“Wait, you're still enlisted?” Mike looked askance at Jack and then turned back to Sam. “Why?”
“Major Hansen said they don't release troops unless they're cleared medically,” Sam yawned, flopping onto one of the hard plastic chairs with rounded corners. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Hmmm,” Jack shrugged. “I guess I'm a badass then because they discharged me on a medical.” He caught himself rubbing his thigh and forced his hand to stillness, crossing it over his chest to keep it out of trouble.
“Yeah, but how long were you in the hospital overseas? Three, maybe four months, right?” Sam inquired. “Am I remembering that correctly?”
“He's got a point,” Mike agreed. “I mean, while we were finishing our enlistments, you were in the hospital, recovering.”
“Okay,” Jack acquiesced, “but I'm not 100% either.” His thigh twitched in protest from standing so long. Jack ignored it, suspecting if he sat again, they'd need to bring him a wheelchair.
“Yeah, that's true,” Mike concurred. “But maybe that's the difference?”
“What do you mean?” Jack wanted to know. And why the hell are we talking about this? Have the ghosts of therapy past taken possession of us?
“Well, I mean, there's really nothing more they can do, right?” Mike tried to explain.
“Yeah,” Sam interjected. “I mean, you're never going to be 100% again.”
Thanks, friends. I really wanted to remember that. Jack gave Sam a leveled look. “Will you?”
Sam sort of deflated and turned his gaze away. “Honestly… I don't know.”
Okay, knock it off, Nelson. Making Sam feel worse isn't going to fix what's wrong with you. It's true you'll never be 100% again, but that's the hand you've been dealt, so shut up and deal with it. In concession to his aching limb, he leaned against the wall, turning the conversation back to Sam, but trying to sound calmer, gentler this time. “What happened, man? How'd you end up in this… fine establishment?”
“It's ah… it's sort of hard to explain,” Sam looked embarrassed and he seemed to be avoiding direct eye contact.
We all have nightmares, fears, so if anyone could understand, it'd be us. “Try,” Jack encouraged.
Mike turned his attention from Jack to Sam. “Yeah, man. What's going on?”
“Okay,” Sam said, but he sounded uncertain. He licked his lips and wrung his hands together, saying, “Everything would be fine. I'd be enjoying myself and then… then I'd be… there.”
“Afghanistan?” Mike surmised and Sam nodded, giving his confirmation.
“I thought things were… better?” Jack remarked sadly. “I thought… well, when we saw you at the bar, you seemed… happy.” His hand had crept to his leg again, so he tucked it behind his back. You don't need to draw attention to your stupid leg when it's Sam who needs help, he chastened himself in frustration.
“Yeah,” Mike chimed in. “I thought you were a lot worse while we were still overseas. I mean, I only saw you the one time, but you seemed like you were adjusting well to civilian life, man.”
Sam's eyes flicked from Jack to Mike and back, and then he shrugged uncomfortably. “I guess when we were still in country, I… I don't know, had an outlet… for my aggression? It was like, everyone was angry so, it was…”
“Normal,” Mike finished the sentence, his eyes tight and his face pinched with emotion.
Jack's lips turned upward without humor. Nailed it, bro. And who knows if the anger ever really goes away. Not when it's substituting for so many other, less expressible feelings. “I could see that,” Jack agreed. “You had other things to redirect your thoughts, keeping your mind busy.”
“Yeah, plus we were still in a life or death situation, so you reacted to things appropriately for your situation,” Mike added. “Nothing seemed out of place, really.”
“Look, all I know is that I,” Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “I just kept… hurting the people… someone I… love.”
“Amy?” Mike questioned, giving Jack a worried looked. Oh, shit. I wonder what happened.
Jack gulped, thinking of Marithé. Never had he felt the slightest temptation to raise a hand to her. On the contrary, she made him want to fight the world to keep her safe. I can't imagine what it must be like for him. I mean, he not only hurt the woman he loves, but he didn't even realize he was doing it! “How do you fix something you don't know is broken?”
“That's messed up,” Mike shook his head in sympathy.
Sam just nodded and turned away. “The major says it's PTSD.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder?” Mike inferred from the acronym. “Rough. My gramps had that coming back from Viet Nam. It's real nasty shit. I bet that's how he ended up spending the rest of his life in a hippie pot haze.”
“That's why I'm here,” Sam's voice sounded a little shaky. “I just… It's like… I don't know where I am sometimes.”
Jack could see the shiver in Sam's body as he began to tremble. Poor guy's been through so much. We all have. “I'm sorry, man.”
“Yeah,” Sam regarded his friend with troubled eyes. “So am I… for so many things.”
“Aren't we all?” Jack commented. For things we've done, failed to do, will never do again… or never had the chance to do at all. So much to be sorry for, so many regrets…
Chapter 6
“Let me get that,” Jack urged, taking an orange and black paper streamer out of Marithé's hands. Unlike the diminutive woman, who required a folding chair to reach anywhere near the low ceiling of the fellowship hall, at his height, he could reach by standing on tiptoe. Tucking one end under the plastic divider between the ceiling tiles, he moved forward several paces, allowing the streamer to swag.
“Thank you,” Marithé replied softly, her voice tainted with a hint of something… something Jack couldn't quite identify.
He glanced at Marithé and saw she was looking at him with a considering expression. I wonder what that look means. She seems to make it more and more. He met her eyes and winked, causing her cheeks to darken even while her eyes glowed. She's attracted to me. The unexpected signs of interest warmed him, bringing something to life inside of him.
Jack determinedly cut off his train of thought, preventing it from carrying him any further. Turning back to his task, he chastened himself. Oh, man, stop! It doesn't matter if you like her or if she likes you. She's still grieving and she has her kids to think about. Kids… Jack shut his eyes for a moment, clenching his jaw together. Marithé's the kind of woman who was born to be a mother. She deserves to have the big family Jorge once told me they had dreamt about having together, which means I'm not the right man for her.
A flash of hot anger ripped through him. Gratitude, Jack. Come on, man, you're alive. You still function, mostly. The Lord has blessed you, not punished you, so be grateful. He wanted to be grateful, and for the most part he was, until he saw her… Marithé. Though the doctors were convinced he was shooting blanks, it was evident he still had the ability to perform. The yearning which ached in his loins and the slight pressure against his zipper were indications enough to prove it. Maybe someday I'll find a woman… someone who doesn't want to have kids or perhaps strongly believes in adoption. That would be okay, I guess. But his heart didn't believe it. Not when the delicate beauty standing in front of him figured more heavily into his thoughts every day.
Turning his attention back to Marithé, he realized she was still staring at him, her plump lower lip captured between her teeth. This time, when dark eyes met hazel, a magnetic connection seemed to sizzle to life between them. It drew him towards her with an uncontrollable force. Suddenly, he couldn't remember why he needed to resist and he took a hesitant step forward. The movement made her expression change, turning it from haunted to hunted, as though she were about to flee.
Though he had expected her to bolt at any moment, there was something to her body language… something that suggested to him if she did run,
it would be so he could catch her. Ah, the chase… the chase that leads to conquest. But is she really ready to be conquered or are you just seeing what you want to see? And despite his uncertainty, his slow approach eventually brought him directly up against her. The foot of his wounded leg came to rest between her little silver flats. His injured thigh rested against her hipbone. All the while their eyes bored into each other. She released her lip and ran her tongue over it. I want that. He reached forward and smoothed an errant strand of dark hair off her forehead. I want her.
“Jack,” she breathed. “Jack, I…”
His thumb came to rest on her lower lip, experiencing the fullness, the softness. Jack's own lips parted slightly in anticipation, but then Marithé stiffened, waking him from his desires enough for him to think before he acted. Damn, she's not ready… I won't push. I get she needs time. He stroked the softness once again and let his hand fall away. Taking a deliberate step back from her, he asked, “How about I hang the garland, huh? Do you mind setting up the tables? Just… call me if you need help.”
The return to mundane conversation didn't seem to throw her. She nodded once in silence, and yet she didn't step away. One hand lifted, came to rest on his arm then trailed down the length and over the back of his hand. The touch of skin to skin immediately sucked him back into the whirlpool of shared sensuality. His yearning passed aching to throbbing, his erection full and straining painfully within the containment of his jeans. He captured her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the back and then gently rotating it so he could kiss the pulse on the inside of her wrist. Her heart pounded as she licked her lips again.
“Marithé,” he spoke against her skin, “I…”
This time she cut off his words. “I know, Jack. I know, but…”
He nodded. “I understand. I do, but I… Marithé, I…”
“I know,” she replied with pleading eyes. “But not now… please…”
She stepped back from him with a look of apology, gently disentangling their fingers, and turned to a long cafeteria table. She stood silently, motionless for a moment before she efficiently covered it with an orange paper tablecloth, then sprinkled a handful of candy corn in several places along the center, adding a friendly looking pumpkin centerpiece made from tinsel.
Jack gulped, trying to calm the intense desire dominating him. He returned to hanging the streamers from the ceiling, wishing the moment had gone differently, but accepting the reality for what it was. Pull yourself together, man. The fall festival won't wait on you and it won't be long before families start showing up. Focus on your work. Jack took a deep, cleansing breath. Setting his mind to his task helped ease the pressure, allowing him to temper the carnal response Marithé had provoked.
Two hours later, the members of the congregation began to arrive. Little kids and their parents, some of whom bent the 'no scary costumes' rule to the breaking point, poured into the fellowship hall. Though some of the younger children whined, wanting to fill their bellies with the tantalizing treats they saw, older ones were more interested in the various activities offered. Several arguments broke out between small fry, who wanted to try the ball toss and bowling games first, causing their hungry parents, whose attention was fixed on the chili competition, to complain just as loudly as they scolded their disruptive children.
Jack's mouth watered at the scent of cumin and cilantro as they wafted through the room. I don't even know where to start. The chicken with black bean smells amazing, but someone made my favorite - five alarm spicy! He regarded the six small bowls in front of him with indecision then he turned to his father and grinned. “Judging the chili cook-off can't really be considered a legitimate duty for a minister, can it?”
“We should always try to enjoy our work, son,” Malcom replied, trying to sound serious and official, though failing. “As it says in The Good Book, 'to all things, there is a season' and though I admit it's a tough job…” He shoveled a spoonful of beans and ground beef into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed… “I'm up to the challenge.”
“Do you have your Tums handy?” Jack quipped before taking a large bite of the spicy mix. Perfect burn. He wiped his watering eyes with a napkin.
“Are you asking for me or for you?” Malcolm chuckled.
“Come on, Mama, come on!” a childish voice piped. Jack blinked away the water in his eyes in time to see Elena, in a blue princess dress, her hair in a glitter sprayed ballerina bun, dragging her mother in his direction. The irregular yanks the small girl inflicted on Marithé's arm threatened to topple the precariously stacked bowls of chili the young woman held.
“Okay, Elena. Slow down, I'm coming!” Marithé protested. A drop of seasoned tomato dropped onto her black sneaker.
Andres trailed behind, pouting. “I don't wanna sit with Mr. Nelson.”
“Can you sit with me, sugar?” Shonda asked, patting the empty space next to her before relieving the harried mother from the burden of the boy's chili bowl. Marithé smiled in gratitude as the little boy lit up like a jack-o-lantern and scrambled onto the bench.
Elena, no longer patient, dropped Marithé's arm and hurried into a spot as close to Jack as she could manage. “Hi, Jack,” she beamed happily. “Wow, you sure do have a lot of chili! Are you hungry?”
“Hello, Elena,” he rasped.
She gasped in alarm, her eyes wide with concern. “Do you have a cold?”
He shook his head, coughing. “Spicy chili,” he replied before clearing his throat and taking a drink of milk.
She regarded him as though she wasn't sure what to make of his comment. A bowl of chili landed in front of the puzzled child, drawing Jack's attention. When he lifted his eyes, they met Marithé's. That same sizzle of awareness rose between them. He stood to try to help the woman, taking the last Styrofoam bowl from her with a questioning look.
“That one's mine,” she grinned.
“Oh, right.” How dumb can I be? I should've moved to help her right away. “Ah…” there was no way for him to save himself from his embarrassment and he just shrugged, chagrined.
“Where do I sit?” she asked easily, sounding amused.
Jack considered. There was a tiny bit of space between him and his dad, and he really wanted her there. But most likely, she would prefer to sit on his other side, with Elena between them.
The little girl also regarded them closely. Then she scooted down, widening the gap between the men, and tugged Jack over next to her. “Sit by Jack, Mommy,” Elena insisted.
Great idea! Oh, I adore this kid. He took Marithé's hand and guided her to the enlarged spot, sliding her food over. She raised one eyebrow, but consented to join him.
“Will you come to trunk or treat with us, Jack?” Elena demanded, distracting him from staring at her mother's beautiful profile.
“Now, Elena,” Marithé began. “What did I say about calling Mr. Nelson 'Jack'?”
“Please, it's okay,” Jack interrupted. “You can call me Jack, Elena, honey. And of course I will.”
“Jack,” Marithé murmured and he turned to face her. “I don't think it's right for her to address you so informally. She should call you Mister or sir.”
He shook his head. “I can't do it, Marithé. I don't know…” He trailed off and started again. “At the very least, I'm a friend… to you and to her; to Andres, if he'll let me. Friends don't call each other mister or sir.” He pleaded with his best puppy dog eyes for her to relent, giving her approval.
She regarded him another long moment before sighing. “Fine.” Jack grinned and Elena cheered, raising her spoon high into the air before scooping up another sloppy bite. “But seriously, you don't have to go to trunk or treat…”
“I want to,” he insisted in earnest. “Halloween is for kids. It's so much more fun to have them around.”
“Do you like children?” she asked, and then lowered her eyelashes, suddenly timid. “Of course, you do. I can see that plain enough.”
“Yeah, you're right, I do,” he nodded,
squashing down the pain her words caused him, “especially yours.”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. Then she turned her attention back to her food, and she appeared unable to look at him. Understanding the time for conversation had passed, Jack applied himself to tasting each chili and making notes on his score card. The five alarm spicy was definitely the winner in his book.
* * *
I'm so glad we live in South Texas, Marithé thought as they walked from one decorated car to the next, collecting candy in two pillow cases. The wind whistling through the live oak trees that lined the parking lot was warm enough that neither kid shivered, even though Elena's dress had short sleeves and Andres' Spiderman costume was composed of the thinnest fabric she'd ever seen. Marithé, however, couldn't stop shivering, but it wasn't because of the temperature.
Jack's big, warm hand rested on the small of her back, his heat sinking right through her tee shirt and into her skin. Prickly awareness kept her from relaxing and an irresistible delight thrilled through her in endless waves. She could neither allow herself to fully enjoy the touch, nor could she bear to pull away.
This is so hard. What do I do? Lord, what do I do? Marithé struggled to make sense of her conflicting emotions. Is it wrong to feel attraction… to feel anything? Jack is a good man, a godly man. But even as she asked the unspoken question, she knew what held her back from embracing her desires. He's not Jorge. He's not my husband. No, her husband was dead.
In some ways, it seemed unreal. There had been no casket, no body. Her cousin, Ray's voice floated up in her mind. “Of course there won't be a funeral, Mari. There isn't enough left of him to bury. He was holding that fucking grenade…” A little sob escaped and Jack moved his hand, wrapping it around her waist, drawing her closer to him.
“Are you okay?” he whispered discretely against her ear.
“Hmmm,” she lied. “I'm fine. Thank you though.” Jack gave her a skeptical look, unconvinced, but he didn't push her. Instead, he tightened his hold on her, supporting her in silence.
Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) Page 7