Air Force Hero

by Weston Parker

  His commentary cleared my bar out in less than eight minutes.

  * * *

  “Where’d all your paying folk go, babe?” Brett asked, splaying his hands flat on the bar as the last few people slipped out of the bar shortly before eleven thirty.

  Rosie glanced up and rolled her eyes as she finished sweeping behind the bar. I took my apron off and looked Brett in the eyes. “The bar is closed. But most of them left because of you.”

  “Because of me?” he asked, feigning innocence and pressing a hand to his chest. “What did I do that made them all piss off early on you?”

  I put my hands on my hips and arched an eyebrow involuntarily. “Brett, seriously? You can’t show up hear totally plastered and think my customers will want to stick around. This isn’t that kind of place. People come here to have a few casual drinks with friends. They’re not looking to get shitfaced.”

  “Then they don’t sound like the kind of people worth having around here, babe.” He swayed around on his stool and slumped forward, cupping his cheeks in his hands. “They sound like cheap bastards. Guys like me spend money in a place like this. That’s what you need more of.”

  If there were more men like Brett in my bar, he’d never let me come to work out of insane jealousy. There was no point in saying that out loud. “This is my dad’s place. He doesn’t want the pub to turn into a rowdy hang out. It’s casual and simple. And I want to keep it that way.”

  “Boring.” Brett waved his hand and then slid forward farther along the bar. He was minutes from passing out. All around his eyes had turned a bright pink and so had his nose.

  “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” I said.

  “Why? It’s already sorted. You’re just making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “Like I said. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  Brett muttered something unintelligible under his breath and laid his hands down flat on the bar. He rested his cheek upon the back of his hand and closed his eyes. His breathing evened out, and he passed out on my bar.

  How fucking humiliating.

  Rosie didn’t say anything as we continued cleaning up. I was insanely grateful for that. I didn’t think I could endure a conversation about how bad he was for me right now. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  When we were done, I shook Brett awake. He came to, slung an arm over my shoulder, and stumbled along beside me until we got to the truck. I helped him climb into the passenger side, where he promptly tilted his head back against the headrest and passed out again. I walked around the hood, got behind the wheel, and drove us straight home with the radio playing soft country rock. Brett began to snore softly when we were five minutes from home.

  After I parked in the driveway, I went around and opened his door. I shook him gently, but he didn’t stir.

  “Really, Brett? How much did you drink for crying out loud?” I shook him more vigorously until he came to with a grunt.

  He wiped the saliva from the corners of his mouth and stumbled out of the truck, clutching at my shoulders to stay on his feet. I steadied him by the elbows and kicked the passenger door closed and then walked him to the front door. Once again, he had forgotten to turn on the light, so I fumbled in the dark to get my key in the lock.

  “Hurry up,” Brett grumbled. “I’m fucking tired.”

  “I’m trying, but I can’t see. If you’d turned the light on, it wouldn’t be—”

  “Oh, whatever,” he said, pushing himself up off my shoulders to lean against the side of the house instead. “What’s with you and this damn light?”

  “Forget it.”

  I got the door open, and he pushed his way inside ahead of me. I took off my shoes, and he started down the hall. As I closed and locked the front door and flicked on the outside light to deter anyone who might want to poke around the property, he turned back to me and mumbled my name.

  “What?” I asked, facing him and pressing my shoulder blades to the door.

  “Are you mad at me, baby?”

  Yes. I’m always mad at you. “No.”

  “You sure?” He came back to me and took my hands to rub his thumbs over the backs of them. “You seem upset.”

  “No, Brett. I’m just tired. I had a long shift.”

  “Then come to bed with me. I can make you feel better.”

  The thought of Brett crushing me on our bed with his weight as he tried to fuck me was not an appealing one. “You go lie down. I need to make something to eat quickly. I’m starving.”

  “Okay, baby. Don’t take too long. The kid’s gone. We have the place to ourselves.” Brett kissed me, and I stood still in his grasp. His tongue slipped between my lips, and I was overwhelmed by the taste of beer. He slapped my ass before turning and heading to the bedroom.

  When I walked by the open door, he was facedown in the middle of the bed, splayed wide like a starfish. His snoring started before I even reached the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

  I stood with my back to the sink and drank. I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was quite full from the fries and pickles, but lying down with him made me feel uneasy, ill. He repulsed me when he was drunk.

  I pulled extra pillows and blankets from the hallway closet and brought them to the couch before brushing my teeth and hair and changing into my sleeping shirt and a pair of booty shorts. I climbed under the blankets on the sofa and laid on my side, curling in on myself as my ears were assaulted by Brett’s loudening snores in the bedroom.

  I wondered dimly what things would be like without him.

  That thought brought me down an agonizing road of “what ifs.” What if I had someone who showed up to my work and partook in the fun with me and my customers? What if I had someone who made me feel worthy of love? What if I had someone who left the front light on for me?

  I sighed and nuzzled my cheek deeper into my pillow.

  What if I was with Zach instead of Brett? Would things be different?

  Would things be better?

  13

  Zach

  The plate of lasagna my mother put in front of me was the largest serving of food I’d ever laid eyes on, and I’d seen some seriously massive portions, being in military school.

  “Do you want milk with it, Zach?” my mother asked as she bustled from the kitchen table to the fridge.

  “No, thanks,” I said, still trying to fathom how I was going to eat all the pasta on my plate. “Water is fine.”

  She brought me a glass of water without ice, as she knew I liked it, and took her seat by my side. She took my hand, bowed her head, and said her silent prayers. She gave my fingers a squeeze to let me know she was finished and then picked up her cutlery to dig into her meal.

  My first bite was heavenly, as I had expected it to be. My mother was an exceptional cook. She always had been. But she was used to making enough food for her and my father and leftovers. A whole casserole dish was a lot of food for an older woman living alone, even if her son was there to help finish it.

  “It’s delicious, Ma,” I said after plowing through my first few bites and washing it down with a big gulp of water.

  My mother dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her floral-patterned napkin and smiled. “I’m glad you like it. It’s been a while since I made it. I was afraid it might turn out too dry. Your father was always disappointed when it was too dry.” She pushed a couple of pieces of lasagna around on her plate.

  “Do you have any other boxes left to unpack? I can help after we eat.” I suggested it in an effort to switch topics.

  “There are some in the bedroom, yes. And then only a few more back at the house, along with the old furniture that won’t fit in here. You’re welcome to take some of it for your new place. I’m sure you could use a sofa and kitchen table.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of food and nodded. “Sure. Be nice to keep it all in the family, right?”

  My mother smiled tightly and nodded. “I thought so, too. Your father adored the dining room set
in the formal dining room.”

  “I know.”

  “He’d be glad for you to have it,” she said, reaching over to rest her hand on my wrist. Her eyes were sad again. Even though she was smiling, I could see right through her. Talking about him cut her deeply, and these last few days of going through his things had been hard on her. She was speaking for herself, not for him. She was the one who was glad not to be getting rid of items that were precious keepsakes to her, not to him. He was dead. My keeping the table or not wouldn’t offend him.

  My mother put her knife and fork down and leaned back in her chair. She stared at her plate for a moment and blinked a few times to clear her eyes, which were growing wet. “It creeps up on me sometimes,” she whispered.

  I didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. I already knew. My father’s death crept up on me too, mostly when I was alone, and knocked down all my well-placed defenses. “I know, Ma. It’s all right to miss him. It’s all right to hurt.”

  She dabbed at the corners of her eyes and nodded once. “Of course it is.”

  “I have good news,” I said, hoping to pull her thoughts toward something positive. She looked up at me with hopeful eyes. “I got the call this morning that my application for the Humanitarian Assignment was accepted. I start in two weeks. Which means I have plenty of time to help you finish getting settled before I lose some of my free time.”

  “Oh, Zach, that’s great news!” The tight lines around her mouth softened, and her eyes brightened. “I didn’t have any doubt that you’d get the job.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” I chuckled.

  The rest of the meal was shared in comfortable quiet. My mother was content with her thoughts, and I was more than willing to sit silently while I packed myself full to maximum capacity with lasagna. I was going to suffer for it in the morning—or the middle of the night. I’d have to stop and get something in case heartburn struck at the most inopportune time.

  After dinner, I cleared the table and cleaned the few dishes left in the sink, along with our plates and cutlery. My mother busied herself with boiling the kettle for some tea, as per her nightly ritual that she’d been committed to ever since I could remember. As a little boy, I’d sit in the living room with her, and we’d both have tea while she read me a book. It was a tradition close to my heart. Memories like those were treasured when I was off in the military, missing home, missing my mother and father.

  I set to pulling the boxes out of my mother’s room as the tea steeped and cut them open. They were full of random things like pots and pans and candles, and I unpacked it all while she stirred the milk and sugar into our teacups. Then she called me over to sit on the couch with her.

  She sat in one corner, one leg tucked under herself, and I sat in the other. She stared into her teacup, that same sadness taking up residence in her eyes again.

  I had to get her talking about something that would hold her attention for longer than a minute. It was my job as her son.

  “So,” I said, putting my teacup down on the coffee table, “guess who I ran into the other night when I went to see Ryan?”

  My mother glanced up. It was obvious I’d just pulled her from a train of deep thought. “Who?” she asked, her head tilting slightly to one side with curiosity.

  “Josephine Hart.”

  “Ryan’s sister? My goodness, I haven’t seen the girl in ages. Probably since you left after high school. Maybe once or twice in the supermarket, but besides that... How is she?”

  “She’s good, I think,” I said with a small shrug. “Looks like she’s preparing to take over her dad’s bar. She’s working behind the bar there right now.”

  “I thought she joined the Coast Guard?”

  “She did, but she got out a few years back I guess. I was a bit surprised to see her, to be honest. I thought she’d be out on the ocean for years still.”

  “Is she seeing someone?” my mother asked. Her forward question caught me off guard, and I started laughing as my mother arched a skeptical eyebrow. “What? I was asking a serious question. She’s a smart young woman. Always has been.”

  “Yes, she is smart. And yes, she’s seeing someone.”

  My mother clicked her tongue. “Shame.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  My mother sipped her tea, and her pinky finger extended outward. When she was satisfied, she leaned forward to put her cup down and then twisted around slightly on the sofa to face me better. “Do you know him, too?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “But Ryan doesn’t like him. Says he’s a real piece of work.”

  “Does he hurt her?” My mother’s tone sharpened.

  “Ryan says he doesn’t.”

  My mother nodded slowly and ran her fingers over the seam up the side of her lilac colored pants. “So you like her?”

  I nodded and shrugged at the same time. I was bad at admitting how I felt about anything, let alone anyone.

  “Do the two of you have history I don’t know about?”

  “Maybe a bit.”

  My mother didn’t pry. Instead, she gave me a knowing smile and looked up at the wedding picture on the mantle. “You know, I was with another man when I met your father.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, resting an arm across the back of the sofa and crossing my ankle over my knee. “For how long?”

  “I’d been seeing the other man, Roger, for almost a year. Our parents were friends, and our relationship was under a spotlight. We were expected to marry, but when your father came into the picture, there had yet to be an engagement.” She smiled to herself as if remembering a fond memory. “Roger was a nice young man. He was polite and generous and earned a decent living where he worked at the auto dealer. But when your dad came into the bar that night,” my mother giggled like a young girl, “all bets were off.”

  “Poor Roger,” I teased.

  “Poor Roger, indeed. I tried to do right by him and ignore the handsome young stranger who continuously popped up wherever I was. I worked at the ice cream parlor down James Boulevard, and your father would come in almost every day to order a scoop of chocolate in a cup. He hated the cones. And every time he came in, he’d leave me hot and bothered.”

  “Ma,” I scolded. “Spare me the details.”

  “But the details are the best part.” She winked. We both shared a laugh, and she continued her story. “One night, it was raining really heavy. Roger was supposed to come pick me up from work and take me to a movie, but he called the parlor and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. I was left having to find my own way home in a torrential downpour. Lo and behold, your father was there. He always told me he hung around, just waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in. In his eyes, Roger handed it to him on a silver platter. He drove me home that night—well, intended to drive me home. We never made it there. And the rest was history.”

  “Poor Roger.” I grinned again.

  My mother nodded and sighed. “He shouldn’t have left his girl to fend for herself on a night like that. Your father never put me in a position like that. He was mine, and I was his from that night forward.”

  I watched my mother as she reached for her teacup and finished the remaining couple mouthfuls, which were probably cold by now. She had a twinkle in her eyes at the fondness of the memories, and I was happy we’d managed to bring her thoughts to a happy place. “So,” I said. “Is there a message in all this you’re trying to tell me?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course there is. Sometimes, you have to be patient, and you have to keep fighting for what you want. You just have to decide if she’s worth it. If you’re not willing to put in the work, then you have to walk away. It isn’t fair to anyone to continue walking down the middle of the road, unable to choose a side.”

  “My mother, the wise fairy godmother.”

  “If you think I’m wise, does that mean you’re going to follow in your father’s footsteps?”

  I thought of Jo and the way that asshole had grabbed her wh
en he was sitting behind the wheel of the truck. I remembered the tightness of her expression and the way she held herself, like she was ready to flee at any moment.

  Was I willing to wait for a woman like her? Hell yeah. Especially if it meant saving her from a loser like Brett.

  “Of course, I’m going to follow in his footsteps, Ma. Look how well it worked out for him.”

  14

  Josephine

  I blew loose strands of hair away from my face and planted my hands on my hips. The pub was quiet, and I was taking advantage of the spare time to restock the liquor shelves behind my bar. They had been in complete disarray when I came in to start my shift, and working with all your liquor scattered haphazardly on the back wall was no way to be productive. My whiskeys were mixed with my vodkas, and the chaos made a little voice in the back of my head shriek at a terribly annoying pitch.

  Must. Organize.

  I glanced down at the box by my feet, filled with rum and bourbon. I pushed it up against the back wall with my shins and then stepped onto the step stool to begin rearranging the liquor already on the shelves. As I was turning all the labels to face outward, a familiar, deep, sexy male voice spoke my name.

  “Jo, you need a hand with that?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and down. Zach was standing with his elbows resting on my bar. He was looking up at me, his eyes hooded beneath his dark brows, a smile touching the corners of his lips.

  I brushed more hair off my face. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.” I hopped down off the stool and grabbed him a bottle of beer. I waggled it back and forth, and he nodded, so I popped the cap off for him and passed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said before tipping his head back to take a sip.