More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5)

by Jay McLean

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he barks.

  I shut my eyes, searching for strength. Searching for calm.

  “What do you want from me, Riley?” His voice is loud. So loud it echoes off the walls. He grasps my shoulders, my eyes snapping open at his harsh touch. He spins me around, forcing me to face him. He stares down at me and slowly, the scowl fades and his grip loosens along with his shoulders.

  He licks his lips, his eyes on mine. I watch the rise and fall of his chest as his head dips, his nose brushing against mine and I release a sob I’d been holding since I walked into the room. “Is this what you want?” he whispers, his hands moving from my shoulders, down my side and to my waist. His touch is soft, giving me the calm I’d been dying for. He presses his lips, soft and wet against mine, catching my bottom lip between his. I melt into him, into his touch, into his arms, into the single moment of affection I’d been searching for. His lips part, his tongue sliding across mine as he pushes into me. His hands are on my neck now, holding me to him as he strokes my jaw with his thumb. “Is it?” he asks.

  I tilt my head up, my mouth desperate for the kiss. “I want you,” I tell him, my palms flat on his bare chest, moving lower and lower. I finger the band of his boxers, his mouth hungry against mine. Then I reach beneath the fabric like I’d done so many times before. Only this time, it’s different.

  He’s not turned on. Not even the slightest.

  His muscles tense, his hands on my neck releasing me quickly.

  My eyes snap open and land on his. Eyes locked—his with anger, mine with fear.

  It is me.

  “Fucking shit!” he yells.

  “It’s not a big deal.” I try to calm him down. “It’s—I’m—you probably have a lot on your mind, baby.” I grasp his face, watching the anger ignite… from his eyes to the rest of his body.

  “Fuck!” he shouts, raising his fist.

  I cower, my eyes squeezing shut, right before a gust of air hits the side of my face and the sound of shattering glass fills my ears.

  I gasp for breath, my tears instant.

  Bacon barks.

  The bedroom door opens, slamming against the wall behind it.

  Dylan pushes my hands away just as Conway and Leroy appear in the bathroom doorway.

  I grip my towel tight, my eyes wide and on the floor. My heart, my poor, erratically beating heart…

  I cover my mouth, muffling my cry.

  “Are you okay, Riley?” Conway says.

  I look up at him… my entire body shaking with fear. “I’m fine,” I manage to get out. “It was just an accident.”

  He nods before looking at Dylan. “Dude. Maybe—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Dylan storms out, roughly pushing him out of the way. He puts on pants and shoes and nothing else and a second later, a door slams shut and his truck roars to life. His tires screech, and what follows is a sound I’ve come to fear.

  Silence.

  All but for our heavy breaths, mixed in the tiny room.

  “He’s been through a lot,” Leroy tries to reason.

  “I just need to be alone.”

  Conway pushes Leroy out of the room and away from me. “We’ll be out here if you need anything.”

  After dressing quickly, I find tape in one of the kitchen drawers and use it to keep the broken pieces of the mirror in place. Then I clean up the mess on the bathroom counter and floor. When I get back out, Leroy and Conway are tidying the living room of the mess they’d made earlier. I find myself cleaning up after them. The living room, the kitchen, the guest bathroom, and the fridge because apparently cleaning is my replacement for drinking.

  “My mom cleans when she’s upset,” Conway says, leaning on the counter next to the sink as I wash the dishes.

  “I’m not upset,” I tell him.

  “Leroy and I were talkin’. We thought maybe we could take Dylan to a hotel or something, just for the night—”

  “What?” I ask, my fear turning to confusion. “Why would you do that?”

  “Just to give you space, Riley. For him to find—”

  “But this is his home,” I whimper, patting my chest with my wet hand. “I’m his home.”

  Conway doesn’t seem to believe me.

  And neither do I.

  He pats my shoulders as he walks past. “Good night, Riley. Thank you for everything.”

  I wait until he’s gone before opening the fridge and grabbing a beer.

  Just one, I tell myself.

  I need it to dull the ache.

  Dylan returns a few hours later, his entire frame freezing when he sees me sitting in the middle of the bed staring at the unopened bottle of beer.

  I couldn’t do it—not after everything we’d been through to get me here.

  I can feel him approach, but I don’t take my eyes off my temptation. He leans over the bed, grabs the beer and takes it away. “I went for a drive,” he says, walking out of the bedroom. I hear the fridge door open and close and his footsteps returning. He sits on the bed, right in front of me, legs crossed just like mine, but I’m too afraid to look at him. “It wasn’t the same without you, Ry.” He takes one of my hands in his, the other going to my chin, forcing me to face him. The anger in his eyes is no longer there. Now replaced with sympathy and regret. I wish I could believe him. “I missed you riding in my truck, sitting in the middle of the seat like you always do.” The corners of his mouth lift as he wipes my tears, adding, “I had nowhere to put my hand.”

  I ignore how his touch makes me feel, how his words seem to remove the effects of his actions. “Dylan, you can’t just do what you did, then come back and act like it never happened,” I say, the shakiness of my voice defying the strength I needed to fake.

  He just stares at me, all emotion wiped from his features.

  “Babe,” I beg. “You have to give me something here. I don’t know what happened.” I reach out to cup his face, but before I can even touch him, he pulls back.

  For a split second, the fury flames in his eyes again but it disappears as soon as he must see the hurt in mine. He studies me, for seconds that feel like minutes, he just looks at me. “I’d never hurt you, Riley,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He releases a single tear, letting it fall, bringing my defenses with it. “You know that, right?”

  “I know, baby.” I spring forward, my arms going around his neck, his going to my waist.

  We hold each other tight, finally succumbing to the exhaustion of our emotions.

  And I fall asleep in the safest, most dangerous way possible; in the arms of a boy I love, a boy I no longer know.

  Forty-Two

  Riley

  I wake up to the sounds of Dylan moving around the room, his footsteps heavy. The bed dips, causing me to open my eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, slipping on his shoes.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask, checking the time on my phone. It’s barely seven in the morning. We’d only been asleep for a few hours.

  After sighing loudly, he says. “Since you found it so necessary to tell Eric I was back, they want to see me.” He glances at me quickly. “You coming?”

  It’s hard not to feel the sharpness of every word spat, each one used to create a wound in my already shattered heart. My voice timid, I answer, “Do you want me to?”

  He shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. “It’d be pretty pathetic if I showed up without you, right?”

  I quickly get ready and fake another smile as he tells the guys we’ll be back and to make themselves at home—as if they weren’t already doing that. I take Bacon with us, because I don’t trust him with them, and we get in his truck and drive, me sitting in the middle—both his hands on the steering wheel. I’m glad he chose not to walk, because I don’t think I could handle all that silence.

  He turns to me as he puts the truck in park. I can tell he wants to say something and I’m almost positive of what it is. Keep faking it, Riley. So I do. I grasp
his hand as he opens the front door to the house and smile beside him like the perfect girlfriend I’m supposed to be, but inside… I’m slowly dying, and right now, all I can think about is running back to my room—not ours, but mine—and letting my emotions get lost in an entire bottle of wine. Or four. Because I miss everything we created in the four walls of that room when the darkness of my grief overshadowed everything else. Until he showed up.

  It doesn’t take long for everyone to fall into a natural routine after the initial greetings. We sit at the kitchen table—Bacon in his high chair—and we eat. Eric, Mal and Sydney talk. We listen. Occasionally they’ll ask something of us. We reply as best we can. Dylan takes my hand resting on the table and holds it in his.

  Keep faking it, Riley.

  “What happened to your hand?” Sydney asks, pointing to Dylan’s hand. I hadn’t even noticed the cuts and bruises until she mentioned it.

  Next to me, Dylan tenses. I cover his hand with mine, hiding the evidence, but it’s too late.

  “Did you get into a fight?” Eric asks him.

  “No,” Dylan snaps.

  Sydney stands up and gently moves my hand, inspecting the cuts. I let her. Because the alternative would’ve caused more problems. Or so I thought.

  “Is that glass?” she says, but it’s not a question.

  “Dylan?” Mal asks.

  He pulls his hand away and hides it under the table. “It’s fine.”

  “No it’s not, D. If it’s glass you need to get it taken out. Let me look at it.” Sydney’s waving her hand in front of him. “I’ve got a first aid kit. I can do it here.”

  And Dylan loses it. Really, truly, loses it. “I said it’s fine, Sydney! Leave it the fuck alone!”

  “Don’t fucking talk to her like that. She’s just trying to help you,” Eric yells. He’s on his feet now, walking around the table to Dylan. I look down at my plate, my heart hammering in my ears because I know what’s going to happen next. I can feel it.

  “Fuck this,” Dylan spits, standing so quickly his chair tips and falls to the floor. “I don’t fucking need this shit! I knew I shouldn’t have come here!”

  “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

  I cringe at the loudness of both their voices.

  “Fuck you, Eric!” Dylan roars.

  And I don’t see what happens next. I don’t want to. I shut my eyes and keep them that way. Even when I hear the scuffle go on next to me. Even when I feel a body press to my side. Even when Mal and Sydney’s screams become louder than the pulse pounding in my ears.

  “Enough!” Mal shouts so loud my ears ring.

  I finally open my eyes and lift my gaze. Eric’s on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets while Sydney attends to his bloody nose and cut lip. Dylan’s arms are being held back my Mal, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning with the same anger that created the cuts on his knuckles.

  Dylan shrugs out of his dad’s hold, his eyes still on Eric. “Let’s go, Riley,” he says, grabbing his keys from the table.

  I look back down at my plate and stay silent. I do nothing. I feel nothing.

  His voice is further away when he repeats his words, even angrier than he was.

  I cringe, but I don’t move.

  “Fuck this. You can fucking walk home!” He slams the front door and a second later, I hear his truck rev, tires screech, and then he’s gone.

  Slowly, I stand up and pick up Bacon from his seat, feeling the intensity of three sets of eyes on me.

  Eric gets up, going after me as I start to leave the room. “Riley,” he says, his hand on my arm freezing me to my spot.

  With a gentle touch I crave from his brother, he turns me to him. His head moves from side to side, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Riley, if Dylan is hurting you… I mean, physically…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He can’t. The thought itself is incomprehensible.

  I shake my head quickly, hoping it’s enough to convince him that Dylan’s not. And then I drop my gaze, because I don’t want him to see the fear in my eyes—the one that says that even though he’s not… yet… it doesn’t mean that I’m not terrified he will.

  “Sweetheart,” Mal says, “you’re always welcome to come here.”

  Sydney adds, “You can always call me, or us, any of us. Anytime. No matter what.”

  I bite my lip to stop the sob from escaping, but I can’t do the same with my tears. I force myself to look up at them. I want nothing more than to hug them, to kiss them, and to tell them how grateful I am that they’ve accepted me into their family. That they loved me like Dylan did… but I don’t. Because doing so would mean that I’m admitting it’s over. And it can’t be over.

  He’s only been back for two days.

  Two stupid days.

  Keep faking it, Riley.

  “Thank you for breakfast. I’ll see you soon.”

  Dylan’s sitting on the couch in the living room with his buddies when I get back home. I don’t speak to any of them. I simply go to my room, shower and get to work early.

  The work day goes by quickly, unfortunately, while I dodge the million text messages from Sydney asking if I’m okay. If I want to hang out after work. If I want to see a movie. If I want to have a good old fashioned slumber party. I don’t want any of those things. What I want is my fucking boyfriend back.

  I want it so badly that I do something I’ve never done before. Something so extreme and stupid. I go to the store, pick out a cupcake and a single candle. I light it in the car with Bacon on my lap. And just like I did the last two times I’d done this—I wish for Dylan.

  My Dylan.

  I don’t get my wish because the house is exactly the way it was the day before. It’s a fucking mess. Only now the place smells like beer—maybe because of all the empty bottles around the room—some on the floor, spilled over and soaking into our brand new carpets. They’re all facing the TV playing a car racing game on a PlayStation. A PlayStation we didn’t have yesterday.

  I greet them quickly and keep Bacon in my arms as I make my way into the kitchen. I make dinner for myself, happy they at least left me something, and eat alone in the bedroom, wishing for a moment that I’d taken up any one of Sydney’s offers. When I’m done, I go back out to the kitchen, ordering Bacon to sit and stay in his bed so I can start to clean the mess they’d created. I clear every surface I can see throughout the house, swiftly moving around their lazing bodies in the living room and trashing what I can. Three trash bags later, I roll up my sleeves and start on the dishes. I’ve started doing it by hand for some reason—maybe because I find it therapeutic. That’s when Dylan decides to walk in, leaning against the counter next to me, his arms crossed.

  I don’t speak.

  Speaking seems to make it worse.

  “I tried to use my bank card today. It got declined.”

  My shoulders tense. Not because I’d done anything wrong, but because of his accusatory tone. I don’t look at him. Just continue with the dishes. “I transfer your wage into the mortgage to offset the interest.”

  “So you don’t have to pay your share, you mean?”

  I push down the lump formed in my throat. “No, Dylan. I still pay the same amount. Half, sometimes more.”

  “Whatever,” he mumbles, pushing off the counter.

  I drop the plate in my hand and finally face him, trying to keep my emotions in check. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” I tell him. “We can still access the money in our mortgage. I just thought it would be good to—”

  “My mortgage, Riley. It’s my house.”

  My jaw drops, just slightly, my eyes instantly filling with tears.

  “Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pulling me into him. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

  He’s angry one minute. Sorry the next.

  Regretful one minute. Frustrated the next.

  He’s a million different emotions wrapped in irritability.

  “Did you hear me?” he asks q
uietly, holding me tighter. “Did you?” he asks again, a little louder, a little firmer.

  I glance at the fridge longing for the alcohol stocked inside.

  “Ry,” he says, trying to get my attention. “We’re going to take off. Head back to base.”

  I switch my focus to him. “Now?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “We’ve been waiting for you to get home so I could say goodbye.”

  I try to contain my tears. Try to stay strong. For the same reason I kept all those letters to myself. For him. “Okay.”

  Forty-Three

  Dylan

  There was a ceremony the moment we landed—one I hadn’t invited Riley to. I’d only be able to see her for a few hours before having to leave her again and a few hours wouldn’t have been enough. I don’t regret the decision.

  The next day the debriefings started. Meetings and classes focused on making sure you handle your PTSD, make you aware that you’re on home soil and not to fucking kill anyone, and specifically, don’t fucking kill yourself.

  My unit had a private class that basically went: What happened to Dave O’Brien was unfortunate, don’t let it happen to you.

  It wasn’t until when Leroy, Conway and I were sitting around talking shit that things became clearer. At least for me.

  “I’m not saying this to be an asshole, so don’t take it the wrong way, but obviously Irish was fighting demons. Ones we had no fucking clue about. All I’m saying is that it made sense he did it there, you know? The day before we were supposed to leave. If he’d done it at home, the military may not have covered his funeral costs and his family may not have been eligible for the death gratuity payment. Not for suicide. There’d be a shit ton more red tape and they’d probably have to fucking fight for it. Besides, this way, he gets to go home a hero,” Leroy said.

  I requested leave the next day. I wanted it in time for the funeral but they couldn’t make it work. Now, two and a half weeks later, I finally get to see him.