“No, she stopped crying a wee while ago.” His stepdad, Callum, climbed out onto the roof beside him. “Now, she’s playing with her Barbies.” He cast a sideways glance at Jack, his eyes sparkling. “They’re torturing G.I. Joe for leaving them to go into the army.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. His five-year-old sister, Sophie, was resilient. She might not like that he was going away for army training, but she’d find a way to cope.
“You all packed?” Callum stretched out his legs in front of him and rested back on his elbows.
“Yep.” He grinned at the only man who’d ever been a father to him, even if had only been for the past few, far too short, years. “And then Mum repacked my bag.”
Callum shook his head, a smile on his face. “Did you redo it?”
“Had to. She doesn’t have a clue how to pack.”
“Tell me about it.”
They sat in silence, looking out over the rooftops of Chelsea. To one side of them, at the end of the garden, stood the old terraced building that housed the London office of Benson Security—the business Callum owned with his partners.
“Few years and I’ll be working in there with you.” Jack lifted his chin toward the building.
“I’m counting on it.”
The confident reply settled something within him. “Mum’s still hoping I’ll change my mind.”
Callum smiled as he stared out into the night. “She wouldn’t be Isobel if she didn’t. To her, you’re still the wee boy she had to care for all on her own, even though she was barely a girl herself. For eighteen years, her life’s been all about keeping you out of danger. It’s hard for her to see you walk into a situation that’s the opposite.”
“But the army will train me for anything that comes my way. And I already know how to look after myself.” Probably more so than any of the other recruits in his class. Because Jack had spent two years training with Callum and the other ex-military personnel at Benson Security. He had a black belt in Karate and was on his way to one in Krav Maga. On top of that, he knew his way around a series of firearms, had basic knowledge of how to function in a tactical situation, and was pretty decent in a knife fight. He was prepared, at peak fitness, and had support and experience at his back, giving him a quiet confidence most kids his age didn’t possess. That he was even aware of the difference between himself and his fellow recruits spoke volumes.
In other words, he was lucky, and he knew it.
“Being trained doesn’t stop crap from happening.” Callum pointed at his legs.
If anyone knew that to be true, it was Callum. Under his jeans were two state-of-the-art prosthetic limbs. He’d lost his legs after bombing while on an operation with the SAS.
“I could also step off the curb tomorrow and get hit by a bus,” Jack said.
“Especially in London,” Callum said with a grin.
They lapsed into another comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts. In the distance, a siren wailed as the constant noise of London ebbed and flowed around them.
“Do you think I’ll make it?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Or do you think I’ll wash out of training?”
“I don’t think you’ll make it,” Callum said. “I know you will. And I also know that you’ll be one of the finest paratroopers the unit’s ever seen.”
Jack blinked hard as his eyes began to sting; he blamed it on the London air—the only downside of living in the capital. “Not sure I’ll live up to your reputation though,” he joked.
Callum McKay was a legend within the parachute regiment. One that had gone on to join the exclusive ranks of the SAS. It was a path Jack hoped to follow, but he was more than aware he had big shoes to fill.
“Son.” Callum’s serious tone made Jack look him in the eye. And the intensity he saw there made his breath hitch. “You are going to surpass me in every way. And I couldn’t be prouder.”
Jack cleared his throat and looked away. “Got to make it through thirty-nine weeks of training first.”
“There is that,” Callum let him lighten the mood. “Have you said goodbye to your girl?”
Jack nodded. “Yesterday.”
“The army’s hard on relationships. Having a man who’s always away can make a woman wonder if she’d be better off on her own, or with a guy who isn’t in the military.”
“Is that what happened to your first marriage?”
“Aye. That and we got into things a bit too young.”
Jack knew all about taking on responsibility far too young—he was the child of a teenage mother. And, as much as he loved his mum and thought she’d done an amazing job bringing him up, he wanted to experience life before he had to deal with being responsible for someone else, whether a wife or a kid.
“I know this sounds nasty,” he confessed, “but I don’t think Shelley and I are gonna survive my training. And, I’m okay with that. I mean, I like her, but she isn’t…”
“The one?” Callum cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Aye.” Jack’s shoulders slumped. “If there is such a thing as the one.”
“Oh, there is. It just takes some doing to find them, not to mention a whole lot of luck that you’ll recognize them when you see them.”
“Mum?” He held his breath as he waited for the answer.
“Aye. Your mother’s it for me. I’d do anything for that woman.” Callum looked at Jack. “And for you kids. I might not have given you my genetics, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re one hundred percent mine. You and little Sophie. You’re both mine.”
It was hard to speak through a tightening throat. “And the baby.”
“Aye.” He smiled widely. “And the baby.”
“I’m glad Sophie has a sister close to her age. I would have liked a brother when I was a kid.”
“So would I,” Callum said. He shifted and reached into his jeans pocket. “I’ve got something for you.” He took out a small round brass tin and handed it to Jack.
The tin was a bit battered and scratched but had obviously been cleaned and polished. There was an engraved pattern on the top and a maker’s stamp on the bottom. Jack flicked the clasp, and it popped open to reveal an old compass.
“It was my dad’s,” Callum said. “I took it with me on all my missions. It brought me luck.”
Jack couldn’t help but grin. “Callum, you lost your legs on a mission.”
“Aye, but losing my legs led me to your mother. And to you and your sister. That’s bloody good luck; there’s no denying it.” He cleared his throat. “My advice? Keep it in the pocket over your heart. Maybe it will stop a bullet.”
“Kind of hoping the flak jacket will do that.”
“Son, a flak jacket isn’t a bulletproof vest, I thought I’d taught you that.”
Jack grinned to let Callum know he was messing with him.
“Anyway,” Callum said with a matching grin. “You can’t engrave a flak jacket.”
Jack’s eyes snapped back to the compass, and there on the inside of the lid were three names: Donal, Callum, Jack. Beside each name was a date, and Jack immediately recognized the one next to his—the day he’d start his army training.
“No last names,” Callum said. “That can get you into trouble in some places.”
He nodded. “No. Last names would be bad.” His hand wrapped tight around the cold metal case. “Thanks,” he whispered.
Callum just nodded, and they stared back out across the city for a minute.
“I got you something too,” Jack said. “Gimme a minute to get it.”
He scrambled across the roof, ducked behind Callum, and back through the window into his room. As usual, everything was neatly in place. He wasn’t sure if his urge to keep things orderly was from years of having very little or from being around military types so much. Either way, it was easy to find what he wanted. A minute later, he climbed back out onto the tiled roof and sat beside Callum.
“Here.” He thrust the gift at him.
Callum took it
with a look of confusion. “This is your passport. You’re going to need that, son.”
“Just look inside.” Nerves made Jack’s stomach clench, and his palms became clammy enough for him to rub them on his jeans. Although he didn’t want to watch Callum open the passport, he couldn’t tear his eyes from him either.
And because he was staring right at the man, he didn’t miss the jolt that passed through Callum’s body when he flicked to the page with Jack’s details on it.
“Bloody hell,” he said, sounding strangled. “When?”
Jack ran a hand down his face and swallowed hard. “Couple of months ago. By deed poll. I was just waiting for my passport to turn up to show you.”
“Bloody hell,” Callum repeated, still staring down at the passport as it shook in his hand.
“Is it…” Jack cleared his throat. “Is it okay? You’re not mad, or anything?”
“What?” Callum’s chin lifted, and his eyes met Jack’s. “Best bloody gift ever.” He shook his head as his eyes pooled. “Best. Right up there with your mother saying I do. And news of the baby. Best bloody gift.”
“Good. Good.” Jack nodded and blinked several times. “I wasn’t sure…you know…I guess, I thought, maybe I should have asked first.”
“No.” Callum’s arm shot out, and he clasped the nape of Jack’s neck. “You didn’t need to ask. I don’t just call you son because I’m decades older. I call you son because that’s what you are to me. That’s what you’ll always be. Even if your mother and I, God forbid, ever split up, you will still be my son. So this”—he waved the passport—“this is bloody perfect.” He looked back down at the passport, sniffed and grinned. “Jack McKay sounds good, eh?”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed.
Callum’s hand flexed on Jack’s neck as he looked back up at him. “Thank you for this gift. I love you, son.” He tugged Jack forward and wrapped and arm around him, pounding his back in a firm hug.
“I love you too,” Jack whispered, “…Dad.”
Dear Abby
This Invertary story takes place about eight years after Bad Boy.
Dear Abby,
You are the love of my life.
“You’re really going to write her a letter about this?” Flynn’s thirteen-year-old daughter shook her head as she looked over his shoulder.
Flynn Boyle held up the card he’d spent good money on. “It isn’t a letter. It’s a huge, sparkly card. With. Hearts.”
She gave him a pitying look. “It won’t work. And you can’t start it like that. It’s really corny.”
Flynn let out a frustrated growl and tried again.
Dear Abby,
You are the love of my life. You’re the most amazing woman I know.
“Still corny,” Katy said.
“If you aren’t going to help, you need to get lost.”
She put a hand on his back, tossed her plaited hair over her shoulder, and gave him the kind of superior look only a newly minted teenager could deliver. “A hand-written note won’t get you out of this mess. Maybe you should take her away somewhere, like Paris. Or the moon. Somewhere she can’t see what you’ve done.”
“Helpful. Really helpful.” He eyed her Invertary Juniors soccer strip. “Why aren’t you at practice?”
“Because the coach is here, screwing up his marriage.”
“Your mother will kill me if she hears you saying screwing.”
“Then you need to stop saying it too. You’re setting a bad example.”
“And that’s still no excuse for missing practice. Serious football players put in the work. You know that.”
“What’s the point? There’s hardly any opportunity for me to play anyway. Apart from our tiny league, there’s nothing for girls around here. There’s no girls’ team at school, and they won’t let me join the boys’ team—even though I am way better than all their other players put together.”
Damn right she was. “Don’t worry. I’m dealing with that. By the time my lawyers are finished with your school, they’ll be begging you to captain their boys’ team. Which is why you can’t miss any practices, and why I asked Harry to cover for me while I deal with this.”
“Uncle Harry doesn’t know squat about football. We both know that he’ll have the team stay inside and play FIFA International Soccer online, while he calls it a strategy session.”
She had a point.
“Go away. I need to concentrate. Go find your sisters and annoy them.”
“Um, they’re busy playing with your new acquisition.” She pointed at the wall of windows overlooking the garden, to the paddock beyond, where the two seven-years-olds were adding bows to the latest animal he’d been conned into rescuing.
“How does this keep happening to me?” Flynn groaned.
Katy patted his back. “It’s because you’re a soft touch. You shouldn’t have done that interview with Cosmo where you told the world all about the animals you rescue. I told you it was a bad idea. Now everybody wants you to take on their unwanted pets because you’re rich enough to look after them and you’re easy to con. At least before that interview, the begging phone calls only came from locals. Now we’re getting them from all over Europe. I picked up the phone the other day and someone asked me about a monkey–in French!”
“I did the interview to spread the word about responsible animal ownership.” He’d wanted to use his fame from his footballing days to promote a worthy cause. One that was dear to his heart, now he was a newly minted veterinarian. What the hell was wrong with that?
“It was Cosmo, Dad. They didn’t care about your cause, all they cared about was getting you shirtless and comparing you to Beckham. Which, by the way, was disgusting. You need to keep your clothes on.”
“Bloody Beckham. I hate that smug bastard. And there’s no competition; I look way better than he does, and that’s without all the makeup and tattoos he needs to look pretty. Plus, I was a better player than he ever managed to be, even on his good days. Which weren’t many. Do I have to remind you about that red card? In a World Cup game? A game he could have helped his team win if he hadn’t been such a dickhead and got kicked off the field. Okay, so he was playing for England, and national pride forbids any decent Scot from supporting their World Cup efforts, but as a professional footballer, I was affronted. He played like a wean throwing a tantrum. That kind of thing makes us all look bad. And don’t even get me started on that ‘magic left foot’ of his. Magic, my arse.” He glanced out the window and shot to his feet. “Crap!” He raced for the doors, threw them open and shouted, “Fergus Boyle, stop painting the alpacas!”
His four-year-old grinned at him but carried right on where he’d left off.
Flynn hung his head. “This is my life.”
“I blame Claire and Megan,” Katy said with the wisdom of a seen-it-all, done-it-all, thirteen-year-old. “You shouldn’t have let them tell the story about the time they dyed Mrs. Baxter’s sheep pink.”
“I blame lack of birth control,” Flynn muttered. Then he lifted his T-shirt to check his abs. Aye, still better than Beckham’s.
“I’m back,” Abby shouted from the front of the house.
Flynn spun to face his daughter. “I’ll give you twenty pounds if you keep the kids out of the way until I break the news to your mother.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fifty, and I’ll take away Fergus’ paints.”
“Done.” Bloody terrorist.
She held out her hand. “Cash up front.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “No trust. I would have been good for it. As you keep reminding me, I’m still sitting on a pile of gold from my footballing days.” And from the odd advertising campaign—just to keep up awareness of his causes. It had absolutely nothing to do with reminding the world he was still there and looking damn good too.
He slapped a fifty into her palm. “Run. I’ll head her off.” And then he jogged out of the dining room and through the house to intercept his
wife.
His breath caught in his throat as it usually did whenever he saw her after she’d been out of his sight for any length of time. Hell, all it took was five minutes apart, he was that gone on his wife. Had there ever been a more beautiful woman? With her long chestnut hair and her peaches-and-cream complexion, she was a sexier version of Kate Middleton, and way better looking than Beckham’s Posh.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Flynn wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her to him. “How was your day?”
He looked down into her wide eyes and stilled. She looked shocked, or worried, maybe afraid. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. His hold on her tightened. “What’s wrong?”
Abby licked her lips and blinked up at him. “Don’t be mad.”
And just like that, his blood pressure shot right up. “Did you crash the car? Are you hurt?” He looked through the glass in the front door behind her, but the car seemed fine.
“No.” She glanced away, her usually pink cheeks paling. “Maybe we should sit down? How about a nice cup of tea?”
He looked at her, his eyes narrowing as his heart raced. Something was very wrong. The last time she’d looked like this was when…
His knees gave way and he plopped back onto the stairs behind him. “No,” he groaned as he ran a hand through his hair.
She sat close beside him on the stairs, her hand on his leg, patting him. “This is all your fault,” she said gently, making his eyes jerk up to look at her.
“What?”
She smiled at him. That angel smile of hers that she only pulled out when she wanted to get away with murder. “I told you to use a condom, but you said, ‘it’ll be fine.’ You were wrong.”
“We can’t have more children,” he whined. “We can barely cope with the four we have.”
“I know.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “It will be okay. We’ll manage.”
He sighed and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. “How far along are you?”
“Fourteen weeks.”
He shook his head. “I thought you were just getting fat.”
A Little Something Extra: Short Stories from the Invertary and Benson Security World Page 17