by Cat Johnson
He said he drove it to keep the engine in shape, but the truth was Justin got in it when he wanted to feel close to his brother. And, truth be told, sometimes when he wished he could chuck it all and join his brother, wherever that might be. Even after going to church his entire life, he wasn’t so convinced Heaven existed. At least not exactly in the way the preacher said it did.
One more gulp and the beer was empty. Justin stepped off the bar stool and dug in his pocket for his wallet.
“You going?” Ray asked.
“Yup.”
“Put that beer on my tab.” Rod directed the statement to the bartender.
“Thanks, but I got it.” Justin threw a bill on the bar. “See y’all later.”
He didn’t wait for change from the bill he’d tossed down, or good-byes from the two men. Instead he yanked the door open and stepped out into the evening air. Only then—outside and away from the oppressive presence of people—did he feel like he could breathe again.
Shit. He wasn’t fit for being around any other living thing today. Maybe he should pick up a six-pack, drive to a field somewhere, sit in the truck, and drink it.
It was coming up on two years since Jeremy had died. Justin knew he’d have to be there for his mother on that day. Hell, for the whole month probably. But now, with over a month left to go before that grim anniversary, he’d give himself this time to wallow in his grief.
Justin would let himself get angry, too. At God for letting a good man die too damn young. At the bastards who’d planted that roadside bomb. Even at Jeremy for reenlisting when he could have been home safe instead of in Afghanistan.
He slid into the driver’s seat and stared down at the set of keys in his hand. The truck key. The house key. The key to the padlock on the tool shed in the backyard. Some mysterious key that he didn’t recognize; he was starting to wonder if even Jeremy had known what it opened.
Justin ran his thumb over the smooth metal of the ring. It was the same key ring Jeremy had carried in his pocket since the day he’d bought the truck. He’d carried it until the fake leather tag on it that read Chevy had worn and frayed around the edges. He’d carried it until he’d deployed that final time.
Knocking himself out of the daze he’d slipped into, Justin reached for the radio and hit the power button. The same station that had been playing the last time Jeremy drove the truck before leaving blared to life.
Justin couldn’t bring himself to change the station, just like he couldn’t throw out the stack of fast-food napkins stuffed in the glove compartment or the two-year-old, half-empty tin of chew Jeremy had left in the console under the dash.
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired to life, rumbling beneath him. It would be better to run it more often than the half a dozen or so times a year that he did. That would keep the tires from getting flat spots or worse, dry rot.
He should be pushing it, too. Taking longer trips at highway speeds to get the fluids circulating and blow the carbon out of the engine.
But there were the ghosts of too many memories in this truck. It hurt to drive it. Then again, it hurt when he didn’t drive it, so what the hell did it matter?
It would be good for both him and the truck to gun it. Open up the engine and let the mud fly.
Decision made, Justin threw the truck in reverse, backed out of the space and shifted into drive.
He hit the accelerator, peeling out on the gravel of the lot as he turned onto the main road, heading in the direction of the interstate. He would hit the highway for a few miles . . . or fifty. Let the road heal him for a couple of hours.
Escaping, running away from his problems, was no way to deal with them. He knew that. Any psychologist would tell him that. The grief counselor his mother had agreed to go to a couple of times sure as hell would have.
Justin didn’t care what the hell the experts said. He had to do what he had to do. If getting out of town or getting drunk—possibly both—was what he needed to do, then that’s what he was going to do. The experts be damned.
Getting away for a little while sounded real good. Finding himself a woman wouldn’t hurt, either . . .
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2015 by Cat Johnson
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3623-4
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3624-1
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3624-0