “No, I don’t suppose anyone is. But you told me almost three weeks ago that you wouldn’t fight anymore, and I haven’t seen a new bruise on you since.” She kissed him again. “You’re not like the asshole. I can trust you.”

  Feeling like a heel, he kissed her back.

  Everything was going great until the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. After a shift that had gone too long because of an accident that left a little boy with a crushed spinal column, Brutus couldn’t face going home. That poor kid would probably never walk again, and there was nothing he could do about it. Denise was in class, and then she had to work, so he couldn’t go to her for comfort. Wolfe thumped a fist into his shoulder.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The eagerness that leaped inside of Brutus shocked him. A month ago, he would have gone out and found a fight. His promise to Denise barely leashed the wild need to vent the anger clawing at his insides.

  “Sure. Billie’s?” It was late afternoon, so only the regulars would be there, people like Dale Greenway, who wouldn’t piss him off.

  Wolfe gave him a thumbs up. “Meet you there.”

  Billie’s was quiet, with half a dozen guys at the bar, a few more shooting pool in the back, and a trio of older ladies at a table. Big Joe was tending bar when Brutus and Wolfe came in. He got them a couple of beers, and they headed back to one of the pool tables. One of the other pool players was that mouthy little bastard he had tangled with the first night he’d seen Denise. What stupid name did he call himself? Slim Jim. Right. Brutus firmly turned his back on him and let Wolfe rack up.

  They played the first game in companionable near-silence. They spoke only to call a shot or rib each other over a miss. Brutus felt the muscles in his shoulders start to unkink. He lost the first game by a mile, and looked to lose the second game too, so he tipped his bottle to his lips, drank, and as Wolfe lined up his shot, he drawled in the most annoying voice he could muster. “So, you found another girlfriend yet?”

  His attempt at distraction didn’t work. Wolfe sank his ball and straightened from the table with one eyebrow hooked up. “I’ve met a couple women. I’ll be seeing Shawnda again after Thanksgiving.”

  Brutus watched him bend to line up his next shot. “So, who’s Shawnda? Another model? An actress?”

  “She’s last year’s the third runner up to Miss Texas.”

  “Well, hell.” Brutus marveled at his buddy’s luck with women. “A beauty queen. Can you beat that?”

  Finally, Wolfe missed a shot. It didn’t seem to bother him. Just as Brutus was about to tap the cue ball with his cue, Wolfe asked, “Would you trade Denise for Miss Texas?”

  Damn it. Brutus watched his ball spin off the bumper nowhere near the pocket. “Miss Texas? Hell, no. Denise is the one for me.” He shifted his weight. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  A huge grin split Wolfe’s face. “That’s fantastic. Congrats.” Wolfe
jabbed a punch to his upper arm that Brutus barely felt. “You’re the lucky one, Gunnison. You managed to find the perfect woman, and you weren’t even looking.”

  “I was lucky, all right. I don’t deserve her. Denise is …” He fumbled for the right word. “She’s fun, and she loves baseball, and she works hard, and she … She…”

  “She’s the right one. She cares about you in a way that no other woman ever will.” There was an oddly wistful tone in Wolfe’s voice. “Some of us spend our whole lives looking without ever finding the right one.”

  Discomfort inched up Brutus’s spine. “You’ll find the right one someday.” He waved at the table. “Your shot.”

  He stepped back to give Wolfe some room and bumped into another body. He half-turned, saying automatically, “Excuse me.”

  It was the rat bastard. He stared at Brutus with his eyebrows pulled low, but Brutus turned back to watch Wolfe call his shot. Fingers jabbed into his side.

  “Hey,” the bastard said loudly. “You stepped on my toes.”

  Something hot and eager glided through Brutus’s veins. He took a careful breath and let it out. “Sorry,” he said, and moved a couple of steps away.

  The kid followed him. “I said you stepped on my toes.”

  Brutus stopped, all two hundred and forty pounds of him fighting for control. “And I said I was sorry,” he snapped.

  Wolfe abandoned his shot to come around the table. He came to Slim Jim’s side with a friendly smile. “My buddy can sure be like a bull in a china shop,” he said sympathetically. “But no harm done, right? Go finish your game.”

  It looked like the kid would, and Brutus let out a relieved breath. “Thanks, Wolfe. Denise would sure be disappointed in me if I broke my promise not to fight.”

  Slim Jim swung back around, a sneer pulling the corner of his mouth up to show off yellow teeth. “Denise? Is that the chick I’ve seen you with in here? The brown-haired bitch with the flat tits?”

  Brutus’s hand clenched, white-knuckled, on his pool cue. He tried to sound polite, but his voice strained through tight teeth, not sounding as courteous as he’d intended. “That was a private conversation.” He turned his head to Wolfe. “I think we better leave.”