Fighting Absolution

by Kate McCarthy

  He touches my face, his fingers gentle as they trail across my mottled brow and down my cheek. The bruises are still a riot of purple and green across my face and down my neck. The swelling took days to go down. “What happened to you?” He sounds breathless, his words stilted as if it’s a struggle to speak.

  An emotionally charged huff leaves my lips. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Kyle grabs me then, his arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me. My legs dangle from the ground as I clutch at his shirt, relief bubbling up inside me so big and bright it’s a wonder I can see. I had no idea how much I needed him until I saw his familiar face in the crowd and felt the comfort of his arms around me.

  Kyle buries his head in my neck, breathing me in as if he missed the scent of me. He pulls back and lets me go, slowly setting me on my feet with care, his expression turning hard. “Who did this, Jamie?”

  “It was nothing,” I reply, wanting to downplay the assault. I can’t revisit it right now. I just can’t. Not even for Kyle. “Just a minor scuffle.”

  “Who?”

  People stare as they move around us. “Can we do this somewhere else?”

  Kyle’s nostrils flare. He snatches up my bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and takes my hand. We wind our way through the parking lot until we reach the beautiful black Mustang. Ryan’s car. He releases my hand and unlocks it, tossing my bag in the backseat like it’s a sack of wheat. Slamming the door closed, he turns.

  I go to open the passenger door, and he thumps a hand against it, stopping me. My brows pinch tight. I turn and his palms slap down on the car, boxing me in. “Kyle.”

  “You wanted to do this somewhere else.” He jerks his chin towards the mostly quiet parking area. “This is somewhere else.”

  I shake my head, holding on to my composure by my damn teeth. “Later.”

  Kyle leans in close, his nose almost touching mine. “Who did this?”

  Frustration bubbles up my throat. I turn my face away. “Kyle, please.”

  “Tell me!” he roars, his fist slamming down on the hood of Ryan’s car behind me. His strength is enormous. I’ve no doubt he’s dented the Mustang. Ryan will lose his shit, but Kyle seems oblivious to his imminent death. His anger is so palpable it vibrates through my body, making me shiver. “Dammit, Jamie. Who?”

  “The Taliban.” I look up, meeting his eyes. “They grabbed me in Kandahar.”

  He stills, his only movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “They grabbed you?” His face pales as his gaze roams down my neck—to the bruises that trail their way inside my shirt. “Jesus. Did they …” He takes a shuddering breath, his bottom jaw trembling. His voice lowers as if it pains him to voice the words. “Did they touch you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean they tried, but no.”

  Kyle steps back, hands fisting. He looks pissed off and devastated all at the same time. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters. He roars it a second time. “Fuck!”

  I grab his shoulders, rubbing them with my palms as if soothing a wild beast. I’ve never seen Kyle like this. So riled. His temper unchecked. He looks ready to pick up Ryan’s car and throw it clear across the lot. “I’m okay. It looks so much worse than it is.” Which is a lie, because I’m in agony right now. I need a pain pill, a bottle of water, and bed.

  “How did this even happen?” He turns and stalks two, three, four steps away, shoving fingers through his hair before turning, pinning me with his eyes. “Where was your goddamn team?”

  “It wasn’t their fault.” My mind returns to the child. His dirty tunic, the dark curled hair, the soft cheeks. My eyes fill. I turn my head from his hard gaze. “I thought I saw Arash. I needed a better look. I should have been paying attention.”

  “Damn straight you should have been paying attention.”

  My brows snap together at his rebuke. “Fuck you, Kyle. I got away.”

  He walks back, his hazel eyes dark with anger. “And how did you do that?”

  “I killed them,” I say in a voice carved from stone, blanking the images from my head. I acted to save myself, and I’m glad they’re dead, but the horror of taking so many lives is a lead weight on my soul. “I killed them all.”

  Kyle comes to stand in front of me, swiping a hand over his face. I tilt my head upward, meeting his eyes. “God, Jamie. God.” He takes my face in his palms, his touch so mindful of my bruises that his fingers tremble against my skin. I’m surrounded by his strength, and his heat, and the familiar scent of him. I can’t seem to catch a breath. “You did good,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I wish it was me that killed them all. I would have done it without blinking. Just for laying a hand on you. Fucking bastards.” He pauses for a moment, his chest brushing mine with every inhale and his eyes searching my face.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to let him go.”

  “Let who go?”

  “Arash. Let him go. Jake. Your father. Let them all go before it ends up destroying you.”

  My stomach sinks with a horrible, sick feeling. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  My jaw begins to tremble, and the single word comes out shaky. “How?”

  “Like I said before…” his forehead presses to mine, his fingers gentle on my face “…we have to live our lives the best way we know how, knowing it’s what they would want for us. You said you trusted me. Do you?”

  I nod, my forehead rubbing against his. “I do.”

  “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.” He hugs me to him and I clutch at his sides, taking my first real breath in days. “We can work it out together.”

  I rise from the table, collecting my dinner plate. I reach for Kyle’s and stack it on top of mine.

  We’re at Erin and Wood’s apartment. Half the place is boxed up, ready for moving day. The other half is a shambles because she’s collected a lot of crap over the years. In the middle of it all rests a double-bed air mattress because I’m staying here for two nights before mine and Kyle’s road trip.

  Erin caved and they bought the house—the one I suggested—on the promise that the first thing Wood did was build the front porch like I told her he would.

  I’m currently awaiting Wood’s retribution, having come to the conclusion that I like them being together. Not just because they’re like two happy pigs in mud, but because the entertainment value has increased twice as much. Except for tonight. Tonight is about as fun as a shit sandwich.

  Erin rises from the table. “Sit down,” she tells me, reaching across for the plates in my hand. “I’ll get those.”

  “I can handle a few plates, Tennyson.”

  She grabs them and pulls. “I’m sure you can, but you’re a guest, Murphy.”

  I pull them back towards me, and we stare at each other across the table. “Since when did you care about that? Last time I stayed here you made me clean out your gross fridge!”

  She yanks back and I wince. “I was hungover and there was a horrible smell coming from inside it!”

  Kyle half rises, frowning at my friend. “Erin, careful.” He turns to me. “Jamie, give me the plates.”

  “They’re just freaking plates!” I yell.

  “And I’m taking them to the kitchen!” Erin yells back.

  Wood’s calm voice carries across the table. “Erin, sit down and let her take the plates.”

  “You sit down, Colin!” she shouts in a sneering tone, turning her head to glare at him. “You sit the fuck down!”

  “I am sitting down.” Wood looks across to Kyle. “I’m sitting down.”

  Kyle nods his agreement. “He’s sitting down.”

  I rip the plates free, and I mean to twist them away from Erin’s grabbing fingers, I really do, but they fly from my hands. We watch them fly across the room and crash into the kitchen counter before shattering to the floor, a messy pile of white porcelain shards and half-eaten lasagne.
“Fuck,” I mutter.

  I start for the mess, and Erin runs over, getting in front of me. “It’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll clean it up. Colin? Grab the dustpan.”

  “Are you sure?” he calls out from behind us, quite possibly signing his own death warrant, “because I wouldn’t want to not be sitting down in my chair.”

  I’m surprised her glare doesn’t incinerate him on the spot. He stands quickly. “It’s packed.”

  “Dammit, Colin!”

  “I’ll find it. I’ll find it,” he says in a placating tone, his palms up in surrender.

  I crouch, starting to collect the broken shards in my hands. “I’ve got it. It’s fine.”

  Kyle crouches alongside me, picking up the smaller, pointier pieces.

  “Would you all stop!” Erin shrieks.

  “For fuck’s sake!” I rise, my ribs screaming in protest at the sudden move.

  Kyle stands up beside me, his large hand dropping down on my shoulder. “Jamie.”

  “You stop!’ I yell at Erin, ignoring Kyle.

  “I can’t.” She bursts into sudden tears. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Colin?”

  He’s already walking towards her, wrapping her up in his arms as she chokes on her sobs.

  “Do what?” I ask, feeling as if I’m missing a vital piece of this conversation—or altercation, as it were.

  “Pretend everything is fine!” she cries. “You keep going off to war, and you don’t even care about how it affects the rest of us. You bottle everything up inside, sending your shitty emails about how everything is fine, and how you can’t wait to come home, and gee it was really dusty here today,” she snaps, waving her arms around like an inflatable tube guy, “and then you come home so bruised and battered it’s a wonder you can walk at all,” she yells, her voice rising higher and higher until she’s shrieking, “and you expect us to act like it’s all normal and everything is fine!” She jabs a finger in my direction. “Newsflash, Jamie Murphy. It’s not freaking fine!”

  My hands tighten on the shards, and I feel them cut into palms.

  “Erin.” Wood turns her to face him. “Go get your purse.”

  She looks at him as if lost. “My purse?”

  “Come on. We’ll go get some ice cream.”

  They leave the apartment, and quiet hits, the only sound the humming of the refrigerator. I turn to Kyle. He reaches for me and I draw backwards, my breath coming in a choppy hiccup. “I didn’t think.”

  He cocks his head. “That what? People actually care about you?”

  “Yes.” It sounds stupid and selfish, but I didn’t think about that at all.

  Kyle turns his back on me and drops to the mess. “Go shower, Jamie. I’ll clean up here.”

  I do what he says because I’ve had enough fighting for one evening. I take my time, washing my hair and shaving my legs despite the pain that comes with it, but I feel better for it when I’m done.

  I use Erin and Wood’s room to dress, pulling my white lace bra and matching knickers on over damp skin, my hair dripping down my back because I don’t have the energy to dry it off. Wrapping a towel around my body, I peer out the door.

  Kyle is sitting on the couch in the dark. There’s no music. No television. No Erin or Wood. Just him and a bottle of whiskey. “Kyle?”

  He turns his head, showing me the handsome line of his profile in silhouette.

  “Can you please help me?”

  He rises from the couch, his glass hanging from his fingers as he walks over. “What do you need?”

  “My stitches need to come out.”

  “Stitches?”

  “My shoulder.”

  His eyes drop to the gauze, and he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. Anger flares so bright in his eyes it almost lights up the darkened bedroom. His jaw is incredibly tight as he hands me his whiskey. I hold my towel together with one hand and take it in the other, tipping it up to my lips. I swallow a huge mouthful, and fire burns all the way down my throat.

  Kyle tips his head towards the bed where I’ve propped the first aid kit from my pack. “Sit down.”

  I sink down on the edge of the mattress, gulping another mouthful while he switches on the light and takes out the tweezers and suture scissors. The gauze comes off next. Kyle takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he stares at the stitched wounds. His eyes flick to mine. “Stab wounds?”

  “Just three.”

  “Oh just three, huh?” His tone is snide. “Just three?”

  “Kyle.”

  He crouches in front of me, bringing us to eye level. “Let me see the rest of you.”

  I grip the towel tighter, not from modesty, but from the need to hide the extent of my injuries. Kyle literally dented the roof of Ryan’s car, and he did it without blinking. Ryan is going to lose his shit when he sees it. I don’t need Kyle punching a wall in the bedroom and pissing off Wood and Erin too. “That’s not necessary.”

  He glares, the line of his brow hard. “If Erin didn’t say it clear enough, Jamie, we care about you. I care about you. Can you understand that? Can you understand the need to make sure you’re physically okay, whether you tell me you are or not?” He puts his hands on my knees, branding me with heat as he speaks. “If any of us were injured, wouldn’t you do the same?”

  Of course I would. I’d probably pitch a royal fit until I got my way. Gritting my teeth, I unhook the towel and let it settle on the mattress behind me.

  His eyes take in the fading bruises across my chest and down across the swell of my breasts, disappearing inside the cover of my bra. His gaze falls to my mottled ribs and lower, to the butterfly tape across the cuts to my belly, hips, and thighs.

  Kyle closes his eyes as if it physically hurts to look at my injuries any longer. “Jamie,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m okay.”

  He takes a moment, visibly struggling for composure. When he opens his eyes, he searches my face like he’s trying to decide if he believes me or not. I’m not sure if he does, but his gaze drops to the multitude of adhesive strips that cover my body. They’re damp, their edges curled. They need to come off. He reaches for the closest one. “You want these gone?”

  I nod and look towards the wall, my chest shuddering with the need to cry as he gently peels away tape after tape until it’s done. “Do you need more on?” he asks.

  I shake my head in a negative response, lips mashed together.

  “Okay. Let’s get these stitches out.” He leans in, his warm breath puffing against my shoulder as he lifts each stitch with the tweezers and slices it with the special scissors. He tugs the suture free and sets it aside, starting in on the next.

  “You’re good at this.”

  “I’m good at everything.”

  I huff.

  His eyes flick to mine before going back to his task. “Who did the stitches?”

  “Connor.”

  Kyle’s only reaction is the pause of his fingers before he slices another stitch free. “You didn’t request a medevac?”

  “I didn’t need one.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You don’t need anything or anyone, right?”

  My voice softens. “You know that’s not true.”

  “Do I?”

  28

  KYLE

  The sound of a baby screaming echoes through Ryan and Fin’s cottage as I walk up the pathway to the front door. The sound gets closer after I knock loudly with the back of my fist.

  It’s early Monday morning after last night’s dinner fail. It’s also the first day of my four weeks leave, and I’m about to start it on a really shitty note.

  The door swings wide open. Ryan stands there in uniform, a squalling baby propped high on his shoulder. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night.

  “Swap you,” I say, holding out his keys.

  Ryan’s hand splays wide across Jacob’s back as he reaches for them with his free arm. He pockets them before sliding a pa
lm behind Jacob’s neck and his tiny bottom, handing him over.

  I take him, holding him out facing me. His screams cut off, and his dark eyes blink wide. “Hey, little dude. Is that you making all that noise?”

  “All fucking night,” Ryan bleats, rubbing bleary eyes.

  “You sound just like your father,” I coo at Jacob, swaying him the slightest bit.

  He gurgles as if I told a great joke.

  “How do you do that?” Ryan asks, shifting to the side so I can come in.

  “It’s easy.” I step past him, tucking Jacob into the crook of my arm as I walk down the hall towards the kitchen. He follows behind. “I just make fun of you. He seems to like it.”

  Ryan goes straight for the coffee pot. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” Though I’m not sure I should be lingering for coffee, no matter how desperate I am for a caffeine hit. My buddy isn’t the only one who got no sleep last night. I was awake in the early hours after dreaming about Jamie being captured by insurgents. They planned a beheading, and I woke in a sweat before they swung the machete, racing to the toilet to puke. I couldn’t sleep after that.

  Cuddling little Jacob eases some of the lingering tension. Babies are so sweet and so damn innocent, and this one has a wonderful life ahead of him.

  “Where’s Fin?” I ask, bringing the little one up to my chest and patting his back. He hiccups against the skin of my neck, and my heart melts into a giant pile of goo. This kid. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him already. I’m going to be the best uncle. The kind Jake would want him to have.

  “Asleep,” Ryan answers, pouring coffee into two mugs. “So try and keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake her.”

  Ryan slides the mug across the table in my direction. Now is a good a time as any. Fin is asleep and I have his son in my arms.

  “So,” I drawl, stepping back a little. Jacob’s arms flail and I rub warm circles over his back. “I accidently dented the Mustang.”

  Ryan chuckles low and brings the mug to his lips. “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious.”