Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology

by Christine Bell

  “Yeah, well, how many of them have been in your shoes?”

  None of them, which was kind of the point. “Have you?”

  “Killed someone, yes. Killed someone I wish I hadn’t? Also yes. Want to hear?”

  Did she? But it would break the ice, maybe buy her time to figure out what she would say, so she nodded.

  “Just to be clear, Afghanistan is hell. It’s a scary-as-fuck place, pardon my language, and you never never let your guard down, especially when you’re getting ready to go home. I think that happens to a lot of guys. They’re a month out from coming home, they start thinking about that instead of where they are and bad shit happens, pardon my language.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m a cop,” she reminded him with a small smile.

  “Right.” He leaned his forearms on the table and started talking with his hands. “So anyway, we’re on patrol and this car just pulls in front of our Hummer and stops. Never a good sign, right. I’m two weeks away from heading home and thinking I’m fucked. We start backing up, and another car comes in behind us and stops, blocking us in. Definitely fucked. We can sit there and get blown to hell, or we can fight. So we’re getting our gear, heart rates going like I-don’t-know-what, and one of my guys notices a kid in the car behind us. Not a teenager, but a fucking kid. Seven, eight years old, little boy in there with his dad or whoever. And his eyes are huge. He’s terrified. Then we look in the car in front of us. Another kid. These assholes are counting on us not wanting to kill a kid, and dying for it.”

  The tea stopped halfway down her throat, and she had to force herself to swallow past the lump in her chest. But it was clear what choice Deke and his team made. “And since you’re here to tell the story, I’m going to reason out what happened.”

  He shook his head and took a sip of the tea she’d poured him, holding her gaze. “The will to survive is strong. But yeah, we drove away, all of us.”

  She turned her attention back to the pattern on the metal table, wishing she couldn’t envision so clearly what he’d witnessed. “How did you—how did you deal with that? Knowing the kid was just a pawn?”

  He curved both hands—scarred, she saw now—around his glass and stared into it. “It was hard. I’m not going to lie. You don’t unsee something like that. And the powers-that-be were not happy with us, but what did they want us to do? We would have died, or been mutilated or taken hostage. I mean, I know that sounds harsh. But yeah, yeah, some nights I still see it when I close my eyes, the bodies, the blood.”

  “For me, it’s the smell first.” She rolled her shoulders. “It was an alley, a dark alley, one light at the end. I smell the garbage as my partner and I approached, and later the blood mixed with that smell. I never knew blood had such a strong smell. And gunpowder. I went to the range once after it happened and the smell of gunpowder brought it all back. I couldn’t stay.”

  “Erich said it was self-defense.”

  His voice was low and soothing, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She shivered against a sudden cool breeze. “To save my partner.”

  “That’s self-defense.”

  “I didn’t shoot to kill—I thought I would wing him, scare him, stop him. I never thought I’d kill him.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath when the memory assaulted—and she did mean assaulted—her. The helplessness as she and her partner took cover from gunfire from the accomplices, who got in a car and raced off, leaving the kid behind. The feel of blood pumping between her fingers as she tried to hold it in. The way the kid cried for his mother, his mother who would never see him alive again. Her chest squeezed and she popped her eyes open to look into his sympathetic ones. “You sure you don’t have whiskey?”

  “I do, but...” His voice trailed off.

  “Erich told you not to give me any.”

  “He didn’t, but I think you need to start to deal with the memory without the alcohol. I mean, are you planning to go back to work?”

  She willed herself not to flinch. She’d worked too hard to get to detective to walk away now, but she couldn’t envision herself back on the streets. That she couldn’t picture it tore at her. “Sure. I’m a cop. I’m good at my job.”

  “You can’t drink and be on duty. You’re going to have to face this without alcohol.”

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  “And every hour you make it without a drink will make you stronger.”

  Her shoulders tensed defensively. “It’s the only thing that drowns out him screaming for his mother,” she murmured. “The sound of her screams at the hospital when they told her he was dead. He was just a dumb kid doing something he thought was cool, something he’d seen on TV a billion times. I replay it again and again, every step I could have done differently, including, Jesus, letting him get away.”

  “And he would have pulled a gun on another cop, or a gangbanger, or someone else who would have shot him.”

  She lowered her head to the table. “But it wouldn’t have been me.”

  3

  She was wrung out by the time Erich arrived to pick her up. She thanked Deke for his time and followed Erich to the car. She was so exhausted she didn’t even want a drink anymore.

  “So I have to ask,” she said as Erich drove back to the ranch. “He said the shooting happened two weeks before he came home. So was there another incident afterwards? Is that why he’s in the wheelchair?”

  He shot her an amused grin. “Deke? No, he came home in one piece. Then he thought he’d try his hand at the rodeo, bull-riding of all things. A few months back he was thrown and kicked in the hip. Did some serious damage, but he’ll be up and walking again in a few months.”

  She shuddered out a laugh. “Some detective I am, assuming the cause.” They rode in silence for a bit, then she had another question. “So what happens now? Does he call you and tell you all about our conversation?”

  “Aubrey, I didn’t do this for me. I did it for you, to give you someone to talk to who’s been there. What you told him is between you and him. If you feel like talking to me, you can, but I haven’t been in your shoes. He has. Did it help?”

  She took another deep breath and felt the darkness part, just a little.

  Then he turned the corner to the house and she spotted the RV in the driveway. Her parents were home. An odd mixture of joy and trepidation filled her. She’d have to tell the story again, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that, still too raw after talking to Deke.

  She glanced at the clock on the dash. If her parents held true to schedule, they’d be having pre-dinner drinks in the back room. What Deke said resonated with her, about every hour without a drink making her stronger. She wanted to be stronger, especially if she wanted to go back to work. She’d sacrificed too much to get to where she was in the department. This would not set her back. She would learn to deal.

  He pulled in front of the house to drop her off. “Tomorrow I’ll be by around ten and we’ll go for a ride.”

  She reached for the handle. “You don’t have to babysit me. I know you have work to do.”

  “I didn’t say we wouldn’t work. Dress warm. A cold front is supposed to come in tomorrow.”

  As suspected, her parents were in the back room, sitting in their matching chairs and looking out the row of windows at the sunset. Laura Cavanaugh held a glass of red wine, and Adam a tumbler of whiskey. Aubrey realized that other than to filch alcohol, she hadn’t spent time in this room since she’d returned, and it had much the same view as Deke’s deck, though it was enclosed and warmer.

  Her parents jumped up when she stepped through the door. Her mother wrapped her in her arms, first, then her father. The scent of his drink carried to her, called to her, but when he released her, instead of walking to the dry bar, she crossed the room and sat on an ottoman near her mother’s chair.

  “I’m sorry you felt you needed to cut your trip short,” she said, because the guilt from shooting Jorge Lopez wasn’t alone in her brain
.

  Laura covered her hands with one of hers, and for the first time, she saw her mother was beginning to age. She’d be sixty soon, though a fit and healthy woman. Still, it was unsettling to think of her mother as frail. She’d always been so vibrant, so strong-willed. Aubrey thought fondly that her father had wondered where she’d gotten her stubbornness from.

  “Of course we want to be here for you. We’re sorry we couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “I wanted to fly back and send someone else to get the RV, but your mother just couldn’t stomach the idea of someone else living in it, even for a few days,” her father said, sitting slowly in his chair. “I have to say, even though I’ve been sitting all day, this feels good. No place like home.” He turned sharp brown eyes to her. “How are you holding up?”

  She considered lying, just to put their minds at ease. And the idea that they might judge her made her stomach pitch. “I’m feeling weak, at the moment.” So weak, and wanting a drink to give her strength. But Deke was right. She fisted her hands instead. “I feel like I should have been prepared for this, but I wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t understand why I can’t just deal.”

  “Because you’re made to care about people,” her mother said. “It’s the way you were raised.”

  But she’d shut it down when she became a cop. She’d had to, or she couldn’t do her job the right way. That it was coming back now made her feel like a failure. She’d done the right thing, she’d saved her partner, she’d tried not to kill the kid.

  She couldn’t talk about it any more today.

  “How’s the festival planning coming?” she asked.

  Her mother set her wine glass down carefully on the side table. “Well. This was my first year not to be in charge, which is why we were able to take the trip. But that didn’t stop Hailey Barnes from calling me every day with a list of questions.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “I told her since we were coming back early I’d give her a hand with all those hundred little things that pop up the closer we get to the festival. That is, if it’s okay with you.”

  Aubrey sat back too, straightening her shoulders. “Of course it is. And if you want, I can probably help.”

  Her mother opened her mouth, looking as stunned at hearing those words as Aubrey was for saying them, and for a moment, Aubrey thought she’d say no.

  “I would love that.”

  Again, it seemed like she wanted to say more, but she closed her mouth and took a sip of wine.

  “Would you like me to call Jen to bring you something to drink? Iced tea or a soda?” her father asked.

  Aubrey wondered if Jen had told them about cleaning up her room with Erich. Her stomach gave a little lurch when she realized they’d emptied her room and she’d have nothing to help her sleep tonight. She hadn’t thought anyone would come into her room, so she hadn’t made too much of an effort to hide her liquor and now it was gone.

  No, that was good. She had to learn how to do this.

  “I’ll get it myself. What’s for dinner?”

  After dinner, she trudged upstairs. She’d underestimated how exhausting pretending to be normal, pretending to be fine, could be. And she hadn’t told anyone, any of them, the whole truth. She hadn’t told them that one of the reasons her boss had sent her away was because the boy, Jorge Lopez, was the little brother of Manuel Lopez, the gang leader. She hadn’t told them Manuel had made her a target. She didn’t know how they’d react to that.

  Without alcohol, her only chance of getting sleep was the television. She didn’t watch much television in Houston except when she couldn’t sleep. She closed the door to her room and flipped it on now.

  Jen must have returned and straightened the room, because there was no sign of the struggle and search that had gone on earlier. Aubrey crossed to the dresser and pulled out a clean t-shirt, washed up in her bathroom, then snuggled into bed. She flipped through the channels until she found what looked to be a mindless show with a small town setting with the requisite adorable leads. She stayed with it long enough to understand there was some sort of love triangle and a female rivalry before she drifted off.

  Erich appeared, standing on the hill beneath the oak tree, that sexy smile splitting his face, his arms open wide, and she couldn’t get to him fast enough. Her legs hurt from running up the hill, her lungs ached, but all she wanted was to be held against his chest.

  But she heard shouting to her right and as she pivoted, her hair blocked her vision for just a second, and all she could see through it was a muzzle flash. The sound of gunfire echoed off the hills and she whirled back to see Erich go down, blood blossoming on his shirt.

  She woke with a wheeze, sitting straight up in bed. The sound of gunfire still rang in her ears. A moment passed before she realized the sounds came from the television—her sweet little drama had ended and a cop show was on. A cop show with the cops pinned down, just as she’d been that night, firing at the bad guys.

  She fumbled for the remote and flicked the television off, her heart still racing. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw Erich fall again. She shoved back the covers and walked to the window, hugging herself against the cool air. She grabbed the quilt from the bed, opened the balcony doors and sat outside, wrapped in the quilt, though it didn’t do much to warm her against the chilly north wind. But she’d be damned if she could sleep.

  The sound of a truck on gravel woke her and she peeled her eyes open to look over the balcony at Erich’s truck. She’d finally fallen asleep as the sun came up, so her head was foggy and her fingers were stiff from clutching the blanket to her. He glanced up as he got out of his truck, and did a double take when he saw her there.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  “We need to work on your greetings,” she muttered, unfolding herself from the chair. “I was sleeping.”

  “Well, wake up. We have work to do. Your mom’s sending me to town to get some heaters for the festival.”

  A heater sounded really good right now. She curled her frozen toes against the concrete of the balcony. But what time was it, and how long had she been asleep? Not long. “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty or so.”

  Geez, she’d been asleep a little more than an hour. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “I didn’t ask. Come on, we have work to do.”

  She could stand here and argue with him, or she could just go. The truck would be warm, and the drive was long enough that she could get a nap in. For some reason that sounded really nice, napping in the car while he drove.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Instead of hitting her luggage, she went to her closet and pulled out an old warm flannel shirt and jeans. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and braided her hair before heading downstairs.

  “I hope you have breakfast and coffee for the road,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  He looked her up and down and grinned, his gaze lingering on her breasts that strained a bit against the flannel. “Wear that shirt a lot in Houston, do you?”

  She scowled at him. “I haven’t worn it in years.”

  “Still looks good on you.”

  She strode past him to the passenger side of the truck, hoping she’d masked how pleased his words made her. “Turn on the heater. I’m cold.”

  The trip into town was nice. The scent of the truck—a blend of horse and coffee and Erich—brought back happy memories, and when her eyes drifted shut, the first image that popped into her head wasn’t Jorge Lopez.

  Her eyes popped open when the rumble of the truck engine stopped. They were in the parking lot of the hardware store in the city and Erich was glowering at her, one arm draped over the steering wheel.

  “You’re not very good company.”

  “Sorry.” She stretched. “Not much sleep last night.”

  “I bet not, on the balcony.” Then his tone softened. “Nightmares?”

  She’d forgotten, actually, what had driven her out on the b
alcony, her dream about him, shot and bleeding. “Yep.”

  “Sorry.”

  She shrugged and popped open the door. “Let’s get my mom her heaters.”

  Honestly, she didn’t know why he’d brought her. Between him and the hardware store employee, they loaded the dozen tower heaters in the bed of the truck and strapped them down. All she did was stand around shivering and “supervise.”

  Okay, she did know why he brought her—to keep her mind occupied on something other than getting the next drink, and to be fair, it was working.

  Erich slammed the tailgate, said good-bye to the young man who’d helped him, and motioned for Aubrey to get in the truck. She did, gratefully, and waited for him to turn on the heater. He reached for the controls just as a shot rang out.

  She dove across the truck and dragged him down, beneath the dash, shielding him with her body. She coursed her hand over his chest, his back, holding her breath as she waited to encounter blood.

  “What the hell, Aubrey?”

  She looked up to see him watching her, brow furrowed. “The shot—”

  “A car backfired is all. Are you okay?” From his place on the floor, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek.

  God, she hated seeing that pity in his eyes, that worry. She pulled away, mortified, and sat as close to the door as she could as he lifted himself from the floor of the truck and slid behind the wheel.

  “Aubrey. Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she said shortly. “But I need a drink.”

  She thought he’d deny her, but instead he pulled into the parking lot of the same restaurant he’d taken her the first day she’d been back, and took her inside.

  Her hands stopped shaking halfway through the margarita.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, hands folded around his own beer. “Something else you’re scared of?”

  “I haven’t heard a gunshot since that night, haven’t fired my weapon. I overreacted.”