The Honor Anthology

by Emily Snow

  We share a quiet breakfast, just a spot of small talk over the hum of the TV neither of us are paying attention to. I made eggs and he cooked up brown sugar bacon. I’ve come along in my culinary skills, confident now that I may be able to prepare a basic meal without need of the fire department on-call.

  He’s packed and ready to go. I let him have time with his parents because I hate being a hog of all of Brandon’s precious minutes here at home. My insides shake with dread and, for a moment, I wonder if I’ll even be able to drive straight with all this annoying emotion running through me.

  The car ride is smooth and, for the most part, just music fills the space between us. I have to believe that both of us are feeling horrible about saying goodbye yet again. I ask myself the same question every time I drop him off: how am I going to make it the next four months without you? The first time it happened, I had my stepbrother Ronnie to pull me through it all. Ronnie’s so occupied with his own work and a brand new girlfriend (this one might be serious) that he hardly ever stays at the house anymore. I might have to call him over, just to give me a few days of comfort while I’m, yet again, a mopey little bitch. Maybe he’ll get me ice cream again and take me out to a movie to occupy my mind.

  It’s on the interstate, just when the airport looms around the bend, that Brandon puts his hand on top of mine, which rests on the stick. He does nothing more than that, but that small and seemingly insignificant show of affection says everything. He’s not the hand-holding type—and he’s holding my hand.

  After the car is parked, we enter the terminal, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Soon, we share a lone bench pre-TSA waiting for his flight to board, as I’m not allowed beyond without a plane ticket. I’ve never resented a yellow line painted on the floor more than I do now. I seriously consider catching a flight and moving into some little fucking shack just so I can be in the same damn state as my Brandon. I mentioned wanting to visit him once, maybe getting myself a hotel room where we could spend a couple nights whenever he got away from base, but it’s so fucking expensive for student-loan-burdened me. Even if I didn’t care about the cost, Brandon refuses for me to put myself out so much just for him. “That tuition kills you enough,” he told me once over Skype. “I don’t want you killing yourself worse on my account.”

  Maybe one day I won’t listen to him. Maybe one day I’ll just say fuck it and go. I’ve never wanted to more than I do now, and with his every visit, this feeling grows deeper.

  “I’m gonna miss you.”

  The words come from Brandon. I nudge him. “Aww, shucks. You’re turning into a big baby now, huh?”

  “Yeah, man,” he says, not joining me in my humor, his face creased with emotion. “A big fuckin’ baby. You’re about to see a grown man cry.”

  “I’ve seen many grown men cry.”

  “So have I.”

  I wish I could hug and kiss him so hard right now, but we’re out in the open of an airport lobby with all these other fuckers able to see us and I know that’d be the last thing on a list of lovely occurrences to add to Brandon Kinney’s day. Instead, I just throw a casual arm over his shoulders, patting him the way a buddy might. “The time will fly by,” I assure him. “It’ll fly by and then we’ll—”

  “I love you, too.”

  My eyes flash, reeling in on him. He lifts his chin, but doesn’t meet my gaze. His eyes turn wet, which is literally something I have never seen before. The messed-up kid from next-door, the monster that all the other kids feared back in grade school, the beast with blood on his breath … is crying.

  “Brandon …”

  “I love you, too,” he repeats, then allows his eyes to find mine. “I mean it, Jesse. I fucking mean it. You are the reason I come home, every time. You get me through the worst and you don’t even know it,” he goes on, baring his teeth, the emotion pushing at the edges of his face. I’ve never seen Brandon like this, coming apart with tears and feelings and shit, right before my eyes. “You aren’t even there and, and, and yet you are. You’re my fucking strength.”

  “I’m not the strong one,” I say, my voice shaking. “You’re the strong one, mister muscles.”

  “Strength is more than muscles, Jesse. Strength is smarts. It’s character. It’s heart. Strength is … is …”

  He rises at once, pulling me to my feet with him. Then, in front of the whole fucking world, Brandon grabs my face and brings me in for the deepest kiss I’ve ever known. I feel his heart beating through his lips, through his hands that cling to the side of my face like a life raft, through his jagged breath, which strikes irregularly against my heated cheeks.

  After the initial shock wears off, I bring my arms around him, our kiss growing deeper, wetter, stronger. He does not relent, and fuck if I dare to. I hear some person cheer in the distance. I hear someone else give a whoop-whoop. But mostly, the rest of the airport turns into a blur of white noise and nothing, my only interest on the whole fucking planet is Brandon Kinney and the kiss we share. Maybe most people see this and don’t even care, ignoring us. Maybe this moment is just ours. This moment is our strength, our “I love you”, our confession.

  When we pull apart, Brandon’s face hardens, as if he just became aware of what he’d done. Then, slowly, a smile sneaks onto his lips. I return the smile with one of my own.

  Where once I was full of dread and pain, now I’m as light as a cloud. I feel inspiration and excitement for when I’ll get to see him again instead of heaviness and loneliness. You’re the only option to me, his words echo in my head from that horrid night when we thought it’d be a good idea to go commando, bare it all, and take a chance at an adventure. Isn’t that what everything is, really? Date night at the movies, a trek across campus, a sweaty afternoon of lawn-mowing, a fierce bout of hours battling Elves and murlocs, a trip to Slick’s for beer and pool, or a kiss shared in the lobby of an airport … isn’t it all just a bunch of little adventures?

  “I’ll see you soon, Jesse.”

  Watching him walk away, I strangely feel my spirits lift with visions of our future. There’s no doubt in me anymore, not like there was when I couldn’t even bring myself to call us “boyfriends”. I see many adventures down the road. I see myself proud to stand next to a man who brings honor to his country … and to himself. He’s more than just the beast-from-next-door, and I feel so fucking special for being the one person lucky enough to know that.

  “Jesse!”

  I look up, finding Brandon far away in the TSA line. He grips the waistband of his pants and inches them down … just enough for me to receive his little message.

  I stifle a laugh, then grip my own and give it a modest tug to prove my own commando status. Our hot secret. That’s all we want to be: totally bared to one another, open, and unapologetically brave.

  I draw out the gift that Brandon got me a week ago, a gift which hangs loose around my neck, resting on my heart at all times. The custom dog tags, which read “Level 100 Warrior”, find my slippery fingers, and I bring them to my lips for a kiss.

  “See you soon, Brandon,” I murmur to them. I already can’t wait for our next adventure to begin.

  The end.

  Did you enjoy this story?

  See how Brandon and Jesse’s relationship

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  All Brazen Boys novellas are standalone and can be read in any order. Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  A Place To Call Home

  By Lacey Black

  Copyright © 2016 Lacey Black

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real p
laces are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  All rights reserved.

  A Place To Call Home

  © Lacey Black 2016

  Eight years ago, Colbi Leigh fled her safe little hometown in Kentucky and followed her dreams to New York City. She left everything behind: her parents, her brother, and the love of her life, Aiden Hughes. Now, Colbi must return home in the wake of her brother’s unexpected death in Afghanistan where she’s about to come face-to-face with her old demons.

  Aiden has been left unsettled since his one true love left him for something else in the Big Apple eight long years ago. After the unexpected death of his oldest friend, who was serving in the Army, Aiden finally comes face-to-face with the woman who stole his heart and has haunted his dreams.

  What happens when old lovers reunite in the midst of tragedy? Is it finally a happily ever after, or will their dreams tear them apart once more?

  Chapter One

  Colbi

  As the wheels of the plane finally touch down at Louisville International Airport, my heart summersaults painfully and pounds loudly in my chest. The noise is so thunderous I’m sure the pilot can hear it over the barrage of cabin noise. Under normal circumstances, flying doesn’t bother me. In fact, I love flying. The ability to travel from one end of the country to the other in mere hours. The thrill-seeker in me revels being suspended thirty thousand feet above the earth, completely forfeiting control to a manmade machine and the couple of individuals operating it. And let’s not forget the fact that it’s a people-watcher’s paradise. Establishing everyone’s backstory is always one of my favorite pastimes. But not today.

  Not since the phone call.

  Truth be told, my heart hasn’t dislodged from my throat since I received the call almost forty-eight hours ago. Nothing–and I mean nothing–can prepare you for that call. The one that rocks you clear down to your toes, stripping your soul of every ounce of happiness it possesses, and leaves you in a pile of despair and tears. It was that phone call that changed my life forever.

  Gone.

  Just like that. My brother was gone.

  I quickly brush the pesky tears away, refusing to let my emotions get the best of me in the middle of a busy airport. Following along with the masses like cows being put out to pasture, I attempt once more to push all thoughts of Marcus from my mind as I make my way towards baggage claim. But those slippery little devils have stained my cheek since the moment my mom called to tell me the tragic news.

  As another departure is announced for final boarding, I finally make my way to the large conveyor belt. It takes longer than normal for my beat up black suitcase to make its way towards me. In fact, I’m pretty sure my bag was the last one pulled from the belly of the jet that delivered me straight from LaGuardia to Louisville. Par for the course on this muggy, humid May afternoon.

  Grabbing a hold of the bag, I fling it over the edge of the slow-moving device with enough force that I’m rewarded with a loud crack as my suitcase hits the tile floor. The bracket holding my wheel splinters into a thousand pieces, raining black plastic all over the floor in a three-foot radius. I stare down at the shattered remains of my wheel in utter disbelief. REALLY!?

  Why not throw in a few more rain clouds, Universe?

  I oddly limp with my broken suitcase backwards until I’m against the wall, well out of the way of the other scurrying travelers. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize I’m totally and royally screwed. The wheel is completely gone on the left side, leaving sharp shards of black plastic sticking out at dangerous angles. There’s no way I can maneuver this thing through the airport on one wheel which means I’m carrying it.

  Awesome.

  And to think, I almost left those last two pairs of boots at home.

  Hefting the bag up with my right arm, I start to make the long trek through the masses of travelers, towards the entrance where I’m meeting my father. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t starting to sweat. The combination of May Midwestern heat and the fifty pounds of clothes and accessories I crammed into a single suitcase are weighing on me quickly. I’ve barely made it twenty feet and I already have to switch arms. Of course, juggling my purse and small carry-on bag with electronics isn’t an easy task when you’re trying not to decapitate the person walking next to you.

  Par for the course, Colbi.

  Naturally, if I wasn’t making the equivalent of a fast-food employee’s wages, I might’ve been able to afford a newer suitcase that didn’t look like it barely survived the seventies. My dream was simple: graduate from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York and work my way to the top, preferably alongside a wedding gown designer in New York City. And while that dream is still very much alive and well, it has proven to be a very slow progression. Fine. I’ve barely climbed up from the bottom rung of the ladder.

  When I graduated FIT, I was ecstatic to receive an internship with Enchanted Elegance, one of the top five wedding dress designers in the state of New York. Alana Kensington appeared to be the perfect boss: tough, yet approachable. Her custom designs were sought after by some of the most prestigious brides in the country, and I wanted just a tiny piece of that.

  I knew I would start at the bottom. I knew I would have to work hard–more hours than I wanted to really acknowledge–to prove my worth. But I was dedicated. I was driven. And I was going to make it, damn it.

  I just didn’t realize “making it” was short for “she’s got you by the balls.” My internship eventually turned into full-time employment, but I was the hamster in the wheel, running as fast as I possibly could, only to not have anything to show for it at the end of the day. My title as Assistant was really code for coffee runner. Scapegoat. Receiver of daily verbal lashings. I have yet to touch a pencil in an actual Alana Kensington original, nor has Alana shown any interest in looking at the personal designs that I pour my heart and soul into. Instead, I make sure the pins are stocked, the material is flawless, the measuring tape is always within reach, and the coffee pot is full. No matter where my place is in the process, I’m still involved in helping brides with their perfect dress.

  But this was my dream, right?

  Stopping in the middle of the airport, I choke on the very air trying to fill my lungs. Uncontrollable tears fill my eyes, clouding my vision once more. Travelers brush past me, bumping into my arms or my broken suitcase, without even a glance back or a word of apology. I’m lost in a sea of people, drowning in despair and hurt. I choke on everything: my loss, my travel, my less-than-thrilled boss when I explained that I was rushing home to be with my family during the unexpected loss of the man just two years older than my own twenty-six years. It suddenly all becomes too much. In the middle of the crowded airport, the loss of my brother finally really hits me. And damn, does it hit me hard, like a line drive straight to the chest. I can’t seem to make my legs work. Moving out of the way of the other travelers suddenly isn’t even an option for me. I’m grounded, rooted right where I stand.

  The bag falls to the floor, crashing in a loud heap of dead weight. Marcus. My grief overcomes me, swallowing me whole in the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt. My heart shatters all over again, just like it did the moment I received that devastating phone call from my mom. But this time, the shock of that call isn’t a factor. My grief grips me tightly and won’t let go. The tears start to fall and won’t let up. There, in the middle of the airport, I lose my grip on my carefully placed composure, and maybe a bit of reality.

  Fellow travelers sidestep around me as if to get as far away as they can from the crazy girl having a meltdown in the middle of the airport. Very few glance in my direction, and the ones that do offer me a look of pity. One lady even offers me a crumpled up ti
ssue from her pocket as she walks by. I can only give her a watery nod of appreciation as I grip the flimsy piece of tissue as if it were a lifeline before she scurries off, getting lost in the throngs of people.

  My despair refuses to ease up its firm clasp, even the slightest bit. The simple task of breathing appears to be just as much of a chore as dressing was this morning. I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and count to ten in an attempt to slow my breathing. When that doesn’t work, I try again. Panic starts to set in. I feel it deep in my chest as my breathing becomes more and more labored. I’ve never in my life had a panic attack. I gulp shallow breaths of air, but my mind is elevating quickly to panic mode. I’m going to die right here in the middle of the airport from lack of oxygen. Dear God, I’m going to die and my parents are going to bury both of their children. Together.

  My eyes fly open as that image takes root in my mind. I’m surely having an out-of-body experience at this point. Maybe lack of oxygen to my brain is causing hallucinations because there before me is a vision of my past. Like the parting of the Red Sea, bodies of fellow travelers divide and reveal a tall cowboy in tight Wranglers and a worn baseball cap.

  Aiden.

  I choke, and he must recognize the fear and panic in my eyes. Aiden moves quickly, his legs eating up the distance between us in just a few short seconds. He looks so real–so life-like. His brown hair curls out around the edges of his baseball cap as if he has missed a recent cut. Apparently unable to squeeze in a shave this morning, his chin and strong jaw are dusted with a bit of roughness that only makes his appearance that much more handsome. Hard muscles hidden beneath a tight green t-shirt have replaced the boyish youthfulness I remember so vividly. And those eyes–damn, those hazel eyes. They’re bright and shining and appear more golden than I remember. He’s the best hallucination I could conjure up at this moment of weakness and pain.