Steel Rain: A Military Romance Collection

by A. Gorman

  “I ain’t going nowhere, Jake, so unless you open this door, I’m gonna find a way to break it down. If that means I have to call the police or the fire brigade or the fucking mayor of Fairhope, I will.”

  “Did you just curse?” he says, and his voice sounds less angry now. Drunk, but less angry. Hooray for small mercies.

  Nuke scratches at the door again. I tell him to stop, but I’m not his handler, so he doesn’t listen to me. I let out a sigh and lean my head against the wood. “Open the damn door, Jake.”

  The sound of the lock popping open rings out like a shot. My whole body goes tense and Nuke barks. With trembling hands, I turn the knob. It opens.

  Glass tinkles across the floor, swept up by the door as it swings wide. Every fiber of my being braces for the worst, but it isn’t as bad as it sounded. A broken mirror—that’s for sure—and a couple of items on the floor—pill bottles, cologne, some hair product, and a broken man, sitting in amongst the debris he made. Nuke tries to push past me, and I grab onto his collar.

  “Nuke, stay,” Jake says, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine across the room. The dog whines but sits back on the carpet, panting and clearly distressed.

  “You fool of a man, what have you done to yourself?” I stare at the blood trailing down his forearm. There’s a gaping hole in the wall where the mirror used to be and blood smeared across the drywall around it. Carefully, I cross the floor, glass crunching under the soles of my white tennis shoes. I don’t even think about not touching him—I just reach out and draw his arm to me in order to inspect the damage. He wrenches out of my grasp with a grunt and the astringent scent of liquor rolls over me.

  “You been drinkin’, Jake?” Obviously, I already know the answer, but I ask anyway because I need to get him talkin’. I don’t like the way his eyes seem to look right through me.

  The corners of his mouth turn up in a bitter grin. “Yeah, I been drinkin’.”

  I pick up the bottles of pills strewn all over the floor and set them on the counter. “How many of these did you take?” I snap.

  “None.”

  I discard the pills in the trash because they wouldn’t do no good after they’ve been rollin’ around in glass. “You shouldn’t drink when you’re on meds.”

  “It don’t fuckin’ matter anymore.”

  I snap my gaze back to his and grit my teeth. “It matters to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I care about you,” I say. “We care about you.”

  His eyes get all squinty and he slurs, “You don’t even know me.”

  “Is that what you think?” I snap, losing all patience with him. “That I don’t know the man I’ve been letting into my house? I know you, and the Jake Tucker I know—the Jake Spencer knows—is not this Jake.”

  He smiles that twisted grin again, and so help me, I’ve never wanted to put my hands on a person in anger so much in my life. I want to slap that smirk right off his beautiful face.

  “Maybe this is the real Jake; maybe I’m just another asshole you hardly know tryin’ to get in your panties.”

  I stare at him in shock, and I won’t lie, it takes a moment to recover, but like any southern woman worth her salt, I’m a master in the art of backhanded compliments and southern charm. “Then you clearly ain’t as smart as I thought you were, ’cause this Jake? He don’t stand a chance of getting anywhere near my panties, but the other may have. Looks like now we’ll never know.” His cocky smile falters. “Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up.”

  He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “What do you know about it? You can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

  “Oh I see it,” I huff. “I’m real familiar with how mean a bottle of Johnnie Walker can make a man.”

  “That the reason you never talk about why Spencer’s daddy ain’t around?”

  “Yeah, that’s the reason,” I say folding my arms over my chest. “Because, it’s a long painful road that I walked away from and one that I don’t wanna have to revisit. And considering where you been, Jake Tucker, I thought you might know something about that.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  “It matters,” he says through his teeth. “Believe me, it matters.”

  “Why? You gonna go to Charleston, find him, and beat the crap outta him for hurtin’ me? The best thing you can do for me is to not become him.” I take a deep breath and wonder why we’re talkin’ about me at all when there’s clearly more important things going on right here. “Why didn’t you show up at my house yesterday? And why are you drinking in the middle of the day?”

  “Day, night, it don’t matter. The nightmares don’t stop unless I’m three fuckin’ sheets to the wind.”

  I sigh and grab the washcloth from a rack. Running warm water over it, I wring out the excess and crouch down to his level. “Give me your hand.” He shakes his head. “Give me your goddamn hand, Jake.”

  He doesn’t extend it out to me, but he doesn’t pull away either when I grab his forearm. I get a good glimpse of the damage he’s done. He don’t need stitches, far as I can tell.

  I gently start wiping at the mess and get to my feet a few times to rinse out the washcloth. As the blood is washed away, his scars become more pronounced. This is the first time I’m seeing him in a shirt that doesn’t have long sleeves. It makes me want to cry because his skin is a patchwork of pain. It tells a story of hate and unimaginable cruelty, but there is splendor in it, too. There’s a tale of courage, survival, immeasurable strength, and beauty in the face of such ugliness. They tried to destroy him, and they failed.

  I trace my finger over the deepest scar on his forearm and blink back tears. Jake’s whole body stiffens. I decide it’s best not to push him any further by touching him again, but that don’t mean I’m going to go easy on him either. “So, you got any rubbing alcohol? Or did you drink that too?”

  He closes his eyes and leans back against the tub. “Under the sink.”

  I pull out the rubbing alcohol and a first-aid kit and get to work disinfecting and bandaging the worst of his wounds. He hisses when I place soaked cotton to the cuts, but he don’t say much beyond that. I take several towels from the rack and lay them across the worst of the broken glass. I’ll go in search of a dustpan soon, but right now I need him away from sharp objects and anything else that might cause him harm.

  “Okay, Marine, on your feet.” I gently grasp his arm and help him stand. He’s not the easiest man to move, but somehow we manage. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  “Words I never thought I’d hear coming from those sweet lips of yours,” he slurs as I lead him out of the bathroom and over to the bed.

  “Knock it off, Jake.” Not that a part of me isn’t thrilled to hear those words—my vagina is doin’ cartwheels in my panties right now—but I have no intention of letting him see that. I won’t be with a man juiced up on liquor. Been there, done that, got the emotional scars to prove it.

  I shove him back on the bed. His big body lands with an “oomph,” and I bend to scoop up one leg at a time and place them on the mattress that he barely even fits on.

  “I knew you weren’t a Bama girl. What are you doin’ so far from home, Elle? Livin’ on struggle street all alone with your boy. I bet there’s a hint of that entitled little South Carolina rich bitch in you still. Wanna know what it feels like to play with a man from the wrong side of the tracks?”

  “No. I don’t. I’ve played with those kinds of men before, and it always leaves a mark.”

  Jake is hardly from the wrong side of the tracks. I don’t know much about how he grew up, but I was willing to bet he’d inherited this house from his granddaddy. The house itself isn’t even that old, but this land is worth a fortune. I know that much. It might be a long way from Water Street, Charleston, but it is certainly a departure from Struggle Street, as he’s been so kind to point out.

  I draw the curtains and cover him with the rumpled up to
p sheet hanging from the edge of the bed.

  “Haven’t you babied me enough for one day?”

  “That depends. Are you done behaving like a child?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Leave me alone, Elle.”

  “I ain’t leaving, because I don’t trust you not to hurt the Jake I actually do like. He’s still in there somewhere, soaked to the bone with liquor, and this guy? This hotshot bad boy Marine? He isn’t that Jake. He’s just a sad, lonely man lookin’ for someone to lash out at. So you can say whatever you want to me, Jake Tucker. It don’t matter, ’cause all of it is the Johnnie talking, and all of it is just a front for how alone you feel.” I turn out the lamp and head for the door. “Sleep it off. When you feel like hell for every harsh word you said, you come see me. I’ll be in your kitchen when you wanna act like a real man.”

  “Hoity-toity bitch,” he grumbles, sinking farther into the pillows.

  “Nasty drunk,” I fire back, and order Nuke onto the bed with him, and then I leave and close the bedroom door behind me.

  * * *

  By six, he still hasn’t woken, and though he don’t deserve it, I bring him supper. I had to do a little shuffling throughout the day, cancelling my appointments and asking Olivia to pick up Spence. Ordinarily he would hate that kind of change to the routine, but Olivia means dogs, which means Spence is well taken care of and happy to be there.

  I set the tray on the bedside table. I’ve already been in here two hours ago to let Nuke out to do his business while I cleaned the puke from the floor. Jake had reached out to me, but I had no desire to pander to this man’s whims. I only cleaned up the mess so it wouldn’t stain the carpet. He hadn’t really been lucid then, but now the scent of food rouses him. He opens his eyes and groans.

  “Brought you some soup and biscuits,” I say cheerily.

  He sighs and then mumbles with a deep, croaking voice, “What’re you still doing here?”

  “They breed those hoity-toity bitches tough in Charleston,” I say, drawing the burgundy leather wingback chair closer to the bed. It was heavier than it looked, but I wasn’t about to show him that. “So if you wanna get rid of me, you’re gonna have to try harder.”

  “I’m a piece of shit, Elle. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on me.”

  “Why? Because you’re here and they ain’t?”

  “I bet you could start a fight in an empty house, couldn’t ya?” He grits his teeth, and I can see I’ve hit a nerve. “You don’t know shit about it.”

  “You’re right, I don’t, because you won’t let me in unless you’re as drunk as Cooter Brown. I know you don’t wanna relive it, and you probably don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, but as the woman who just cleaned your puke up off the floor, I think I have a right to be heard. You ain’t broken, and you ain’t alone. Me and Spence ain’t goin’ anywhere. So you can say as many ugly things as that beautiful brain of yours can come up with, but you can’t scare me away. I got your number, Jake Tucker. And I’m warnin’ you now, I don’t give up on the people I care about.”

  “Do you know what my granddaddy told me when I deployed after being promoted to Staff Sergeant? He said, ‘You got five men under your command, Sergeant; you make sure you bring ’em all home.’ Do you know how many I brought home?” A bitter laugh fills the space between us. “None. I didn’t even come home. I left a piece of myself back there in that desert and I can’t ever get it back. So you best let go of the idea that you can fix me, because this is all that’s left. War raped me in the ass with a fucking AK47, and I’m riddled with too many holes to tape a Band-Aid over. I got nothin’ left worth saving.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t?” he says gruffly. I suspect he’s still a little drunk, and he’s definitely still angry. Maybe he’s pissed at me for callin’ him out, maybe he’s angry with himself, and maybe he has a right to be. But he also has a right to live and not feel guilty because of it.

  “Nope, I don’t.” I sit forward, grab the spoon from the tray, and fill it with chicken noodle broth.

  “I don’t need you to feed me, Elle. I’m not a fucking kid,” he snaps, turning his head away just like Spence used to as a baby.

  “You got somethin’ against my cookin’?”

  “It’s emasculating.”

  “My cooking? Or having someone look after you?” I ask, and he scowls. I set the spoon down. “I feel sorry for you, Jake. You’ve spent so long building that wall around yourself that you don’t even know that every day since we met I’ve been chipping away at that thing and I finally made a hole. I let the light back in.”

  He swallows hard, and I know he knows it’s true. He won’t admit to it though, so I get to my feet and walk to the door. Jake won’t listen to reason tonight, and I have another man to tend to. I’ve never missed a tuck-in yet, and I don’t plan on missing one now.

  “If you were smart, you’d stay away,” he warns, quietly.

  “If you were smart, you’d beg me not to,” I say from the doorway. “Finish that broth and take your dog out. I’ll see you in the morning, Jake.”

  I collect my keys and purse, and the extra soup I packed up for my dinner from the dining table on my way out. In truth, I’m not so sure about leaving him by himself, but my son needs me. I can’t do any more for Jake than what I’ve already done.

  I just hope it’s enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jake

  Ellie hasn’t been by in two days. Not at the park, and not at my front door. I know I don’t deserve her kindness after being so cruel, but it’s making me crazy not being able to see her right now.

  Everything she’d said was right. She has been chipping away at those walls and she’s broken through, and I should have begged her to stay. I thought she’d meant it when she’d said she’d be back to check on me the next day, and though I didn’t deserve it, I’d been gutted when she hadn’t shown. I’ve found a woman who understands me, who doesn’t care if I am damaged or scarred, and I’ve found a kid who makes me feel like I have a reason for sticking around. It doesn’t matter that I won’t take those steps to make Ellie mine, even though I want to, because neither one of them looks at me like I am damaged goods.

  There isn’t a single person in this town who looks at me and doesn’t see a fucked up POW. Somehow though, when Ellie and Spencer look, they just see me.

  But I’ve gone and cocked it all up. I can’t just go over there. If she wanted me in their lives, she’d have come to see me. She’s been hurt before, that much was clear from day one, and she has her son to think about. I don’t blame her for changing her mind where I’m concerned.

  I gotta get out of here. Take a walk and clear my head.

  My body aches today. My whole left side feels like a live wire, and the shrapnel embedded in my leg feels like it’s on the move again, so as much as I ache and my muscles protest, I get up from my chair and fix Nuke’s lead to his collar and we head out.

  Only the second my shoes hit the pavement that nice, relaxing walk is all but forgotten. We start out jogging, but it’s an all-out run before I’ve cleared the driveway. Nuke keeps up with me and before long I’m pushing through the pain and picking up even more speed. I follow the same route I take every day, only this time I run right past North Beach Park and keep on runnin’ until we reach the end of the pier, then we both come to a gasping, halting stop. A couple of locals enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun on the pier give me strange looks, but that’s not unusual.

  We pant, me doubled over and Nuke lying down on the salt-ravaged pier, his large tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. I reach over and scratch his ear while I catch my breath for several beats. Every part of me hurts. I think I moved all the damn shrapnel in my left side. I laugh as I imagine it all shiftin’ around like little staples in a box. Or magnets, all ripping through my muscles to join together. I stare out at Mobile Bay and take a few deep breaths, wanting a long soak in Epsom salts to ease
the aches and pains, but I’ll likely shower and fall asleep on the couch.

  After pushing myself like that, the part I loathe is the walk home. I look down at Nuke. “Come on, buddy.”

  He seems as impressed with this idea as I am, but if we don’t go while my muscles are still warm, we might be spending the night on this pier or sleeping beneath it. I tend to seize up after a hard run. That don’t stop me doing it from time to time.

  Instead of going back the way we came, I head toward the center of town. I don’t know why. Something just tells me to go that way. I’m approaching the bank on S Section Street, across from the French Quarter, when I spot Elle, withdrawing money from the ATM. I slow and yank on Nuke’s collar for him to stop. She isn’t alone. Spencer sits in the back seat of her car parked at the curb, waiting, and a man with tattoos, a ripped T-shirt, and a shaved head crowds her in as he leans his arm against the wall. She hands him the wad of bills, and he sneers and spits on the ground beside her. A muscle in my cheek twitches. He grabs her arm and leads her to the car, and in three seconds flat I find myself standing behind them both.

  “Elle?” I say. She don’t turn around. In fact, she reaches for the car’s door handle, but he’s blocking her way. “You okay here?”

  “She’s fine. Fuck off,” the guy says, stepping out around her.

  “Just leave it, Jake.” Ellie turns and meets my gaze for only a second, and then she glances at the ground, pulling her purse up on her shoulder as tears roll down her face. She’s sportin’ one hell of a black eye and a puffy cheek.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I hiss and move toward him. No one should get to lay a hand on a woman and not get their ass beaten for it.

  Ellie steps in front of me. “No, Jake, just walk away. Please.”

  “He did this to you?”

  “Yeah, I did it,” he snarls. “Imagine my surprise when I get out of prison, finally track down my wife two states over, and see she’s been fuckin’ some freak soldier boy while I been locked away up in Estill.”