Steel Rain: A Military Romance Collection

by A. Gorman

  Today though I’m taking the first few baby steps to try and start the healing process. My therapist told me that I need to do something for myself. I’m constantly doing everything for Andrew and refuse to ever do anything just for me.

  So, since I’m returning to my job at Hucklebee Elementary, teaching second grade again next week, I’m going to the salon with my best friend Shelby today to get our hair and mani-pedis done.

  I can’t remember the last time I sat in a salon chair, let alone had my nails and toes done.

  This is the first step in finding a way to be happy again. I know this is not how Brock would want me to live the rest of my life; for me and for Andrew.

  I’m ready to stop just existing.

  I’m ready to start living again.

  Chapter Two

  “Look at you, hot mama!”

  I feel my cheeks flushing red hot as Shelby and I walk out into the cool fall air as we exit the hair salon. I nervously run my fingers through my hair loving how silky soft and healthy it feels.

  “I knew that cut and color was going to look perfect on you!” Shelby exclaims as she eyes me up and down.

  I let out a nervous laugh as I dig my car keys out from my purse. “It’s a huge change. It’s going to take me a little while to get used to having all my hair gone.”

  I walked in with the idea of getting my hair colored and trimmed. I walked out looking like a completely different person. I didn’t recognize myself at first when I looked at my reflection in the mirror as Chris removed the black smock from around me and let me take a good look at the finished product.

  She ended up taking ten inches off, which I was reluctant to do at first, but after a lot of convincing from Shelby and my hair dresser, Chris, I gave in and thought, What the hell, why not?

  My hair, which was down to my butt, dry, damaged, and a mixed shade of brown and rusty blonde, is now so damn soft I can’t stop running my fingers through it. Chris cut it shoulder-length and styled it layers so I can wear it straight or curled. Now, it’s a beautiful shade of caramel blonde with some baby high lights painted throughout giving it just a slight touch of blonde.

  Having my fingers and toes done was so relaxing. I can’t remember the last time I felt so at ease. I laid back in the massage chair, read a few chapters of King by T.M. Frazier on my phone while having my feet massaged; it was absolute heaven.

  I’m so happy I let Shelby convince me to come out for a girls’ day today because it was exactly what I needed to get me ready for this next chapter of my life. I’ve missed work and can’t wait to get back to my classroom and to my students.

  “Where’s Andrew tonight?” Shelby asks, as she slides into the passenger seat of my car and buckles up.

  Pushing the start engine button, I shift the car into drive and check to make sure it’s safe to drive. “He’s at Finn’s tonight for a sleepover. Why?” I ask, giving her a sideways glance before pulling out of the parking spot into evening traffic.

  Shifting in her seat to face me, she plasters a big, all sparkling teeth smile my way. That smile combined with the twinkle in her eyes spells one thing: Trouble.

  “Don’t even think about it, Shelbs. I’m going home, enjoying the peace and quiet, and spending the evening with King.” I give her a knowing smirk because she knows just how freaking hot this damn book is; no matter how fucked up King and Doe’s story is, King is still all alpha and I for one can’t get enough of him.

  Books are my escape.

  They’re a way for me to run off from the sadness that snakes around me and tries to squeeze the life out of me. I was a casual reader before Brock died, but after, when I stopped working and found myself holed up inside my house feeling completely alone, I turned to books to escape the heartache and feelings of complete loneliness I was slowly losing myself in with each passing day.

  The online book groups on Facebook have been pretty much my only social interaction in the year since Brock died, besides Shelby, because that girl doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries and doesn’t understand what ‘I’m not up for company right now’ means. Talking to other readers about what books we’re all reading each week has been a great distraction for me. Especially on bad days when the simple task of breathing is just too hard. When I read a book or chat about one I recently finished, my mind, which was swirling with a million thoughts a few seconds ago, slows down and my anxiety gradually seeps away.

  “Well, I’m thinking you’re looking way too good to just go home and waste all this work Chris has done by sitting on your damn couch all by yourself. I say we go down to Lucky’s, have a beer, show off your new do, flirt with some guys, and then go back to your house to watch The Longest Ride because Scott Eastwood. Girl, I’d love me a piece of that man.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. This girl has the worst case of squirrel. She bounces from one idea to the next before you can even finish processing the first thought that popped into that fire-red head of hers.

  Shaking my head, I roll up to the red light, stop the car, and turn my narrowed eyes on her to show her that I’m one-hundred-percent firm on this. “No way in hell am I going out to Lucky’s.”

  “Brock’s been gone for over a year, Em. You gotta get out and have some fun. If not for yourself, then for me. I miss my best friend. I’ve sat by idly while I watched you lock yourself away from the world. I can’t do it anymore. You’re going back to work, that’s a big step for you but you need to get out there and socialize with people again. I got a text from Vanessa and Shirly, who are there right now ordering dinner and having a few drinks. They’d love it if you’d come out with us. Even if it’s only to eat dinner, have one drink, and then go home.”

  I feel the wall that I’ve worked so hard on building around myself slowly being chipped away. Sighing, I push down on the gas and turn on my blinker, turning onto Grover Street where Lucky’s is located. “Fine. But only for an hour. I’ll eat, have one drink, but that’s it. Then my ass is going home.”

  She flashes me a smile that fills her entire face as she bounces in her seat and pats her thighs, shrieking with excitement. “You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me!”

  “You’re lucky I love you, because I feel like I’m about to puke. I’m so fricking nervous. I feel like everyone’s going to be staring at me. The hermit widow out having drinks. I can’t stand their looks of pity. They make me uncomfortable. I don’t want people staring at me awkwardly and like I’m some fragile thing that’ll shatter into a million pieces if they accidently mention Brock to me. I’m trying to be strong and move past this pain that’s consumed me since I lost him. Not just for me but for Andrew too. For me to do that, I need everyone to be normal again, no more walking on eggshells around me and treating me like someone they need to feel sorry for. It only makes it harder for me to move past this sadness trying to suffocate me.” Turning the car off, I collapse against my seat, tilting my head toward the car ceiling and let out a long frustrated groan. “I want to be treated like a normal person again. Not looked at like Brock’s widow or Andrew’s poor widowed mother. It paralyzes me and makes me isolate myself from everyone. I’d rather sit at home alone where I can try to get through the day without crying or feeling as if my entire life is over. Because that’s how I feel when I have to go out and talk to people in this damn town. Like my life is over. I’ll never be Emberly again. From the day he was killed until the day I die, I’ll be Brock’s wife, the widow, Andrew’s poor mother. That’s what I see when they all stare at me with sympathetic stares and nervous random conversations.”

  I’m completely rambling now, but it feels like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders. Having blurted out everything that’s been weighing me down and causing my anxiety attacks every time I have to attend a sporting event with Andrew or do something as simple as running to the gas station or the grocery store.

  This is why I love Shelby, because she always listens. No matter if it’s a quick rant or an hour-long rambling se
ssion, she’ll sit here beside me and let me get it all out.

  Unbuckling her seatbelt, Shelby turns sideways in her seat, and tucks her left leg under her butt so she can fully face me. Bracing her hands on the center console between us, her face hardens as she takes on a serious tone. “If they stare who fuckin’ cares! Bat those long, gorgeous eyelashes and show off that killer smile of yours at them then show them that you’re strong and getting through this. You don’t need their pity. It’s time you showed them you are more than the grieving widow in this small-minded town and stopped worrying about what all these stupid Stepford wives think about you. Brock is gone but that doesn’t mean that you have to stop living. That’s all the more reason you should be! You know better than anyone that you’re never promised tomorrow. So, you need to get out there, grab life by its big hairy fuckin’ balls, and show it you’re not scared of what it can throw at you, because you’ve been through hell and been dealt the hardest blow it could ever throw at you, but you’re still standing. You’re a survivor. Now it’s time for you to discover who you are after Brock, after all this pain and heartache. Discover who you can be because of what you’ve been through. I’m going to be right by your side, helping you every step of the way.”

  Reaching out, she takes my hand in hers and gives it a soft squeeze before grabbing the door handle and pushing the passenger side door open then stepping out. Resting her hands on the roof of my car, she dips her head down to peer across the interior at me, she hollers, “Let’s go eat, girly. I’m fricking starvin’!”

  Right on cue my stomach rumbles, revealing just how hungry I am too. We’ve been so busy today with my hair appointment, we ended up skipping lunch. I was so enthralled in the hours at the salon I didn’t realize how hungry I am until she opens the door, allowing my nose to be assaulted by the amazing smell of fried food that’s filling the air outside of Lucky’s.

  Pushing open my door, I step out onto the street, and agree, “Let’s go eat.”

  Rounding the car, I inhale a shaky breath and push aside my fears. Walking side by side with my best friend into Lucky’s, is my first attempt at living again.

  Chapter Three

  Taylor

  Present Day

  Reason number one I hate moving.

  Unpacking.

  I’ve spent the last three days unpacking, building furniture and popping aspirin because it’s safe to say that every inch of my body aches. I loaded up a U-Haul last week, filling it with the few pieces of furniture I own and all my belongings, which isn’t much. I’m the definition of a bachelor. I only own the bare necessities when it comes to living on my own. Two televisions, one for my bedroom and one for my living room, a recliner, small sofa, one end table, a bed, and bar stools, because my last apartment back in Maine didn’t have enough room for an actual kitchen table, and a dresser. The only item I bought since arriving to Hucklebee is this mahogany desk that now sits in my spare bedroom with a badass new computer chair. I figure since I plan on spending a lot of my time sitting at it thanks to my new job, I might as well spend the money and get the best computer chair Ikea had to offer.

  It also gave me the perfect spot to showcase my collection of autographed sports memorabilia, which I’ve collected since I was old four years old.

  Reaching into the last box sitting in the center of my now office, I pull out the last two glass encased, autographed baseballs and set them on the top shelf of my desk alongside the four already perfectly lined up there.

  I step back and take a moment to admire the beauty standing before me. I may have cursed enough to make my sailor buddies feel the need to toss me a damn bible, and have an achy back for the next few days, but it was sure as hell worth it because my first ever home office looks fucking bad ass.

  Scooping up the empty box, I swing the door open and make my way down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. Breaking the box down, I fold it in half and set it inside the larger box sitting on the floor beside my trash can, holding the rest of my recyclables that I need to carry out to the recycling dumpster; but that’s for another day. I’m too damn beat and way too hungry to worry about recycling right now. Instead, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and pull up my recent contacts and hit call.

  I have one more day left to worry about unpacking and getting my shit sorted before I start my new job, so tonight I’m going to relax and enjoy a few beers and a big juicy burger because I fucking earned them. Three days of driving, followed by five days of unpacking and building furniture. I think I earned a lot more than a few beers but I’d rather not have to spend tomorrow unpacking the rest of my shit while hungover.

  College football is on TV but I won’t have cable until Monday evening so I’m going to the one place in this town I know football will be on… Lucky’s.

  The cabby answers on the second ring and tells me he’ll be at my place in ten minutes. So I use the little time I have to change into a fresh pair of jeans, a clean t-shirt… well the cleanest I could find buried in a box of clothes I still need to finish going through.

  The few items of clothing I did take out are only what I need for this workweek, plus my two favorite pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and a pair of basketball shorts. I’ve rotated those few items over the last eight days because I haven’t had a free moment to do laundry.

  I spritz myself with some cologne to make sure I don’t smell like a giant cardboard box, and slip my phone and wallet into the back pocket of my pants just as I hear the beep of the cab outside. I slide my feet into my favorite boat shoes sitting next to my front door, and grab my faded brown leather jacket off the hook before rushing out to the small yellow car waiting on me.

  Climbing out of the cab, I give the driver a chin lift goodbye, and tell him, “Have a good night,” before slamming the back-passenger side door shut.

  I can hear music coming from inside the bar and inhale deeply, taking in the delicious scent of fried wings and barbecue chicken. Sitting outside directly next to the front entrance is a giant smoker, where I assume the chicken I’m smelling and suddenly salivating over is cooking.

  I peer up at the large sign hanging above the only bar in this small town and read ‘Lucky’s Bar & Grill’ before making my way inside.

  My boss told me about the place when we chatted over Skype a few weeks ago during my interview. He told me this place has some of the best food, not to let the small bar atmosphere fool me. So I’m here to find out for myself if this place is as good as he says. The place is nice, with booths lining the walls on each side, and tables filling the entire front of the building. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire front entrance give a nice view of the main street outside, which is lined with small shops and antique-looking light posts illuminating the sidewalks. The bar is packed without a single open table. I have the feeling that this is the place everyone goes to on a Saturday night.

  A barely legal young woman greets me at the podium with a bright smile, “Evenin’. Would you like a table or a seat at the bar?”

  I glance around the area, rubbing my hand nervously along the back of my neck and instantly my eyes land on the large flat screen TV playing the first half of the Sooners game. Directing my eyes toward the television set, I tell her, “I’ll just take a seat up at the bar.”

  Nodding her head, she flashes me one more toothy smile and tilts her head toward a vacant seat, and states, “Well then you can follow me right this way.”

  I follow a few steps behind her as we navigate toward the few remaining vacant bar stools. She stops as soon as she reaches the long polished bar filled with people all mingling or doing what I plan on doing, staring straight up at the game that is unfolding.

  “Here’s a menu, you can let one of the bartenders know what you’d like to order and they’ll put it in for you.” She reaches up rubbing my shoulder flirtatiously and bats her long eyelashes up at me before spinning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd of people.

  I feel eyes on me as I climb up onto t
he bar stool and wait for one of the bartenders to work their way over to me. People are continuously walking up to the bar, sliding in between people sitting on the chairs and shouting drink or food orders nonstop, I have the impression I’ll be fucking skin and bones by the time I get to put my order in. There’s only three staff members and what looks to be about eighty or so patrons in here wanting something.

  Scooping up a pretzel from the dish sitting on the surface in front of me, I toss it into my mouth and steal a glance up at the game, check the score before leaning a little further onto the bar in an attempt to try and grab someone’s attention as they pass by me. As soon as I spot a man who looks about my age with spiked black hair with the tips died neon green, and arms revealing not a single piece of skin that isn’t covered in tattoos, I hold my hand up in the air and shout, “Excuse, me!” But there are so many people doing the same exact thing, he doesn’t even notice me sitting right in front of him.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  I curse under my breath as my stomach fucking rumbles again as I watch him stop two seats down to take some chicks order. Of course.

  Grabbing another pretzel, I toss it into my mouth crunching down on it and start to look over the menu. I might as well take my time deciding what I want to eat because by the time I order my drink I’ll want to give him my food order as well or who knows when I’ll be able to again.

  A sudden feeling of being watched hits me. Call it the constant state of paranoia I live in, but it was beat into me when I joined the military to always be aware of my surroundings. Even though I’ve been a civilian for six years, some habits die hard.