“There has to be fifteen on that piece. How are you not dying of a salt overdose?” Daniel asks.
Gunner picks up another discarded anchovy and places it on the piece he’s eating. “Makes the beer go down smoother.”
We all sit on the new carpet in the empty space of what will become our conference room. The workers aren’t finished yet; the glass still has to be installed for the walls in the conference room and offices. Our first employees are yet to move in, and wet paint dries on walls and drop cloths alike. But we’re breaking in the offices, because the board of Pentabyte commences work tomorrow.
Pizza boxes and six packs litter the floor, mingling with the smell of fresh paint. It smells like a new beginning.
In a way, it is. For all of us.
Jude, Gunner, and I all thought we were going to be career military men, adopting those we served with as our family. But we wound up adopting each other plus Daniel and Jax. Our family is both smaller and bigger than we’d thought it would be. We’re slowly adjusting to civilian life, but some memories of our time in the service are still too fresh to shake off.
Amazing how the smell of a big diesel truck, a sudden shout from a passerby, an abandoned bag on a subway platform, the perfect size for an improvised explosive device — it all brings me back. Deeply ingrained alarms trigger my nerves, my heartrate rockets, and I’m instantly scanning for threats.
Those responses were burned into my psyche before I could barely be called a man, and they saved my life — and those of my friends — when I needed them. Now, I’m just jumpy all the time. It has me feeling disconnected from the rest of society, who seem to go about their days without a care.
The veterans at the center tell me the reactions will dull in time. But seeing Gunner and Jude break into a sweat or reach for a non-existent rifle when a car backfires makes me feel less alone. We’ve all been through the shitstorm — even Daniel and Jax in their own ways — and have helped pull each other out the other side.
Daniel and Jax have rounded out our three-man unit in ways I hadn’t expected. Daniel has smoothed some of our rough edges and disarmed us of the bad habits we’d picked up from years spent in the company of men more at home in locker rooms than board rooms. I’m not sure if he’ll ever get Gunner to stop using fuck and shit every other sentence, but despite our resistance, the refinement he brings to our group is threatening to turn us into actual gentlemen. He has a natural taste for designer suits and fine wine, and these days I find myself appreciating the fit of tailored dress shirts and craving the taste of a well-aged Malbec more than a six pack of Bud Lite.
And Jax, man.
My body might have been torn to shreds, but Jax’s inner battle has left him just as scarred. I thought I was fucked up, growing up in foster care with a drug-addict mother and a dad I’ve never met. But Jax, he’s been to dark places I can’t even fathom.
When Jude brought him home from some sort of world’s-end bender, the guy had blood on his knuckles and liquor coming from his pores. We’re pretty sure alcohol wasn’t the only substance in his bloodstream, and his clothes reeked of sex, sadism, and self-loathing. It took a few weeks to really sober him up, but we rallied around Jude’s twin just like the guys had rallied around me. No man left behind.
He’s clean-shaven now, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a button-down shirt and jeans without a single rip in them — but Jax is still Jax. His leather riding jacket is draped over the aluminum ladder just outside the door, and his Harley is in the parking garage downstairs, ready to be ridden hard into the night for one of his midnight runs to nowhere when we’re done here.
The rest of the guys sit down on the floor with us, forming a circle. I’m the only one sitting with my legs out in front of me — not like I have a choice. I rub at the tape I used to cover up the crude cock and balls Gunner drew on my cast while I was sleeping. At least he was generous with the size.
I polish off my slice of pizza then shift from hip to hip, trying to find a position that keeps my ass from going numb. “I’m going to go for a run every goddamn day when I get this thing off.”
“Don’t push yourself before you’re ready,” Daniel warns. “You still have months of physical therapy ahead of you. Better to take it easy, pace yourself.”
“There’s an idea! I could do a marathon,” I say. “At least one a year. I’ve sat on my ass enough lately.”
“Fuck the doctors. My boy’s going to be a hundred percent sooner than you think.” Gunner always has my back. He passes me the box of cheesesticks then thumps me on the shoulder. “Hey, wanna enter an Iron Man?”
“Hell, yeah.” I nod and look across the circle at the chief. “Jude, you up for it, too?”
He stares at us for a moment, not blinking. “I can’t swim.”
Daniel pauses in his attempt to pick another anchovy from his pizza. “Seriously? How can you be in the Marines and not know how to swim?”
“You can be in the Navy and not know how to swim,” Jude retorts. “If you’re in the water, it’s generally because someone fucked up.”
“I can’t swim, either,” Jax admits.
“Well.” Daniel flops his pizza back into the box. “If we’re doing an Iron Man, we’re going to have to fix that.”
Jude’s eyebrows shoot up. “We? You’re signing up for this?”
“Why not? I’m fit.”
“Yeah, but I think ya need to eat a few more pieces of that pizza,” Gunner says. “Even my mom could throw you over her shoulder.”
Daniel squints at him. “I’d respond to that, but I was raised not to say unkind things about one’s mother.”
Jax smiles devilishly. “I’ll say it — Gunner, your mom could stand in for The Mountain on the Game of Thrones.”
I practically spit my beer out as I join the others in laughing. Gunner just shakes his head and digs through the stack of pizza boxes.
“Tell you what,” Daniel says. “I’ll teach these two how to swim, yes? And in turn, they’ll help get Trigg through his therapy and ready for running, and big guy — you help me hit the weights. I bet I could put on ten pounds in a month.”
Gunner grins. “Of pizza?”
“Of muscle, smartass.”
Jude clasps his hands together. “Well. It sounds like we have ourselves a challenge. A race to the finish.”
Daniel glances around the circle. “Just you wait. I’ll beat every last one of you.” He points a finger at Gunner. “And your mother, too.”
It wasn’t Daniel who beat us all that year. Jax doubled-down on getting into shape — all parts of him. He poured himself into work, turned his den into an art studio, and took up Thai boxing. He absolutely kicked our asses at the Iron Man challenge. Then, in true Jax style, he celebrated all that hard work by taking off on his hog to ‘get properly drunk and inappropriately laid’, as he put it.
As I pull the last shelf off the wall, I chuckle to myself at the memory of him showing back up thirty-six hours later, looking like he’d been in a Mexican prison for three months — he had a gash on his cheek, his wallet and phone were missing, and he was sporting a new tattoo that he didn’t remember getting. When we asked him how it went, he just grinned said, “Fucking good times, man. Good times.”
The last shelf off the wall, I pull my vibrating phone out of my pocket. The incoming text alerts me that the concierge has accepted a pizza delivery for us. I stick my head out the conference room door, spotting Gunner carefully stacking the shelves along the hallway. “Two Tony’s is here.”
He straightens up instantly, practically saluting. “Yes! I’ll go grab it.”
“No snacking on the way up.”
As expected, I get a good-natured middle finger thrown at me as he exits the offices.
The conference room is now empty except for my tool bag, the space returned to the same state it was the first night we sat in here on the floor, throwing punches at each other, excited to be creating something together, dreaming of things to come.
/>
This is our tradition — returning to our roots once a year, to gather in this room, emptied of all the things we didn’t have back then. A symbolic celebration, a chance to reflect on what we’ve achieved and to toast to the things we look forward to in the future. Just a couple of six packs, pizza from Two Tony’s, four bare walls — and us.
I crouch down to grab the tool bag and bring it out to the hall. Five years ago, I would have had to just kick it out into the hallway with my good leg, or wait on someone else to carry it out. I couldn’t do much with a cast that big. If I sleep on that side, I sometimes still wake up with a numb leg, thanks to all the nerve damage, but otherwise I’ve had a full recovery.
Though we relive our opening night every year with as much authenticity as possible, that’s something I’m glad has changed. I’m no longer broken.
We’ve all healed well from our wounds, I think.
Even Jude, who lost too many good men to ever truly forget the horrors of war, and Jax, who will always carry an edge of darkness inside of him — both are doing alright. They seem lighter, easier-going, and content these days.
Other things have changed, too. A large staff, new technology, bigger bank accounts, faster cars.
And Emma Collins.
She’s the change I like the most. I think we could all agree on that, given the way the rest of the guys look at her, too.
But things are the same where it counts. These guys are still my family. We still give each other shit as often as possible. And we’re still looking out for one another.
I head down the hall to my office and reach into the bottom drawer of my desk, digging out two cans of anchovies from the stash I brought in to keep on hand for Gunner when I first learned Two Tony’s didn’t use them anymore.
The elevator dings, and Jude and Jax’s deep voices permeate the stillness of our quiet office space.
Gunner will be back up with the Two Tony’s order in a few minutes, and Daniel should be close behind.
I love these nights.
It’s our anniversary dinner, garlic marinara sauce and all.
17
Emma
I inspect all the new spices in the cabinet. It seems like the grocery market moved in along with me. The moving team hadn’t even finished setting up my bedroom when Daniel had already placed a call to a local shopping service. Within the hour, there were more bags of groceries lined up on the kitchen counter than I’d seen in one home in all my life. He refused to let me pay him back no matter how much I insisted, even though I would have had to take out a small loan to do so.
Speaking of. My new kitchen, oh my Lord. When the guys said they’d be putting me up in a new place, I thought I’d be going from one small apartment to another. This? The central living area that flows right into the kitchen is alone bigger than the entirety of space Zoey and I had in our old place.
The relative luxury of the new apartment has me on my guard. It’s way, way nicer than I anticipated, and it’s throwing me a bit. Which means, I’m in the kitchen to inaugurate it with its first ever cook-a-thon. New living arrangement, same habits for melting my stress away.
The fancy new cooking equipment the guys had delivered today doesn’t help the growing feeling that whatever they say about no strings attached, I owe them. This place is too nice. They’re too nice.
Nonetheless, I pick out an unfamiliar spice. What’s this? Marjoram. I unscrew the cap then break the freshness seal. Oh! That’ll do nicely in the second batch.
I know the general advice is to take a few days to chill and settle into a new place, but despite my wariness of the guys’ generosity, I’m dying to try out some of the brand new, stainless steel appliances and the gourmet tools beckoning me from every nook and cranny of the kitchen. I’m attempting a lasagna-style casserole Giada made on Food Network — with my own twist on it, of course. I love to be creative in the kitchen, although sometimes I get carried away, like with the sardine fruitcake. I have to redeem myself from that one. The final batch turned out as good as one could hope for, although Zoey refused to even try it, and I can’t blame her too much.
What I should be doing on my first day off from work, due to my newly liberated schedule, is hitting the code hard. Instead, I already have the first experimental batch of lasagna in the oven, but I did it the old-fashioned way. Now, instead of chopping and mixing the ingredients by hand, I opt to put them all into the shiny Cuisinart food processor, because why not? Just the push of a button, and wha-la!
Shit.
I slam my finger on the stop button, but not before the liquid sloshes out and solid chunks of tomato shrapnel hit the cabinets above. Oops. Lid. I slam it down tight as though it will erase the mess I just made.
I breathe deep, completely out of my element. I open the drawer next to the stove only to find a collection of rolling pins, dough mats, and pastry cutters. I purse my lips, trying to orient myself. I was the one who directed where all the silverware and dishes were to be placed as the moving team unpacked the boxes, but now, out of habit, I keep looking for things where they used to be in the old apartment.
Ah! I remember now — I put the dishcloths in the narrow cabinet running parallel with the sink. The new locations make logical sense for this kitchen, but everything being different will take some getting used to.
While mopping up the mixture from the floor, I have second — hell, triple — thoughts about the move. Everything is so fancy — from the sound system that uses voice commands to the fridge with a touch-panel screen that keeps track of grocery lists.
Just as I get the last dribbles of tomato juice off the honey-colored natural cork flooring, the smoke alarm goes off. I stand slowly and look over my shoulder, getting a whiff of burnt something, willing it not to be what I think it is.
Double shit.
Apparently, when I put the first batch in the oven, I’d programmed it for twenty hours instead of twenty minutes, and I’ve been too preoccupied to notice it’s been twice that long since I started them baking. Not only is the top burning on all four casseroles, but the dishes were too shallow, and now there are juices running over the sides of the pans, dripping onto the glowing hot elements, creating serious smoke.
I turn the heat off, set the fan on high, and leave the oven door open to cool the elements off faster.
Hoisting myself up on the counter, I stand on my tip-toes to reach the smoke detector. I pop the cover off and after a few small jumps, I’m able to pry the battery out of its holder. But the high-pitched wail doesn’t stop. In fact, there are multiple alarms going off now — I can hear the smoke detectors in both bedrooms shrieking, and more from God knows where.
I head straight for the nearest window, hoping the fresh air will pull the smoke outside. I reach for the window sash before I realize it doesn’t have one. It’s just one solid pane of glass. I search the edges, and nothing. Do they not have actual windows in these places?
A sense of panic sets in, and I run into my bedroom to grab the list of contacts the guys gave me. I need to call down to the front desk — or maybe it should be maintenance — or security? Hell, just someone who can tell me how to turn the alarms off before a neighbor calls the fire department. That’s the last thing I need my first day here.
List in hand, I dig my phone out of my pocket and have just punched in the number for security when a racket comes from outside the door to the apartment — a rattling sound as if someone is twisting the doorknob repeatedly, and then something bangs hard against the door. What the hell?
I’m debating whether to go look through the peephole or to just press send and call security when a loud crack comes from the entryway, drowning out the screaming smoke alarms for a moment.
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sharp sound and turn, expecting to see a fireman in full gear hacking his way through the door with an axe.
But no.
Instead, my breath catches in my chest, and I watch with wide eyes as my doorjamb gives way, two hinges snapp
ing off as the wood twists and splinters, revealing the hulking form of Gunner lowered into a linebacker charge as he barrels through the door.
Losing his balance, he hits the ground but rolls with more grace than I knew the massive man was capable of, coming to a rest in a crouching position, his eyes rapidly darting across my apartment.
His eyes pass over me, pause briefly, then he continues scanning the rest of the room. I’m frozen in place, shocked into silence, my thumb stuck in position above the call button on my phone.
Jude runs in behind him, going to the left as soon as he’s through the door, his hand tucked into the back of his belt, and I don’t have to guess why, because Trigg is next, and his pistol is already drawn as he moves cautiously to the right in a tactical stance. Jude communicates with Trigg and Gunner with a series of hand motions, and the two men reconnoiter the apartment, disappearing into the adjoining rooms.
Daniel and Jax appear in the doorway next, and Jude motions them in. Daniel heads for the kitchen where smoke is still rolling out of the oven, while Jax makes a beeline straight to me.
“Whoa!” Daniel grabs a pot holder and pulls the glass dishes from the oven one by one. He calls over his shoulder, “Easy does it, boys, just a little cooking mishap.”
“You okay?” Jax is by my side, holding me at arms’ length for inspection. “You didn’t inhale much smoke or burn yourself, did you?”
I try to swallow, but my throat has gone dry, and I cough for a second, all the while Jax stares at me with concern. Finally, I manage to get some words out. “No, no, I’m fine. But... what are you all doing here?”
“The internal emergency system is wired to notify us when an alarm goes off. We noticed it was your apartment.”
I stare at him, blinking. “It — it was just the smoke detectors.”
He leans backward to look around me, and I turn to follow his gaze, both our eyes landing on the charred remains of my lasagna sitting on the counter like black bricks. “Are you making fruitcake again?”
Vested Interest Page 11