by Cecy Robson
Chapter Twenty
Callahan
Trinity and I don’t start dating. We become what I call inseverable. Unless she’s on guard duty, we’re always together, taking a run, working on my house, hanging with her friends, and yeah, making love all night.
I’m sleeping.
For the first time in years, I’m sleeping soundly.
There’s shit I still think about. There are memories that haunt me, stirring when I least expect. But I suppose after what I’d seen and done, that darkness will always remain. The thing is with Trinity in my arms, the world doesn’t seem as harsh as I remember, and when that darkness comes, this sweet thing is my resounding light.
“Would you ever think about travelling again?” she asks me one morning. “Outside the U.S., I mean?”
I shake my head though she can’t see me the way she’s tucked against me. “No. After eight years of living in a foreign land, I’m never leaving again.” I pull her closer. “I’m finally home, and it’s where I intend to stay.”
“I understand,” she whispers.
No. She really doesn’t. If she did, she wouldn’t sound so heartbroken.
I hate the sadness dulling her pretty face. So after a brief kiss to her lips, I ease away and reach for my guitar.
By now, I’ve sung to her in bed more times than I can count. It’s something I can share that’s a part of me, and the one thing I can offer that doesn’t involve my hands gliding down her body.
Today I pick Rascal Flatts’s Take Me There because I know the words, and I know she loves it. I keep the melody, but slow it down to accommodate my deep voice. I think I sound well enough, and I think she enjoys it. But this time, something’s different.
Instead of that tender smile I’ve come to expect when I sing to her, tears well her eyes. “Callahan?” she says the moment I’m done.
Devastation splinters her voice, and the first of her tears spill down her cheeks. I perch my guitar against the bed and reach for her. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Her voice quivers as she struggles to speak. “I don’t want to let you go,” she says.
I still against her. “Then don’t,” I tell her.
I don’t like how far away she seems. I want her to feel as close to me emotionally, as she is physically. So instead of letting her continue to speak words that don’t make sense, I kiss her deeply.
With her body warm and naked against mine, it doesn’t take me long to get hard, or for our hands to wander and play. I push inside of her, reminding her that I’m here, and that I’m not going anywhere without her.
She doesn’t understand that the reason I’m finally “home” is because of her. For the first time in my life, I belong somewhere.
And that place is with Trinity.
Trin leaves her friends at the table and makes her way to the bar where I’m working, a big grin fixed on her face and a sparkle as bright as sunshine lighting her irises. She’s already had a long day on the beach, and I’m scheduled until closing. That doesn’t hamper her enthusiasm, or the smile spreading along my face. I’ve missed her all day, and I’m glad she’s finally with me.
Neither of us slept much the night before seeing how we couldn’t keep our hands, or mouths, off each other. I know she’s tired despite the bounce to her step― I am, too. But it’s hard being apart, so when we’re together we make it count.
Last night she had friends over at her parents’ place so I stayed there. Tonight, she’ll be at mine.
I lean over the bar and give her a quick kiss, smiling against her lips when she laughs. “What’ll it be, sweet thing?”
She taps her chin and glances at the ceiling like she’s giving it actual thought―like she’s not going to order four pitchers of Bud and enough Hot Damn shots to pass out to her entire crew. “How about a few bottles of Armand de Brignac? Oh! And your best cognac. Nineteen forty-seven was a good year, wasn’t it?”
She throws back her head, laughing when I give her a knowing glance and start pouring the Hot Damn shots.
“Well, now see?” she says. “You dismiss my oh-so classy suggestions and leave me with no choice but to retaliate.”
I tilt the bottle up so I don’t spill and groan. “No, Trin. Not that.”
She pulls a dollar bill from her pocket, wiggling it and her ass as she heads toward the jukebox. I know what she’s going do. But when Blake Shelton’s latest ends and Gangnam Style begins I know I’ve died and gone to hell.
I might have mentioned that if Trin’s dancing, then so is everyone in the damn place―her crew, the Brewsters, Old Man Perrington, the Rossens―all the locals―even the tourists she coaxes onto the floor. Hell, even Lindsey joins in, taking her place beside Sean now that she’s sunk her fangs in him.
I catch Jed’s arm before he jumps over the bar. “Do not encourage her,” I warn.
“I can’t help it, Cal,” he tells me, laughing. “Your woman’s too damn cute to resist.”
He leaps over the bar, joining the line of people doing those God-awful moves. I continue to fill the pitchers and mutter a curse. Jed didn’t mean any disrespect against Trin, or what we have. But his words are a reminder of how many men notice my girl. At first glance, they think she’s cute, and she is. But for those whose stares linger, they see what I see, a beautiful young woman with an undeniable sex appeal.
The line dancing continues, the stomps to the floor rough enough to shake the boards beneath my feet. The men closest to her watch her tear it up, unable to look away. Two things stop me from launching over the bar and making a stake on my claim: One, they’re keeping respectable distance. Two, Trin doesn’t even seem to notice them. She’s busy looking at me as she wiggles, and flashes me that grin she doesn’t share with anyone else.
I wink her way and keep working, all the while making sure she stays safe. When the song begins to mercifully end, I see someone I don’t recognize walk in. He’s wearing a jacket, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, and keeping his head low. He doesn’t want to be seen, and carefully makes his way around the group, going unnoticed.
My hackles rise, knowing he’s up to something. I clutch the glass I just filled with scotch and make my way closer to where this guy is now leaning over the jukebox. He’s young, and he appears slightly familiar. But his profile doesn’t offer a decent view of his face, especially with those glasses and that cap. He smiles when he finds something he likes and slips in a dollar.
Trin’s making her way back to me when Toby Keith’s version of Mocking Bird―the duet he sings with his daughter ―starts to play. She grounds to a halt, her eyes wide and frantic as she searches her surroundings. My eyes cut to the stranger, who’s slipped off his jacket, hat, and glasses and is placing them across the bar.
Trin clasps her hands over her mouth and screams when she sees him. She’s . . . excited that he’s here. And this guy, instead of waving or saying, “Hi,” is walking over to her, singing out loud to this song.
This idiot is singing to my girl.
And she’s singing back!
They’re dancing their way to each other, closing the space between them as they fucking serenade each other. This isn’t a pal of Trin’s. Any moron can see he’s something special to her, and that he adores her. Now everyone’s gathered around them, clapping to the beat and hollering in encouragement.
I don’t realize how hard I’m squeezing the glass until it shatters in my hand. Scotch and ice drench my palm and arm. I fling the pieces in the trash, ready to bash this asshole’s face in.
Hale’s hard smack to my chest keeps me from hurtling myself across the bar. “Calm your shit,” he says, laughing. “That’s Landon, her brother.”
My focus cuts from them and back to him. “What?”
“I said that’s her brother.” He peeks through the crowd, his smile widening. “And here come Owen and Silvie Summers.” He claps my shoulder and takes a swig of his beer. “Looks like it’s time to meet the family, Callahan.”
Sure enough, T
rin’s losing her mind. She squeals as a middle-aged man with white hair and a round frame shoved into khakis and a polo shirt steps in to dance, shaking his hips like Elvis and holding tight to Trin’s future self.
Silvie Summers is a little heavier than Trin, her long hair tied back in a braid and white instead of dark brown. But her face and that grin are proof enough that’s her momma Trin’s dancing with.
They finish the song, everyone cheering as Trin flings her arms around her family and showers them with kisses. As they calm, she says something that makes them glance in my direction. Owen’s and Landon’s grins fade.
Silvie is the only one who keeps her smile, leaning in to speak against Trin’s ear. “That’s him?” I watch her mouth.
Trin nods and herds everyone forward. She’s still smiling as her family gathers in front of me. “Everyone,” she says. “I’d like you to meet Callahan. . .”
Chapter Twenty-one
Callahan
I’m not mad at Trinity. Really I’m not. The best way I can describe what I’m feeling is ill-prepared. Upon learning her folks were here, Jed offered to have his friend cover my shift.
Next thing I know, we’re having a late supper at her parents’ home.
I’m not sure how the hell I ended up here. I was lured to Kiawah by the desolate silence and peace I thought it promised, wanting nothing more than to be by myself. Instead I fell head over heels for the loudest, craziest, most in-your-face human being on this Godforsaken planet. And here I sit now with her family. Family. Eating pot roast, potatoes, and fried okra while she and her kin go at it to see who could out-yell the other.
Trinity wins.
Of course.
She points to her brother. “Oh. The fertility dance. Now that was all sorts of ego crippling. Goodness, Daddy, how did Landon not land straight into therapy after that debacle?”
Owen, her father, pretends to narrow his eyes in anger as he points at her with his fork. “Your brother was inducted into that tribe by those men. That there is an honor, and he knows it.”
Landon shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t,” he mutters.
Trinity laughs and pats my arm excitedly. “Picture my brother in a grass skirt,” she says.
Landon groans and rubs his face. “No, please don’t.”
“With a giant wooden penis strapped to the front.”
My head turns in Landon’s direction, my neck so stiff and tense from the words that just spewed out of my girl’s mouth, I swear everyone here can hear it creak. I don’t think I want to know, and I’m pretty sure Trin knows as much, but of course it doesn’t stop her from explaining.
“It’s a dance they do in this one tribe,” she begins. “A ceremony to celebrate the boys in the village becoming men by―”
“Dancing with giant dildos strapped to their fronts―yeah, yeah, he gets it, Trin,” Landon says.
Their momma, Miss Silvie, shakes her head in what I initially mistake for disapproval. “Those weren’t dildos,” she corrects. “They were wooden phalluses. Huge difference. Huge.”
Jesus Christ, help me.
“Did you feel more like a man after it was done?” Trin asks, unable to stop laughing.
“Bout as much as you felt like a woman after that fertility circle bullshit you took part in,” Landon says before taking a long pull of his beer.
“Watch your mouth in front of your momma, boy,” Owen says.
“Sorry, Momma,” Landon says, with a smirk.
Trin turns back to me. To her credit, she’s not any less affectionate around her folks than she is around her friends. I should be relieved that she’s not shy about showing her family who I am to her. Instead, here I am feeling ill-prepared again. She winds her puny arms around one of mine, and rests her chin on my shoulder. I glance over at her daddy and brother. They’re watching me closely. And to their credit no one’s reaching for a gun. Now if roles were reversed, and this was my little girl, I would’ve shot me.
She giggles as heat pricks my skin. “Did I ever tell you about the time Momma and I had to help that woman give birth in a field?” she asks me. “And Momma had to break that poor woman’s pelvis with a rock to get the baby out―”
“Yes. And please don’t remind me,” I mutter. That little story came out over a crab dinner I took her to a few weeks back. I was cracking one those little bastards open when she spilled the details like most talked about the weather. Let’s just say I couldn’t finish my meal.
To my relief, Owen and Landon groan along with me. “Yes, please don’t,” they both mumble.
“But my quick thinking saved them both,” Silvie says casually. “It was either that or cut open her belly with that hunting knife―”
“Silvie, baby, don’t,” Owen says, waving his hands in surrender. “I can’t go through that story again, sugar. I just can’t.”
“All right,” she says. “But there’s no miracle like the miracle of life.”
And there’s nothing like this family here on earth.
Owen, Landon, and I stand when Miss Silvie and Trin rise from their chairs and start to reach for our empty plates. She bats her hands when we try to help. “Now, you boys stop that. Trinity, help me get dessert together. It’ll give your Daddy and brother time with Callahan.”
Time to shoot him between the eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trin says, pulling the plate from my grip with a grin.
We lower ourselves back to our chairs, none of us saying anything even after Trin and her mama disappear into the kitchen. I can hear banging, the occasional word, and some giggling, but not much more than that as they skitter around cleaning up and preparing for dessert.
I wait quietly for her father and brother to speak. Turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.
“So you work at Your Mother’s?” Landon asks, making it damn clear he doesn’t approve.
“Yes, sir.” I call him “sir” even though he’s probably my age. But that’s what we do here in the south.
He watches me as he plays with the beer bottle in his hands. “You doing anything else?”
Do I have a decent job is what he means. “I’m fixing up my uncle’s old place. I’m about halfway done.” This time, it’s my turn to take a swig.
“What happens after you’re done with your uncle’s place?”
“Don’t know,” I tell him truthfully. Before Trin, I couldn’t think past the next day. Now? Hell, can I really blame the scrutiny crinkling the edges of her daddy’s and brother’s jagged stares? They don’t know me. They only know I’m with their precious little girl.
Landon’s focus wanders to Owen, pegging him with a look that clearly tells him it’s his turn. I brace myself for the hard hand only fathers know how to wield, with their words or with their fists. I don’t impress either of them. Not by a long shot.
I lift my beer to take another swig when Owen motions to the tattoo on my right arm, the one of the solider. “How long did you serve?”
The bottle doesn’t quite reach my lips before I place it back on the table. “Eight years, sir.”
Despite that I wasn’t trying to hide my ink, and that I was sure Landon saw it, Owen was the one to ask about it. But there’s something in my tone that appears to catch his interest. “Did you go in straight out of high school?”
I answer with a slight tilt of my chin. “I graduated, but missed the ceremony to get on the bus to boot camp.”
“How many tours did you do?” Landon asks.
By now, Landon’s tenor lacks the warmth it carried in his sister’s presence. I don’t know if he’s in the process of judging me, or already has. This man―boy really―doesn’t think I’m good enough for sister.
And maybe he’s right.
The blood pumps hard in my ears when I meet him square in the eye. “Four,” I respond.
His eyes widen slightly. “Shit,” he says, drawing out the word.
There’re lots of words for it. And that’s one of them.
“Iraq
?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer Landon.
I wait for Owen to speak. For a long while his words don’t come. And even though I steel myself for what he may ask, I know then I’ll never be ready for all he has to say.
“Were you in Special Forces?”
He’s been watching me closely. I felt the weight of his stare drilling into my skull throughout my interaction with his son. He didn’t blink when he asked, and he doesn’t blink as he continues. “I doubt that tattoo’s just for show, boy.”
I straighten a little more. “No, sir. It’s not for show,” I tell him.
I don’t see Trin, or her Momma. But I feel my girl standing behind me. In their silence, I know they’ve heard our exchange.
As close as Trin and me have been, and after all that we’ve done, I’ve barely said a word about my time in Iraq. But here I am, telling the two most important men in her life more than I’ve dared to tell her.
‘Cept there’s no stopping now is there? The murderer is out of the bag.
“Were you a SEAL?” Owen asks.
“No. Ranger.”
I know what he’s doing . . .what they’re both doing. They’re trying to gauge just how dangerous I am. So I wait, unsure how much more they’ll tolerate before I’m asked to leave and not come back.
Her daddy hasn’t moved, and his expression is as hard and cool as cracked granite. “What was your specialty, boy?”
This time, it’s my turn not to blink. “Sniper.”
Silvie’s sharp intake of breath robs the room of all sound, and twists the knife already lodged deep in my gut.
“How many confirmed kills?”
It’s Landon who asks, but my focus stays on Owen. “A hundred and seven.”
“All your own?” Owen asks, his face unyielding.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The quiet that follows lasts more like hours than minutes. My tightening muscles are screaming and threatening to tear clear from my frame. But it’s when the air thickening the space between me and Owen, appears to freeze and lower the temperature around us, that I’m certain judgment’s been passed, and that I’m no longer welcomed.