Soldier's Heart: a Wounded Love novel

by Megan Green

  As I find a place in the back of the pack of ladies, I see Haylee shoot me a sly smile before she releases her bouquet. And as I expected, the bundle of flowers comes flying in my direction. I snicker to myself. Leave it to Haylee to think I’d buy into the age old myth. I deftly side step the hurdling mass of good—albeit misplaced—intentions, allowing Ryan’s little five-year-old cousin to catch it. I see Haylee’s shoulders slump, and she pouts playfully, wagging her finger at me, but her joy is too great to allow my grimness to overshadow it. I laugh as I make my way to her, hugging her to me through the yards of fabric surrounding her.

  “One of these days, you’re going to find this again. And I’ll be the first one to say I told you so,” she says, giggling at me.

  I shake my head. “If you say so. Now go. Your husband awaits.”

  She turns and looks at the door, where Ryan and Joey stand with their sergeant. As soon as her eyes fall on him, Ryan turns. An enormous grin spreads across his face. Filled with love. And desire.

  “Holy shit, Em. I’m married,” she breathes, as if the thought just now occurred to her.

  “No shit, Sherlock. That’s generally why you have a wedding. Now go, Mrs. Porter.”

  She beams. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

  I steer her toward her groom, and we all watch as they make their way down the steps and fall into the awaiting limo, already entangled in each other’s arms. They’d better remember to put the partition up or the limo driver is going to get more of a show than he bargained for.

  As the taillights fade into the distance, I turn and look at Joey. “Shall we?”

  He extends his elbow, and I smile as I loop my arm through his. We quickly say our goodbyes to everyone else, thankful Haylee and Ryan sprang for the professional clean up. There’s no way in hell I’d last a couple more hours trying to clean this place up.

  As Joey and I walk to my car, I argue briefly that he should let me drive so he can sleep, but we both know I’ve had far too much to drink. I slide into the passenger seat and lay my head back against the seat, my thoughts replaying the day’s events.

  The image of Ryan’s face when he first saw Haylee fills my head. And as I drift off to sleep, my last thought is of how much I want someone to look at me like that someday.

  “Just through here,” I say confidently.

  “Are you sure, Wright? I have a bad feeling about this place. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Trust me. We’ve been watching this area for weeks. The men we’re looking for are on the other side of this wall.”

  My men line up, preparing to enter the room.

  I lift my hand.

  On my count.

  One.

  Two.

  I kick open the door, falling back as I let my men charge into the room.

  Everything happens so fast.

  A shout in Arabic.

  A gunshot.

  A clamor of English.

  An explosion.

  I jerk from my bed, my arms raising in a defensive position as I take in the room around me. It’s pitch black, the only semblance of light coming from the digital alarm clock glowing in the corner. By its faint light, I’m able to make out my bed. The chair in the corner covered in yesterday’s clothes. My dresser. I’m in my bedroom. I’m home.

  I repeat the words over and over to myself, but they do nothing to calm my frayed nerves. My heart races, my breathing ragged. I feel as if I’m going to crawl right out of my skin. I bring my trembling hand to my face, wiping my sweat-soaked brow.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, tucking my head between my knees and taking several deep breaths, like my therapist suggested for when these moments occur. And like every other time this has happened, cowering and deep breathing does jack shit. I stomp out of my bedroom, heading for the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom. I fling open the cabinet door, grabbing for the pills she gave me for when the breathing exercises don’t work. Fuck breathing exercises. I don’t believe for a minute that shit works for anyone.

  I swallow two of the pills, not bothering with water, before placing the bottle back on the shelf and swinging the mirrored door shut. I stare at my reflection. I look like shit. My eyes are bloodshot, the dark circles surrounding them deepening every day. The pallor of my normally copper skin is shocking, even to my own eyes. I splash some water on my face, rubbing at my tired, aching eyes.

  My thoughts return to my dream. The same one I’ve had every night for the past six months. I hear the voices. The sound of gunfire. I see the flash of the grenade exploding.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter, grabbing the pills again and swallowing three more, this time with a small sip of water from the sink. It’s more than Beth wants me to take. But I need some fucking sleep. I need some fucking silence. I need some fucking oblivion.

  I stagger out to the couch, feeling the rush of calm already settling over me. I honestly don’t know why I don’t take these damn pills all the time. They’re so much fucking better than the alternative. I collapse on the couch, pulling a blanket around me before allowing the sweet serenity of sleep to take over.

  She can see it when I walk in. I don’t know how she does it, but she always knows when I’ve had a bad day.

  “Isaiah,” she greets, gesturing toward my usual spot across from her. I sit, my back ramrod straight, my large hands on my knees. She smiles at me softly, pity in her eyes. I hate that fucking look.

  “How are you today?” she asks in an incredibly gentle voice. I hate that voice too—the voice that tells me she doesn’t want to risk startling me. Doesn’t want to upset me. It’s the perfect fucking therapist voice. I just wish I wasn’t the one on the receiving end of it.

  I scoff at her question, rolling my head back on my neck and staring at the ceiling. “Really? Why do you ask that every fucking time, Beth? Obviously, I’m not okay, or I wouldn’t be here. So quit with the stupid fucking questions, okay?”

  “Okay,” she simply agrees. I turn back to her, greeted by that same damn pitying look on her face. I exhale in attempt to expunge my pent up aggression.

  “Sorry. It was a bad night. Not your fault, I know. Go on then, Beth. Shrink me.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “I’m a therapist, not a shrink. And given your large stature, I don’t think anybody would be able to accomplish the task of “shrinking” you.”

  This manages to make me laugh. She’s right. I’m six foot five and about two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle. Ten years in the military will do that to a person. It had always been a source of pride for me, the way I cared for my body. Now it’s a way to pass the lonely hours. A way to keep the ghosts that haunt me at bay.

  I smirk at Beth, and she smiles at me in return. “Where did we leave off last time?” she asks, scanning her notes from our last visit.

  I’ve been seeing Beth weekly for about three months now. I’ve told her what happened. She’s told me it wasn’t my fault. I’ve told her why she’s wrong. And she’s told me I need to learn to accept what happened was an unfortunate accident and move on. And around and around it goes. Needless to say, we haven’t made much progress. And as much as I hate the fact I’m seeing a therapist, I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t the only hour of my week I didn’t completely dread. Because even though our views on the situation might differ, at least she knows. She knows all the details, and she doesn’t judge me. It’s the only hour every week where I can be frank and not worry about the repercussions and whispers that’ll occur when I walk away.

  “Oh, here it is,” she says, tapping the notepad in her lap. “Guilt. We were talking about guilt when we ran out of time. Would you like to pick up there?”

  My eyes lower to the floor. No, I wouldn’t fucking like to pick up there. I don’t want to remember it’s my fault two of my men are dead, and three others permanently disfigured.

  “Actually, Beth, I really did have a rough night last night. Is there any way you can just write me a refill, and
we can cut it short this week? I really need some fucking sleep.”

  I don’t tell her about the five pills I took in the middle of the night last night. I don’t tell her I crashed for about nine hours after, not rising until almost noon. I hadn’t slept so late in…well, ever. But even though I got more sleep than I’d ever had in my life, I’d still awoken even more exhausted than when I went to bed last night.

  And I can tell by the way she’s looking at me she knows I’m full of shit. She knows I’m not being upfront with her. She clucks her tongue in disappointment.

  “Sure. We can skip the guilt this week. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about anyway. Something I think will be really beneficial to your recovery.”

  I cringe inwardly. The last time she said those words, she’d found some damn group therapy bullshit she wanted me to try. I went to one session. It was like a god-damned AA meeting, but instead of a bunch of addicts, you had a bunch of people sitting in a circle, crying about how they wished they’d only seen the signs of their brother’s depression before it was too late. I left halfway through and never went back. Beth wasn’t pleased, but that stuff isn’t for me. I’d told her it wasn’t going to do anything but make me want to slit my own wrists. She hadn’t found my comment amusing. I’ll admit, it was a pretty dickish thing to say.

  Obviously knowing right where my thoughts went, she gives me a crooked smile. “No, Isaiah, it’s not another therapy circle. You made your opinion on that matter very clear. This is something different. Something new I’ve just learned about, but it’s something I’m excited to try. And who better to experiment with than my favorite client, right?”

  I roll my eyes. Favorite client. Right. I’m sure she goes home at night and tells her husband all about how much she loves her sessions with a psychotic ex-soldier who got half his men injured and/or killed. But I choose to keep my mouth shut and wait for her to continue.

  “There’s a nearby organization that trains therapy dogs—”

  “I hate dogs, Beth,” I cut her off. I’ve never understood the sort of people who like dogs. Or cats, or any animal in general, really. They’re fucking animals. They’re born. They eat. They sleep. They shit all over everything. Then, they die. What’s the point?

  “I don’t want a service dog,” I continue when she doesn’t speak. “I’m not really much of a pet person, if that isn’t already obvious to you.”

  Beth’s eyes narrow at me. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting you get a service dog, Isaiah. If you’d have let me finish, I was going to say this organization trains therapy dogs for veterans suffering from PTSD. They provide these dogs to the veterans at no cost, so they rely one hundred percent on donations and volunteers. They recently received a large grant, so now they’re hoping to get a few veterans to donate their time to help train these dogs. I think this is a great opportunity for you. It would help you rebuild some much needed social skills. As well as put you in a situation you’re comfortable with—training someone to do as they’re told. You’re a pro at that, right?”

  My eyes narrow as I cock my head to the side, eyeing her as if she’s lost her damn mind. “I train soldiers, Beth. Not animals. I’m not that fucking dog whisperer guy. Cesar what’s his face.”

  “How different can it be? In fact, I’d think you’d prefer this. At least the dogs won’t talk back.”

  I stare at her. She can’t be serious, can she? What in the hell do I know about training a dog?

  “Just try it. Go for a week. If you don’t like it, or you feel it’s not going to help you, we’ll figure something else out. And just think, one of these dogs might go to Jim one day.”

  She strikes a chord with her last comment, and she knows it. It’s why she fucking said it. She knows I’ll do whatever I can to help Jim. And that sappy bastard would be the perfect type for a therapy dog. He loves everyone and everything.

  “Fine. I’ll go for a week, but I swear to God, Beth, if one of those little shits bites me or pees on me, I’m blaming you. This is a bad idea. Mark my words.”

  She smiles at me as she scribbles down the address and hands me the slip of paper along with my prescription. I swear I hear her laughing as I walk out the door.

  “What’d you say his name was?” I ask Joey for the tenth time.

  “Isaiah Wright. Former Special Forces leader. Been home about six months now. According to Beth, he’s having some trouble coming to terms with his time over there. She wouldn’t go into detail, for obvious reasons, but she thinks spending some time here might help him.”

  Beth is a new friend of Joey’s. A therapist. They’d met at a fundraiser last week, and she’d taken a great interest in our organization. When she’d called earlier this week asking if she could arrange for someone to come and check the place out, Joey had been through the roof excited. It’s been a couple months since we’ve had a veteran out to help with the dogs. He began this program last year, and since then we’d had a few men sign up. They’d all seemed to enjoy, and maybe even benefit from, the experience. I know he wishes it would develop a little more, though. If it were up to Joey, every returning soldier in North Carolina would be out here. He thinks it’s a wonderful way for veterans to readjust to normal life.

  I have to admit though, I’m always a little nervous each time someone comes to meet us the first time. I never know what to expect. As horrible as it sounds, sometimes these men can be a little scary when I first meet them. They’re not prone to smiling, or even talking for the most part. We’ve had a few come once and never come back. I always worry it might be me driving them away. I have a habit of getting a little too comfortable with people a little too quickly. I tend to ask a lot of questions and talk a lot. That can be distressing to someone just returning from war, having experienced things I can’t even begin to imagine. So I’ve tried to rein it in a bit, attempting to soften the peculiarities of my personality. So far…well, let’s just say it’s a work in progress.

  The men that have stayed and completed the program, however, have always left smiling, telling me how much they grew to love my quirky, vivacious personality. So I try not to let it worry me too much.

  “Special Forces, huh? That’s pretty impressive. So he could pretty much kick your ass, right?” I tip the corner of my mouth up in a grin as I look at him.

  “Hey, now. Watch yourself, Em. He may be a badass, but I’ll have you know I used to be pretty badass myself. Back before you and these damn dogs made me go all soft. At least the guy chose the right branch to enlist in. I don’t have to worry about him being a damn jarhead or fly boy.”

  I laugh. Joey always jokes that anyone who enlists and doesn’t choose the Army must have a screw loose somewhere, but I’ve managed to talk him out of making those jokes in front of our volunteers. Some of them laugh and joke with him. Others don’t take it as well.

  The two of us work in comfortable silence for the next hour, cleaning out the kennels and taking turns taking each of the pups out onto the training course. They’re only about twelve weeks old, so none of them can really complete any of the obstacles yet, but we want to ingrain the commands early. So we make sure each of them spends some time out on the course each day. As they get older, we’ll add in other aspects of their training, but for now, we spend hours smiling and laughing as they tumble their way through.

  The sound of tires on the gravel driveway draws my attention away from Lucy, who’s currently attacking a dandelion. I turn, seeing a red truck coming to a stop in front of my house. I shield my eyes against the morning sun, trying to catch a glimpse of the man as he steps out of the cab.

  Even from across the yard, I can tell he’s tall. Like, really tall. His skin is a gorgeous shade of mocha. My own skin, still pale from the cold winter days spent indoors, seems almost ghostly in comparison. The sun reflects brightly off the top of his closely shaved head. He slams the door to his truck, resting his hands on his hips as he looks around the property. From his stance, I’d say he’s not very impr
essed.

  Joey jogs over from the kennels to greet him. The two exchange one of those manly handshakes—you know, the short, firm ones that always look like they’re trying to out-flex each other—followed by several moments of talk I’m unable to make out from where I’m standing. I’m contemplating going over to introduce myself when Joey jerks his head toward me, and they both turn to look at me. I give a small wave as they head in my direction.

  As they get closer, the man’s features come into focus, and I’m momentarily dumbstruck. Holy hell, he’s beautiful. A faint shadow of stubble runs across his strong jaw. His cheekbones look straight out of a super model’s wet dream. He smiles slightly at something Joey says to him, revealing a row of the straightest, most bright white teeth I’ve ever seen. And that dimple. Holy good lord, that dimple. As if he wasn’t perfect enough already, God had to go and give him a dimple to top it all off. One person shouldn’t be allowed to be so pretty. It isn’t fair to the rest of the world.

  I’m still staring like a freaking idiot when they reach me. The signal between my brain and my mouth seems to have been lost. I know I need to say hello. Or smile. Extend a hand. Something. Do something, Emma. Instead, I stand here, almost positive my mouth is hanging open, and completely unable to get my body to cooperate with the order my brain is currently shouting at it. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I vaguely make out the sound of Joey’s voice somewhere in the background, but my gaze remains locked on the stranger. Dark glasses shield his eyes. If he’d just take off those glasses, I’m ninety percent positive my brain function would return to normal. The suspense is killing me. I need to know what his eyes look like before I can return to acting like a normal human being again.