by Lynda Aicher
The “Why are we doing this?” circle of doubt that had to be destroyed before it festered.
He didn’t hide from everything that was mirrored and amplified in Finn’s eyes. There was nowhere to go but forward. To charge in and destroy the beast before it killed them.
Finn’s shoulders dropped, head falling back on another sigh. A beat, two, three, paced out by the thump of Tanner’s hard pulse, words once again elusive.
A slight grin was in place when Finn straightened, a sad acceptance replacing the anger. “And I still have all my limbs.” He held out his hands, twisting them in display. “I wasn’t trapped in a tank while my skin melted off. I can walk on my own, speak—function—without constant pain. I can go out in public without being stared at in disgusted pity or blatantly avoided.”
Tanner waited, hesitating. Finn was right. There were hundreds—thousands—of veterans who had come back from the war in worse shape than Finn. “That doesn’t make what you’ve gone through any less or easier.”
“No.” He nodded, lips thinning. “But it does put a perspective on it.”
“True.” Tanner couldn’t negate that.
“So we go back.” Finn’s smile returned, that engaging charm that’d drawn others in, teasing the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes.
He had no clue what Finn was talking about, but he was in. “Okay.” No question. No doubts. Ever.
“Good.” Finn smacked him on the arm as he walked by. “Meet back here in fifteen. Bring your bags. We’re going on a road trip.”
The instinct to ask for details was squelched by his training and the trust he had in his brother. He’d get the information he needed when he needed it. Finn had taken the point position and Tanner had his six. He wouldn’t fail him.
Not again.
Chapter 5
The forest flashed by in a sea of darkness lit only by the headlights on Finn’s truck. The pavement rolled before them, a seemingly never-ending path defined by the white lines marking the edge of the two-lane road. The occasional house, turnoff, or rest area broke the monotony, and the rain had returned with enough strength to force the use of the wipers, their back-and-forth swipes lost in the effort to see.
Finn blinked and stifled a yawn, his jaw aching behind his palm. A glance at the clock showed it wasn’t even seven yet. How fucking lame. He was getting old and felt thirty years past the thirty-nine he was.
Some rock song broke the silence he couldn’t seem to fill with his own words, but he’d stopped worrying about it before they’d left the Portland suburbs. He’d removed the earpiece and his thoughts swirled and faded in a disjointed jumble. He was tired of trying to focus, and he didn’t have to since Tanner was driving.
He studied him in the darkness, the dash lights highlighting his distinctive features. The ones that had set him apart and had many forming assumptions until he’d spoken and negated every one of them. Damn, how Finn admired him for never taking offense or holding a grudge over the derogatory, sometimes hateful, digs against his race. They’d all taken gibes in the spirit of male bonding, but those who were visibly different had taken more.
Time, or maybe it was Tanner’s experiences, had matured him even more since they’d last seen each other. A flatness had invaded, his usual spirit muted by…what? War? The demands of leadership? Sorrow?
Having seen too much in a world bent on destroying itself?
The light was dim but enough to identify the fatigue setting in. His head was propped on his far hand, the other holding the steering wheel. He absently rubbed at his temple, a clear sign of the headache he was most likely hiding.
“We should’ve waited until morning,” Finn said. He wasn’t cleared to drive yet, so he couldn’t even offer to relieve him. Yet another glaring sign of his failings.
Tanner jerked around, smiled. “I’m fine.”
Right. Finn might’ve been out of the service for almost five years, but he remembered the disassociation that sometimes took weeks to navigate. Combine that with a lack of sleep and the shock of Chris’s death, and Tanner was coasting on fumes. “We’re almost there.” The reassurance was all he had to offer.
“I remember,” Tanner added. Finn had given him the address to his cabin before they’d left. “It’s been a while, but I can get us there without GPS.”
That dragged a smile to Finn’s face. He hadn’t doubted it. Tanner’s kick-ass skill for remembering environmental details and landmarks had maneuvered them in and out of the line of fire when every building and sand hill had looked the same to him, especially under attack.
“Do you still use that skill to fuck with your team?”
Tanner chuckled, his grin widening. “When I can.” Then his smile fell. “It’s harder now, though. With the last promotion.”
Finn let that comment go. One of the failings of all large organizations, government-run or not, was the up-or-out mentality. Climb the promotion ladder or be seen as an underachiever. For some that was great, but for others it meant leaving positions they loved for ones they didn’t. It was a big reason why he’d taken the early-retirement package when he had. That, and the repeated concussions that’d had the doctors threatening to nail him to desk duty. So, in a brilliant move, he’d started an adventure company filled with high-risk activities. He kept his derisive snort to himself.
“So uh…” Tanner scratched his nose, glanced over. “Do you remember anything? From the accident?”
About Chris’s death. Finn filled in the blank, his heart squeezing. “No.” He wished he did and at the same time was glad he didn’t. “The knock to my head wiped everything out. I don’t even remember getting on the river that morning. Axel said we were all just gone. Dumped in the water and sucked under.” They both must have fought, their training kicking in to get them to the surface, to keep their feet up, to find safety. He’d been pulled out unconscious, his helmet gone.
He rubbed at the knot on the back of his head, another reminder of how much he’d lost. The chances of him surviving another hit to the head were slim, which left him in the sucky position of strictly managing office operations at the company he’d formed to avoid that exact spot in the Marines. They’d brought Ash into that role for a reason, and it hadn’t been so Finn could join him.
“Did they find him?”
Chris’s body. The question slammed home how out of touch Tanner was. Fucking military. If Tanner had only retired with them or in the following year like they’d planned, he would’ve been here. He would know all the details, maybe even have been in the raft with them. And that would’ve changed what?
“No.” The admission hurt like hell. “I was told they hunted the river for a week. Down and back for miles.” No man left behind. “I think—” He cleared his throat, stared out the windshield. “I think the guys are still beating themselves up over that.”
“Shit.” A pause. “I bet they are.” The ache transferred through in the low crack of his voice.
Finn kept his focus on the road ahead, both literally and figuratively, having already been down the path Tanner was taking. Looking back and wishing for a different outcome didn’t help. That hadn’t stopped him from doing it for a while, but he was trying like hell not to do it now.
Forward—that was the only way to go.
The silence stretched, the mostly empty road offering little distraction. The rain sputtered down to a light mist, only to dive into a hard assault as they neared the Pacific Ocean. The forest gave way to the dark outline of rocky cliffs and the open expanse of nothing until the headlights caught a flash of waves in the distance.
Finn inhaled and imagined the briny scent of salt and marine life. He cracked his window, the urge too great to resist. The instant flash of freshness followed by the smell he’d been hunting for eased another layer of doubt from his stack of worries. This was right. Good.
“If you’d have told me during training that I’d miss that scent, I would’ve called you a fucking liar.” Tanner snorted out a laugh of di
sgust. “But after years in the damn desert, that is the best goddamn thing I’ve ever smelled.”
Finn hummed his agreement. “That and steak on the grill.”
“Oh, man.” Tanner groaned. “A big-ass burger and fries.”
Their mutual laughter filled the cab for the first time, nostalgia warming him. “I thought we were talking about scents, not food,” Finn said.
“Both,” Tanner insisted. “Damn. Now I’m hungry. I hope you have food at your cabin.”
“I don’t.”
Tanner shot him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “You’re shitting me. Should we stop?”
“Where? We passed the last store fifteen minutes back.” He managed to hold a straight face for a moment before he let his grin show. He slugged Tanner on the shoulder, the easy camaraderie lifting another weight. “I texted the lady who keeps an eye on the place for me. She said she’d stock it.”
“Wow. That’s nice. Especially with the late notice.”
“I pay her well.” He shrugged. “Plus, she’s pretty cool. She lost a son in Iraq in ’06. Army.” Yet another casualty of a war that had hardly registered with most Americans.
The mood deflated with that. They hadn’t known her son, but they understood her pain and the hole he’d left behind. Death sucked. Fuck did it suck for the living.
“The turn’s up here. On the left.” Finn pointed to a break in the trees, the dirt road unlit and unmarked.
The truck bounced and jerked over the deep holes in the lane. He grabbed the “Oh shit” handle, thoughts running ahead to the other problems he’d find due to his long absence. Chris and Tanner were the only ones who knew about his hideaway. The whole point of it was to have a place to disappear, so sharing the information hadn’t been necessary, especially with cellphones. And he’d always given Rig and Ash the heads-up when he was going dark for a period, like now.
Something they’d all understood and hadn’t pried into.
The path traversed up a couple of switchbacks, the incline building. He doubted Tanner’s rental would’ve made it through the muddy terrain. It was good of Rig and War to agree to return the car for them tomorrow. But then that was how the Kick team worked. No questions asked. No return favors needed.
They crested the hill, the headlights cutting across the overgrown clearing. In the middle of the tall grass, banked by evergreens, the little log cabin shone like the beacon it was. A haven to regroup in, and to hopefully restore his mind and body. Tanner’s too.
“It looks the same,” Tanner commented after he turned the engine off. The rain distorted the view and the darkness hid the air of abandonment that was undoubtedly there in the light of day. But Jenny had left a lamp on inside, the welcoming glow beckoning them in.
“I hope it is.”
Tanner frowned. “How long has it been since you were here?”
A month before the accident, so, what? “Ten months.”
“You’re on small-critter duty then.” He shoved the door open and exited the truck before Finn could comment. Tanner hated mice or anything small and hairy that skittered around on four legs. Finn smiled, comforted to know some things hadn’t changed.
They grabbed their bags and made a dash for the covered porch, the wooden planks smacking beneath their boots. He shook the rain off and unlocked the dead bolt, anticipation shoving his exhaustion back.
The expected musty, unused smell was absent when he stepped inside. Thanks to Jenny, warm air greeted them instead of the icy chill that’d sunk into his bones in the brief time he’d been outside. Yet another way that he’d grown soft since the accident.
Cinnamon and pine flooded his nostrils as he set his two bags downs and scanned the room, ticking off items and looking for disturbances. At least some of his old instincts hadn’t completely disappeared.
Kindling was laid in the brick fireplace, logs stacked neatly in the bin next to it. Blankets were thrown over the back of the sofa, and the anticipated thick layer of dust had been wiped clean from every surface.
A small pine tree was set up in the corner, wrapped in blinking lights and holding an odd collection of bulbs. “Jenny,” he said, a sad smile creeping over his lips. The thought was touching, even if he had no desire to celebrate the holiday a few weeks from now.
Tanner stood slightly behind him, his presence filling the space and lending him strength. Finn’s family had disowned him the minute he’d told them he was gay. Their intolerant views had never changed, despite the eighteen years they’d spent loving him before that. Eventually, Chris and Tanner had stepped in to fill the space left by his blood family, and every holiday after that had been spent with one or both of them.
Until this year.
Thanksgiving had been a solemn day of football watching and faked enjoyment with Rig and a few others. He’d planned on making Christmas a solo event after that. And now…
“That’s a pretty cool lady,” Tanner commented, eyeing the Christmas tree.
“She is.” He swallowed back another round of fucking irritating emotions. “Unpack first, and then food?” He glanced at Tanner, determined to show his normal face.
“Sounds good.” Tanner headed up the spiral staircase to the loft without another word, which left the downstairs bedroom for him. Tanner’s flying up the narrow stairs with barely a grunt shouldn’t have kicked at him, shouldn’t have highlighted how difficult the climb would have been for him.
It had, though.
Fuck. He shook off the annoyance and jealousy. It wouldn’t help, and Tanner hadn’t earned it.
He might not be able to bound upstairs—yet—but he could start a damn fire.
He was crouched before the fireplace, smoke smoldering out of the pile of charred sticks and barely singed logs, when Tanner approached. Failure was stamped squarely on Finn’s forehead, his stomach churning around the sick shame and personal disgust. Curses rolled through his mind, only to be squashed by the fierce reality of his current state.
Doubts swirled with trailing thoughts until everything went blank. He blinked at the crumbled stack of wood, unable to find the thread that would link him back to the next step. Defeat bored into the hole in his heart, ready to make a home when he’d kicked it out a hundred times before. From boot camp to the war to the last months of rehabilitation hell, he’d refused to give in. Yet right now, he longed to curl up and let the world slip away.
It’d been a long fucking day, and he had no clue, not one, on what to do next.
“Hey.”
A touch to his shoulder. A palm on his nape that shot to his heart and replaced the defeat with support.
“Go take a shower.” Tanner kneeled beside him. He nudged his shoulder, lips cocked in a half-grin. “I’ll get this and start dinner.”
“I should be able to start a fire,” he mumbled.
“The wood’s probably damp.” Tanner grabbed the poker from the stand and jostled the logs around. “You dried it out for me.”
The poker. Of course. The steps and actions flowed in as he tugged on the line Tanner had unintentionally shown him. He got up without a word, focused on retrieving his bags and getting to the bedroom. Each step was made with precision, pure stubborness keeping his gait stable even as fatigue trembled through his legs.
He shut the door, the darkness swooping in to protect him. He slumped onto the bed, dropped his head into his hands, and dug his fingers into his skull.
What was Tanner thinking?
He hadn’t seen any pity, but was it there? Hidden behind Tanner’s supportive front and camouflaged within their years of friendship? Did it matter?
He thrust up, jaw clenched tight. Yes. It did.
He was more than this latest situation. More than the deteriorated shell of the man he’d once been. He’d show Tanner that and be there for him as he processed Chris’s death.
And maybe together, they could find a way forward in a future that’d shifted so far off course he’d been unable to find a clear path ahead.
Chapter 6
The fire popped, sparks floating into the air before they disappeared. Tanner’s plate sat empty on the end table next to him, a half-finished beer turning warm. His stomach was full, his brain fuzzing into a lethargic state, but his senses were still on alert.
Wind gusted against the house, rain blasting the windows in erratic beats set by Mother Nature. The weather only enhanced the cozy warmth of the cabin, his experiences setting his appreciation on high. He’d been stuck outside in storms worse than this one, and remembered every bone-chilling minute of them.
Finn was stretched out on the couch next to him, feet propped on the wooden coffee table. His eyes were closed, hands folded on his lap. He’d have appeared relaxed to most, but Tanner wasn’t fooled. The tight arms and stiff pose told him otherwise.
He studied him now, every change marked by time and stacked next to Tanner’s memories. The trauma Finn had endured had skimmed weight from his face as well as his body. His cheekbones were more stark, cutting beneath his eyes to define his sharpened jawline. Prominent brows formed a stronger bridge under his high forehead. His meticulous adherence to the regulation haircut emphasized the square features of a man who’d demanded perfection and had welcomed him without a single comment about Tanner’s own unconventional features.
He shifted his gaze to the sole picture on the edge of the mantel. The three of them, arms locked around each other, grins wide beneath dirt-stained faces. They’d just come off a training exercise, their trio annihilating the other teams. Chris was in the middle, blond hair bright between his and Finn’s darker shades. He’d been the link who’d brought Finn and Tanner together and uncovered commonalities Tanner had denied until he was locked within the safety of their friendship.
“Do you remember the day we met?” Tanner asked. It was years ago, when he’d been amped on the career he’d carved out in the Marines and focused so strongly on inclusion he’d stomped down any part of himself that’d differentiate him more than his face already had.