Pull You Through

by Kaylee Ryan

  PULL YOU THROUGH

  Copyright © 2018 Kaylee Ryan

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of Kaylee Ryan, except for the use of brief quotations in articles and or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, locations, businesses and plot are products of the author’s imagination and meant to be used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events throughout the story are purely coincidental. The author acknowledges trademark owners and trademarked status of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, sponsored or associated by or with the trademark owners.

  The following story contains sexual situations and strong language. It is intended for adult readers.

  Cover Design: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Cover Photography: Sara Eirew

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Formatting: Integrity Formatting

  Model: Mike Chabot & Carolyn Seguin

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Contact Kaylee Ryan

  Other Works by Kaylee Ryan

  Acknowledgments

  To those who have served, are serving, or will serve, and their loved ones who pull them through.

  WHEN CLASS IS INTERRUPTED AND I’m summoned to the office, I know it’s bad news. I feel it deep in my gut. There are two weeks of school left. Two more weeks of enduring high school, and then I’ll be free of the drama of this day-to-day shit.

  Grabbing my books and keeping my head down, I slide out of my too-small desk and stalk to the office. The receptionist gives me a sad smile and my anxiety ramps up even further. From the look on the receptionist’s face, it’s not good, whatever I’m being summoned for.

  I assume I’m here because I was late, yet again. Tardy they call it. Gram was having a bad morning, and I couldn’t just leave her, not until her friend Sheila got there. Sheila spends the day with her while I’m at school.

  “Slade, you can go on in,” she says, pointing to the principal’s office.

  Stepping into the room, I don’t bother knocking. I’ve been here before, and he’s always expecting me. This time though, this time it feels different. I can’t quite put my finger on why or how, but there’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before.

  “Slade, have a seat.” He points to the chair across from his desk.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. He’s never one to beat around the bush. It’s usually, “Slade, are you aware you were late again?” or even, “Slade, you’ve missed too many days. I know about your gran, but you have to get here on time. I can’t keep them at bay.” “Them” being the state. Apparently, it’s illegal and referred to as truancy. I get it, I do, but Gran is all I have in this world, and no way am I leaving her when she needs me.

  “I got a call,” Principal McCreary says cryptically.

  “Okay. Look, there are two weeks left. I’m doing the best that I can,” I explain. “Sheila was running late today, and I can’t leave her alone. She’s not well.”

  “Slade, Sheila called. I’m so sorry, son.”

  “What?” My stomach drops as my head swirls with confusion. “Sheila? Why would she call? What are you sorry for? Listen, it’s two weeks, can you please just overlook this? Don’t report it. Two weeks and I get my diploma. Please,” I say, begging. I’m so fucking close to getting that piece of paper that I promised Gran I would get. It’s something my dad, her only child, never accomplished.

  “Slade.” He stands, then takes the seat next to mine. “Your gran, she had a heart attack,” he says gently.

  I stand abruptly. “Which hospital?” I ask.

  “Slade, sit down,” he says, his voice stern.

  “Look, I get it, my attendance sucks, but we’re all the family each other has. I have to go to her. I’ll just get my GED. It’s the same thing, right? Or take summer classes or online classes. Hell, it doesn’t even matter right now. Which hospital?” I ask again, my voice rising.

  Mr. McCreary stands, and walks toward me. He places his hand on my shoulder, his eyes somber. “Slade, she’s gone. It was fast. The paramedics announced her… at the scene. There was nothing they could do.”

  “No. No, no, no, no….” It’s too much, and nothing makes sense. I saw her this morning. She couldn’t have gone, have left me. “No. She was having a bad day, but nothing we haven’t dealt with before. No, I don’t believe you.” Panic rises in my chest.

  “Slade, I’m so sorry.”

  Turning, I punch the wall, over and over again. I barely register Mr. McCreary placing his arms around me from behind to stop me. My focus is on the pain, my throbbing hand, the jolts rushing up my arm. It’s the only thing that’s real.

  “Can I call anyone?” the receptionist asks.

  “No, Gina, I’ve got this.”

  “There is no one to call,” I sob. The tears, no matter how hard I fight them, fall freely. “She’s all I have.” Twisting out of his hold, I drop to my knees and bury my face in my hands, one of which is now battered and bloody.

  Heat registers on my shoulder. I don’t have to look to know it’s Mr. McCreary’s hand. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t try to tell me it’s going to be okay. He doesn’t offer words of wisdom. He just lets me be me.

  Broken.

  Alone.

  I don’t know how long I sit there on my knees in his office. It’s not until his phone rings, startling me, that I climb to my feet and move to the chair. I hear Mr. McCreary answer his phone, but I block out the conversation.

  She’s gone.

  I knew she was sick. I take her to her doctor appointments, make sure she takes her medication. What I didn’t know was that I was this close to losing her. Thinking back to this morning, relief washes over me when I remember I told her I loved her. I always let her know, multiple times a day. She saved me from my parents, her own son and daughter-in-law. Both had been so hooked on drugs, I’m not sure they even realized she took me. When she petitioned the courts for custody when I was twelve, no one was there to contest. It’s bee
n just the two of us ever since. Six years ago, she pulled me from my own personal hell.

  “Slade.” Mr. McCreary breaks me out of my thoughts. “You’re eighteen, son, but I don’t like the thought of you being alone. Do you have a friend you can stay with? That can come and stay with you?”

  I shake my head. I’m a loner and keep to myself. The first twelve years of my life were rough. I never had clean clothes or clothes that even fit for that matter. I was scrawny from the lack of nutrition. I was the outcast, the boy no one wanted to sit by at lunch, and was always picked last in gym class. I was good with it—disappearing in a roomful of people. At school, on the days I actually got to go, I was warm, was given a hot meal, and there were no fists being thrown at my face. I stayed in my shell and ignored them all. That didn’t change when I moved in with Gran. Sure, my clothes were new, and fit me. I gained weight and grew into my tall, lanky body, but I was still quiet and brooding. I didn’t need friends. I had Gran. She saved me and was all that mattered in my world.

  I would sit in class and listen to my classmates bitch about lunch, how it was “so not good,” or some other mundane complaint. If they walked a day in my shoes, they would know there’s more to life, they would know to be grateful for the food you have, the new cars, the clothes. Gran always said I grew up way before my time.

  “Well, then you’re coming home with me.”

  My eyes fly up to him. “I’m not letting you spend the night alone after… today. We would love to have you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I croak out the words. My voice is rough with emotion.

  “Slade, you shouldn’t be alone.”

  “That’s my life, Mr. McCreary. I’m a loner.” I stand from the chair. “I’ll be here on time from now on,” I assure him. “But I need to go today. I need to just… go.”

  He nods. I watch as he writes something on a Post-it and hands it to me. “Here’s my cell number. You need anything at all, you call me.”

  “Yes, sir.” With that, I turn and walk out of the room, down the hall and out to my old beat-up pick-up truck. I don’t recall putting the keys in the ignition or the drive home, but when I pull into the driveway and see the ambulance, it’s sirens deathly quiet, reality crashes back into me.

  Gran is gone, and I’m alone.

  TEN DAYS. TEN GLORIOUS DAYS of rest and whatever else we want to do. These past thirteen weeks have been intense, but I’ve lived through worse. Not eating for days, being slapped around as a kid, that’s what I’m used to. Don’t get me wrong. The vigorous intensity of what I and nineteen others went through over the past few weeks was some heavy shit. That’s what makes us badass. We train harder, longer, and deeper. We’re cut to the core, then built back up again. That’s the Marine Corps.

  “Where you headed?” Combs asks me.

  Brandon Combs and I have become close during our thirteen weeks of hell. He’s from a small town in Kentucky, and from the way he talks about them, they’re a family unit who gives him nothing but love and support. I envy him.

  “Not sure, man. I’m just going to pick a place and go. I’ve never really traveled.” It sounds pathetic even to me, but it’s my reality. It’s also part of what drew me into the Marines. Getting to see the world. He knows my history. You don’t spend every waking minute with someone, especially in the conditions we just completed, and not get close. These guys are my brothers, my family. We’ve been through hell and back, and we survived it together.

  “Ever been to Kentucky?” he asks.

  “No. This is my first time out of Michigan,” I confess.

  “No time like the present. Come home with me. We have the space.”

  His offer sparks more excitement in me than it should. “Nah, man, I’m good. Go home, see your family, spend some time with your girl. I’ll see you when we appear for SOI.” I know he’s just trying to be nice, I don’t want to impose on his time with his family. We only get a small number of days.

  “School of Infantry.” He holds his fist out for me to bump. “For real, come back to Kentucky. Let me show you around.”

  The thought of spending the next ten days alone, after being surrounded by my unit, does not sound appealing. Over the past thirteen weeks, Combs and I have created a bond, only those in our shoes can have. “You sure your folks won’t care?”

  “Nope. Like I said, we have plenty of room, and Mom and Dad have always been open to us bringing friends home.”

  Ten long, lonely days in a hotel room, or the chance to see where he’s from, meet his family, and his girl that he never stops talking about? “All right, man, but maybe just for a few days.” I don’t want to wear out my welcome or intrude on his time with his family before we leave again. I know if it were me, I’d want the time with Gran. The familiar pain in my chest when I think of her makes itself known. I ignore it, push it aside and keep moving. That’s all I can do.

  “Grab your stuff. My dad will be here any minute to get us. Mom and Savannah left last night to go back home. Mom had to get back to work, and Savvy has class.” I didn’t get to meet them, I disappeared after graduation, knowing he would insist that I come with them to dinner.

  “You’re positive?” I ask as I finish packing up my bag. Not that I have much. I came here with the clothes on my back. There were a handful of pictures of me as a baby, as well as a few of Gran and Gramps before he passed. Those along with any important documents are in a safe deposit box at the bank. Yesterday was graduation and was difficult for me. Not having family here… yeah, it sucked. I missed Gran something fierce. Combs wanted me to meet his family and his girl, but it was too much. I just needed time to myself, so instead of sticking around, I slipped away back to the barracks.

  Bags over our shoulders, we walk out into the sunlight. It’s a beautiful day in South Carolina. It’s early fall, and temperatures are reaching to the low eighties. The sun is shining brightly and not a single cloud blemishes the sky. It feels like freedom. But while it’s good to get a break, at the same time, I’m anxious for SOI. I’m ready to start the next phase of my career as a marine.

  “There he is,” Brandon says, heading toward a blue four-door pick-up truck. “Damn good to see you,” he says, hopping in the passenger seat. “Dad, this is Slade. Slade, this is my dad, Eric Combs,” he introduces us.

  Reaching over the seat, I offer him my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I hope it’s not an imposition me being here.”

  “Slade, great to meet you. Our home is always open to you,” he says kindly.

  Feeling the worry slip away, I sit back, laying my head against the seat. I listen to them get caught up. Brandon is also an only child; the major difference being he seems really close to his parents. They talk about his mom and how his girlfriend, Savannah, has been hanging out at their place quite often while he’s been gone. Brandon has talked about Savannah nonstop during boot camp. He showed me pictures, and she’s a looker. Then again, so are her friends. The one picture he had was of her and her best friend, a gorgeous blonde with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I remember thinking that I’d love to see them up close in person. Maybe I’ll get the chance now.

  I’m quiet most of the ride. I answer questions from Mr. Combs and fall into the conversation when Brandon prompts me. Although, I’ve always been quiet to a fault, my silence is mainly because I’m observing the two of them. If I’m honest with myself, I’m envious. I’ve never had this… bond they seem to have. I can’t ever remember a time with either of my parents asked me about my day, or hell, even showed me an ounce of affection, unless you count their hands in anger.

  The hours and miles pass by the closer we get to Kentucky. “We’re almost there,” Combs informs me. Not ten minutes later, we’re pulling into the driveway of an old two-story farmhouse. It’s dark, so I can’t really see it, but I can see it in my mind. Brandon has described his home in detail. Field parties, sneaking his girl in and out… he’s told me about it all. In turn, I told him about the day I lost Gran, that m
y parents are both a waste of sperm and egg, and how that led me to enlist.

  “Home sweet home,” Brandon says, climbing out of the truck. I follow him.

  A screech erupts from the house. Before I can determine what’s going on, a small brown-haired girl is launching herself at Brandon. He catches her easily as she wraps herself around him. A woman, who can only be his mother, from the way her eyes glisten in the moonlight, stands off to the side with her hands clasped to her chest. Her husband wraps his arms around her. Then there’s me, leaning against the truck, taking it all in. This is what I’ve been missing.

  When his mom notices me, she leaves her husband’s embrace and walks toward me. I stand up straight and offer her my hand. She swats it away and pulls me into a hug. “Welcome home, son,” she whispers.

  I like to think that I’m hardened to life. I’ve come to expect the worst, and long ago came to terms that welcome home hugs are not in my future, but standing here in the moonlight, on a small farm in Kentucky, I’m proven wrong. I hug her back and swallow the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat. She pulls back and looks up at me a kind smile on her face.

  “Hey, I’m Savannah.” The brown-haired girl then leans in for a hug.

  Awkwardly, I wrap my arms lightly around her. “Slade,” I say as I pull away from her.

  “Dinner’s waiting. Let’s get inside. Brandon, I made your favorite,” his mom says.

  “Are you for real? Baked steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy, corn, and mac and cheese?” he rattles off, with hope in his voice.

  “Exactly that. There’s also chocolate cake for dessert.”

  “You love me.” He places one hand over his heart and the other around Savannah’s shoulders, then follows his mom into the house.

  “You hungry?” his dad asks me.

  “Yes, sir,” I respond. Thirteen weeks has it ingrained in me.

  “None of that, Eric, or hell, Dad works. You’re home now. Time to relax a little.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s eat.” With that, I follow him into the house.

  As soon as I hit the doorway, the aroma of dinner assaults me, and my stomach growls. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve had a homecooked meal. The last couple of years, Gran was too weak, so I was in charge of cooking. We ate lots of spaghetti, grilled cheese sandwiches, and soup. It was nothing special, but it was a hot meal.