by Lynda Aicher
Rig came around the front, the rest of the guys filling in until they circled the stone. Shoulder to shoulder they formed a visual representation of the Marine mantra drilled into their heads from the first day at boot camp. They went to war because their country told them to. They fought for the brothers to the left and right of them.
He swept his gaze over each man, heart swelling with pride and a wonder that would never go away. There wasn’t a dry eye among them, their sorrow displayed in traces down their cheeks. There was no shame here. No weakness shown. Each of them had had a connection with Chris that went deeper than the service. Deeper than Kick.
And these guys had kept their company going, were still keeping Kick strong when Finn couldn’t even think of returning.
On cue, Grady, Ash, and Darin stepped up, their suits merging with the dress uniforms as the circle expanded to let them in. They were all here now, every partner who’d invested in their adventure company. His friends. The guys he’d recruited and was now letting down with each day he stayed away.
Rig took a knee, head bowed. “You, my brother, will be missed far more than you thought.” He grabbed the bottle of Scotch and stood. “Fucker.”
War and Cort stepped up, each grabbing a stack of shot glasses. Nothing was said as Rig filled each one. Finn took the glass War held out to him. Would anyone notice how the liquid trembled in the clear glass?
He kept his eyes on the Scotch, his breaths slow and deep. Tick. Tick. Tick. There. Just that. The beat absorbed his thoughts and held him steady when he was ready to crumble, both physically and mentally.
Rig set the bottle on the center of the gravestone and stepped back into the circle. The pause lengthened, each man holding his glass high, but no one moving. Was he supposed to say something? Take the lead when he had no clue how to anymore?
Heat flushed him, his skin turning clammy with doubts he hadn’t possessed since his first tour. Random threads floated through his mind, waving their purpose and fluttering away before he could snag one. Now, the helpful ticking only amplified the fear scrambling to burst free.
Then Tanner lifted his glass higher, stepping up when Finn couldn’t. Had he known? Understood?
“Rest in peace, brother.” Tanner’s rich voice rang through the air to soothe Finn. That voice had carried Finn through more long nights huddled together in the cold desert than he cared to remember.
Finn raised his glass, determined to get through this. I am strong. “We’ll see you on the other side.” Wherever that was.
“To Chris,” Rig said. “Semper Fi.”
“Ooh-rah.” The chorus went up, a throaty burst before they all downed the Scotch.
The liquor burned a path of grief and bitterness down his throat, a wash of sorrow and pain. He withheld his wince, absorbed the hit into his memory. A final one to close off fourteen years of friendship.
Numbness settled in, the finality swooping in to drain him. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tanner took Finn’s glass and set it with his on the gravestone. The others followed, a ring of empty shot glasses forming a connected circle around the bottle. Damn it. His eyes stung again, the ache stabbing down his throat to grind into his heart. The loss was almost physical, a piece of him gone that he’d counted on for so long he didn’t want to function without it.
They re-formed their two lines, the nonservicemen falling in behind the unified steps of the military march. They held formation until they’d all cleared the grass. Only then did Finn dare to breathe again. He moved to the side, posture rigidly held. If he relaxed at all, he’d likely slump straight to the ground and never get up again.
The others were talking, tossing out memories of Chris he couldn’t process. The urge to yell at them to shut the fuck up was countered by knowledge of how unstable that would appear.
Tanner moved to stand beside him. He didn’t say a word or acknowledge him in any way, just slid into the void as he participated in the conversation. Were the others looking at him? Noticing his weakened form? Feeling sorry for him?
He shifted, his thigh muscles spasming with the added weight. Shit. Tick. Tick. Tick. He had to keep it together.
“Hey,” Grady said as he walked up. His younger cousin had changed and matured in ways Finn couldn’t track. “You look good.” Grady eyed him, concern clear.
“Thanks,” he said out of reflex. To deny the statement would bring questions.
Grady had been the most persistent presence during Finn’s recovery, consistently there supporting him even when Finn had shunned everyone. Grady was the only blood relative he still claimed, yet a distance separated them. It was a space only time could fill, and right now, he had no energy to make it happen.
Grady eyed the cemetery. “That was…” He cleared his throat, glanced down. “I’m honored to be included.”
“You’re part of Kick.” Another thing that’d happened while Finn had been incapacitated. He was glad—he’d wanted Grady on the team. Still, it was yet another visible sign of how drastically everything had changed.
Grady cringed, rubbed his nape. “Will the guilt ever go away?” He looked at Finn, remorse gleaming. Grady had been guiding the raft that’d dumped the three of them into the raging Class V rapid. He’d been the only one to get out uninjured—at least physically.
“Do you want it to?” Finn asked. He’d had this conversation with many enlisted men during his years of service, and they almost always responded the same.
“No,” Grady said, falling in line with the majority of men. “Not completely.”
He nodded. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” Grady insisted, scanning the others. “I accept that it was an accident. But I can’t help wondering if there was something—anything—I could’ve done to change the outcome.”
Me too.
He’d asked that question over and over during the long hours of pain and emptiness. Of relearning so many basic tasks. Of trying to remember the exact events that’d led up to the accident, and finding nothing.
A touch to his arm seared its way through the chill slowly encasing him. He inhaled, sought comfort in Tanner’s connection, slight as it was.
“Are you ready to go?” Tanner asked, voice low. His brow inched up, the little quirk the only change in his expression. In tune with Finn, yet yielding the decision to him.
“Yes.”
He should introduce Tanner to his cousin, should hang out with these guys who’d come to support him and pay their respects to Chris. So many should’ves he just didn’t have it in him to do.
Tanner said his goodbyes and Finn shook hands or hugged each guy, his mind in a fog, his motions automatic, not fully comprehending his mumbled words of thanks or whatever even as he spoke them.
“We’ll be at Dane’s later,” Rig said, motioning to the gathered group. “Will we see you there?” He spoke directly to Finn, and suddenly every gaze was focused on him.
God no. No way in fucking hell.
He couldn’t walk into the leather club. He was so far from a Dom now. The thought of trying to top anyone launched a bitter cackle of self-derision through his pounding head.
“Thanks,” Tanner answered. “But we have something else to do.”
Rig raised a brow but didn’t question him further.
Relief and anger clashed within Finn. He didn’t need Tanner to rescue him, yet he was profoundly thankful for the out.
The contradictory emotions swirled and churned in his stomach, his mind tangled in the exhaustion that was creeping through every inch of him. Right now, he didn’t care what anyone thought. He didn’t care how he looked or about the questions he couldn’t answer.
He just needed to get away.
And Tanner had known that. His brother had his six even if a part of Finn irrationally resented the support. He’d never let himself need anyone, yet he needed Tanner so damn much right now. And that was a truth he couldn’t hide from—even if he should.
Chapter 4
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nbsp; Tanner shut the door behind him, the click echoing down the hallway in the silence. Finn had been quiet the entire way back from the cemetery, but then he had been too. Topics of conversation had tumbled in and out of his brain until they’d all floated away, leaving the hum of the road.
He set his cover and gloves on the entry table next to Finn’s and followed him to the kitchen. Finn was standing at the sliding glass door, staring into the encroaching darkness. Spine still straight, hands clasped behind his back, his military habits shining through.
The gap between them was growing instead of shrinking. The quiet wasn’t exactly awkward, yet it wasn’t normal for them. Not this hitch and stutter of words—or lack thereof.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” Tanner finally said, the breadth of the kitchen separating them. There was too much space and no way to broach it without blasting it down. How would that go over? Would Finn react or fold?
“I couldn’t not.”
The curt response tore at the pain steadily spreading through his chest. Chris was gone. Dead. No goodbye. Nothing but emptiness.
But Finn was here. Hurting like him.
He went to Finn, shoes tapping out his advance. He’d slept maybe six hours in the last thirty-six, but he’d been trained to endure. Only now he didn’t have to—or shouldn’t have to.
Finn didn’t move when he stopped behind him. Not a shift or even a glance over his shoulder. What was he thinking? Feeling?
They were the same height, another thing the three of them had shared. Like their age, with him being just a year younger than them. It’d instigated more comments and ribbing regarding their bond. In some ways, it had enhanced the equality between them.
Did Finn still feel that? Were they still equal, or had everything shifted?
His uniform was suddenly stifling. Restrictions defined and enforced. Rules hammered in until he responded on reflex, not thought. Responsibility. Expectations. Honor. Courage. Demands. Protocol. He was so damn tired of all of it and had no idea how to live without them.
He swallowed, hunted for words once again, and found none. He was just done, but he didn’t have to be anything for Finn, did he?
Did Finn have anything left for him?
He leaned in, pulled to the strength he longed for. To the friend he’d counted on for so long he didn’t remember life before him. Separated by inches, he rested his forehead on the back of Finn’s head, the bristly hairs tickling his temple. He inhaled and held the dark soap scent that took him back years and welcomed him home.
“I’m so tired,” he mumbled, his emotions tumbling out.
Finn puffed out a soft laugh, tilted his head back. “How long have you been up?”
How did he explain that the exhaustion was more emotional than physical? He straightened, collected himself.
“Don’t.” Finn stepped back until he ran into Tanner. “Just…don’t.” His voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat, going stiff.
Don’t. Go? Stay? Hide?
He followed his heart on this one, shunning the instinct to run. He’d never run from Finn—or from fear.
He wrapped his arms around Finn’s waist, anchoring him to his chest, to his heart. Relief washed through on a wave of comfort and homecoming. This was wrong but right. Dangerous yet safe.
“I won’t,” he promised. I won’t cross the line. I won’t want more than I can have.
I won’t hold back.
Finn clamped his hands over Tanner’s, held tight as he let his weight fall into him. Cheek pressed next to his, warmth flooding every corner of the cold. It’d been over eighteen months since he’d had this. The connection that didn’t need words. The understanding that bridged pain. The love that sunk deeper and stronger than any sexual release.
Fag jokes had raged through their company, common and lame in their bland attempt to rile them but not truly cut them. Just like the ethnic and racial jokes. Chris and Finn had told him they were gay long before he’d opened up about his own interest in men. Yet another thing that’d bonded them in an era of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.
But they were just friends. Had always been friends and brothers. Never lovers or even fuck-buddies.
Yet now, he couldn’t remember why.
Except that he couldn’t bear to lose this right here.
They stood like that, breaths matched, heartbeats synced, staring at Finn’s enclosed backyard. The light slowly faded, darkness falling early with the approaching Equinox. A vague shadow of them reflected back in the window. Two Marines in dress blues embracing for the comfort. Tanner exposed and vulnerable to the one person he trusted with everything.
Again, he tried not to note the differences in Finn. The physical changes were the most pronounced. Less mass to hold. The slight tremble he couldn’t control. The shift of his weight to favor his right leg.
He ached to make it go away—all of it. The pain and hurt. Loss and sorrow. The emptiness he had no idea if either of them would ever fill without Chris.
How had they gotten here?
A faint tick, tick, tick slowly penetrated his awareness, the consistent click at once soothing and annoying. He tilted his head away, frowned when it faded only to return when he leaned his head back.
“What is that?”
“What?”
“That ticking sound?”
Finn turned his head, scanned him before turning back. “It’s my metronome app.” He tapped his ear, drawing Tanner’s attention to the flesh-toned earbud he’d somehow failed to notice.
“Your what?” He frowned, intrigued and confused. “Like the piano pacing thing?”
His chuckle vibrated into him before Finn stepped away. Tanner reluctantly let him go, the coldness sweeping in almost immediately. The loss was another stab he couldn’t acknowledge.
“Yeah,” Finn said, shifting past him to open the fridge. “Do you want one?” He held up a bottle of water.
“Sure.” Maybe that would help the persistent ache in his throat. He’d expected Finn to toss it to him like they’d done hundreds of times before, but he grabbed a second one and handed it over instead. The difference was minor, silly even, but it symbolized another break in their routine, and a change in Finn.
He took a long drink and savored the small relief the liquid gave. “So what does it do?” he asked when Finn didn’t elaborate. “The ticking?”
Finn shrugged, gaze scanning the room behind Tanner. “It helps me focus. Keeps things in rhythm when everything is scattered.”
Tanner twisted around to study the family room that lay beyond the breakfast area. The room was packed with a treadmill, free weights and bench, an elliptical machine, and a variety of workout gear. He’d noted it all earlier, but their relevance was just sinking in.
He shoved away from his perch against the peninsula and wandered into the living room off the entry. The couch was covered in a sheet, blankets and pillows stacked neatly on one end. On a chair were two piles of folded shirts, sweats, shorts, socks, and underwear.
He glanced up the stairs, the dots connecting. “You’ve been living down here.”
“So what?”
The defensive edge to Finn’s voice had Tanner backpedaling. “Nothing.” He returned to the kitchen, thoughts shifting and aligning. “I’m just trying to understand. You know how it is when you come off a deployment and mission.” He scrubbed his face, searching for the right words. “The world has changed, only you know nothing about it.” Assimilating back into normal was hard as hell when you couldn’t remember what normal was. “We end up lost in our own damn life a lot of the time.”
Finn snorted, arms crossed tight. “Life went to hell this time.”
“It did.”
They shared a look, understanding passing between them on a connection even time and devastation couldn’t break. “So what’s next?”
Finn scrubbed the back of his head, a sigh gusting out on a note of anger and frustration. He dropped his hand to his side, head hanging for a mome
nt before he jerked it back up. Those strong features of his shifted into the determined command that’d led teams into more missions than the public, let alone other Marine battalions, had any clue about.
“We go.” The firmness in his voice was backed by a sharp nod and clamped lips. “Tonight.”
“Where?” He’d been fabricating when he’d told Rig they had plans. A moment ago he was ready to drop and sleep for twenty-four—as if he really could. But now he was wide awake, ready to charge.
Finn grinned, the first real smile Tanner had seen since returning. His heart flipped at the bright spark that gleamed in Finn’s blue-gray eyes. The very ones that’d yelled at him to run and reassured him when hope had vanished. Now they danced with the mischief that’d gotten them reamed by their commanding officer and bonded their unit into the tight-knit team it’d been.
“I can’t do shit here,” He swiped his hand at the cramped family-turned-fitness room. “This is bullshit.” He dug his fingers through his short hair again, wincing. “Christ. It’s all bullshit. The therapy and exercises. The fucking digression back to a goddamn two-year-old that has to be taught how to walk and eat and wipe his own fucking ass.” He stepped forward, indignation slamming into Tanner. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? How degrading and embarrassing it was to have my brothers see me like that. Like this?” He swiped a hand down his length, fury blazing from his flared nostrils and hard inhalations.
Tanner stood his ground, face impassive even though he was bleeding inside. Agony flared from his heart to encompass his entire chest before it settled into his soul.
“No,” he answered honestly, as Finn deserved. “I don’t know.” He could imagine, but he had no clue how much Finn had suffered—was still suffering.
Finn stared him down, searching with an intensity Tanner wouldn’t cower from. There was nothing to hide. Their hidden shames had been divulged years ago. The severed connections and images that couldn’t be blocked but couldn’t be shared with others. The fear and grief and questions that inevitably blossomed in any person who’d served downrange in any war.