Jase braced his hands against the porcelain, his head drooping.
Carey.
From the first moment Jase had seen him, a newly minted Marine standing proud and tall on that Camp Pendleton parade ground, he’d never been far from Jase’s thoughts.
At first it’d been Carey’s stunning good looks—his thickly lashed blue eyes, strong jaw, and silky black hair—but his strong work ethic in a platoon full of hotheaded kids had soon earned Jase’s trust, too.
A trust that, over time, had grown into—
Grimacing once more at his reflection, Jase pulled on some jeans, then made his way out of the dressing room and back to the party. He scanned the noisy, crowded room for Carey, at last spying him leaving the snack table, paper plate in hand.
Jase winced at the sight of his slight limp.
The long drive from Colorado had obviously taken its toll. Jase had tried to get him to fly out for his visit, but Carey just laughed over the phone and said he didn’t mind driving, that dealing with crowded airports and the security hassles that were usually involved with his prosthetic leg were more trouble than they were worth.
Suddenly, a memory surged, of Carey playing football on their Pendleton liberty days, his strong legs pumping, his muscles bunching as he jumped to receive the ball. Then his calm leadership on patrol in Afghanistan, how he hadn’t hesitated to run into that courtyard under withering fire and scoop up a crying child.
A massive explosion. A haze of smoke. Carey lying bloody, in pieces…
Body trembling, Jase staggered back to the dressing room and scrabbled at the bottom of his messenger bag until he found what he wanted. Lighting the joint with shaking hands, he pulled the drug deep into his lungs and held it before letting it out slowly. Gradually, along with the high, his calm returned, and he carefully pinched out the glowing end of the joint with wet fingers before returning the remainder to his bag.
“Get a grip,” he warned himself sternly. “Stop being so weak.”
Back in the party room once more, he grabbed a beer, the alcohol along with the weed numbing him enough so that he could paste a smile on his face while he schmoozed. Dredging deep, he brought out his considerable charm, laughed, and even flirted. After all, sex appeal was a big draw in this industry.
At one point he caught Carey’s eye and grimaced, making an “I have to do this” motion with a shrug of his shoulders.
Carey lifted his hand in a lazy salute. “Take your time,” he mouthed. “I’m fine.”
At last, Jase broke free, made his way over, and sprawled out in a chair next to Layla, grinning.
“So,” Quinn drawled before he could say anything, “Todd polish your knob good there, boss?”
Mortified, Jase felt redness creep up his neck as he refrained from looking in Carey’s direction. Obviously he hadn’t fooled anyone with his long absence from the room, and now he had to face the consequences.
“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, catching Layla’s disapproving eye.
“You made them wait,” she started to say, then bit off her words after searching his face.
All around him, the others busted out with ribald jokes and comments, except for Carey, who just gave him that steady, inscrutable look. There was nothing in his expression that made Jase think he was judging or condemning him, but renewed shame over his treatment of Todd still tightened his chest.
Biting his lip, he turned away, only to catch Layla’s eye again. The disapproval was gone, replaced by a disconcerting shrewdness. Jase gazed back at her, shaking his head imperceptibly and mouthing, “Don’t.”
Her eyes softening, she stood to give him a hug. “We’re here for you no matter what,” she whispered in his ear. “Come to us when things get bad next time.”
Jase could only nod, and she kissed his cheek before heading off to ensnare the label execs even more firmly in her web.
Carey dropped into her vacated chair. “You okay?”
Jase summoned a smile. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” He could see that Carey wasn’t fooled by the blithe answer, so he went on. “Just tired. I had an ambulance shift last night.”
As a reserve EMT, Jase rode along with an ambulance service twenty hours a week. It suited him perfectly and kept his hand in the game. After all, if the band thing didn’t work out, he’d need a Plan B.
“C’mon,” he said wearily. “Let’s just go home.”
He stood and held out his hand, not sure if Carey would take it, but he did, letting Jase pull him to standing.
Damn. He must really be hurting.
Carey’s lips tightened as his weight bore down on his prosthetic socket, confirming Jase’s suspicions. He knew better than to say anything, though, just hovered close while they all said their goodbyes.
Layla trotted over to hug them both. “I wish I could give you the whole week off,” she started to say, but Jase kissed the top of her head, his arm around her shoulders.
“No worries.” He aimed a grin at Carey. “He’ll just have to come along to all the rehearsals.”
Carey held out his fist for her to bump. “Hell yeah, I will. Looking forward to it.”
Outside in the parking lot, Jase waved his hand at his truck. “Follow me home?”
Surprisingly, Carey shook his head. “Nah, let’s go someplace quieter, have a drink. Isn’t McGuire’s right around the corner?”
“Yes, but your leg—” Jase could’ve kicked himself when Carey raised an eyebrow.
“What about it?”
“You’re hurting—”
Carey chuckled. “If I went home every time my leg hurt, I’d never do anything else.” He reached out and tugged at Jase’s arm. “C’mon. Buy you a beer.”
With a squeeze, he let go, the lingering touch skittering along Jase’s nerve endings. He shivered, then followed as Carey headed down the sidewalk toward Orange Avenue and McGuire’s, an Irish pub known to be a hangout for military types.
Carey stayed quiet for a minute, then said, “I really am fine, you know.” He nudged Jase with his elbow. “Pain comes with the territory. It’s not anything I can’t deal with.”
“But—”
“What’s the alternative?” he went on. “Sit around Colorado and wait for you to come see me? When’s that likely to happen?”
The gentle teasing in his voice loosened the knot in Jase’s chest a little. He grunted. “Ha. Never.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re stretched thin enough as it is.” Carey stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulder brushing Jase’s. “I’m not gonna let a little pain keep me from seeing my best friend, okay?”
At the pub, Carey headed to the bar to buy a round while Jase searched out a table. He found one on the patio and sank into a chair with a sigh, the two long days with little sleep suddenly threatening to catch up to him.
“You look exhausted,” Carey commented as he handed him a frosty mug of beer. “Sort of how I feel.” He smiled, the beauty of it drying up Jase’s mouth. “Cheers.”
They tapped glasses, then drank, Jase draining his in one gulp. When he lowered his mug, he found Carey regarding him thoughtfully. “So…how’ve you been? The truth, please, not the breezy bullshit I’ve been getting from you lately.”
Jase chuckled. “‘Breezy bullshit,’ huh? Is that why you’re really here, to check up on me?”
“Maybe.” Carey’s eyes were warm. “That’s what we promised, right? To always have each other’s backs?”
A lump rose in Jase’s throat. “Yeah,” he said huskily. “I’m good, just juggling a lot of stuff, you know.”
Besides his work with the band and ambulance company, Jase also taught first aid and CPR to schools, libraries, and other civilian entities. His days were more than full, and if the nightmares sometimes kept him up at night, well, at least he had both legs. Nothing he’d gone through could compare to what Carey had suffered.
“Mind if we join you?”
Jase glanced up to see a man gesture at the two empt
y chairs at their table. Since he and Carey had sat down, the place had filled up fast.
“Sure.”
The man held one chair out for the woman with him, and then took the other seat as Carey scooted closer to Jase and settled back, his thigh now pressing against Jase’s. Casually slinging his arm along the back of his chair, Jase rested his thumb a few inches from Carey’s shoulder, unable to keep from fantasizing about stroking his upper arm, his nape.
Oh, to be free to touch…
The man signaled the server before introducing himself as a retired Navy chief. “Lemme guess,” he said with jocular humor. “Not SEALs—you’re not kissin’ your own biceps or gazin’ at yourselves in the mirror.”
Carey shook with laughter, his shoulder blade brushing against Jase’s fingers. “Definitely not SEALs.”
“You’re military, though. I can tell.” The man paused. “MARSOC?”
“You got the Marine part right,” Carey said. “Not spec ops, though, and not current. I was medically discharged four years ago.”
The man’s gaze sharpened. “Wounded in combat?”
“Yes, sir.” Carey stuck his leg out so the dude could see the metal ankle. “Frag grenade. Helmand Province.”
“Ah.” The man nodded. “Well, semper fi, son.” He lifted his chin at Jase. “How about you?”
Jase smiled. “Just a medic, Chief.”
“The medic who saved my life.” Carey’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Nothing ‘just’ about him.” He reached over and patted Jase’s thigh. “I owe him everything.”
The warmth from his hand lingered long after he’d removed it.
“So, what do you do now that you’re out of the Marines?”
At the chief’s question, Carey leaned back even more, his shoulder digging into Jase’s hand. He shifted away, like he was giving Carey room, and hooked his fingers over the rungs on the back of the chair. Just buddies hanging out. Yep. That’s all this was. No matter that the press of Carey’s thigh against his was driving him crazy.
“I work with a man named Bill Barkley at a place called Hope Ranch,” Carey said. “It’s in Colorado.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that place,” the woman said enthusiastically. “He runs a camp for wounded veterans, right?”
“That’s right. I started out as a volunteer, working with other amputees. After a year or so, Bill offered me a full-time position as one of his camp managers. I help run the day-to-day operations, but I still counsel amputees who need it. I also help with fundraising.”
“Are you a shrink? You don’t look like a shrink.” The woman smirked playfully. “You’re too cute. I’d never be able to concentrate on my therapy.”
Jase couldn’t help but grin at Carey’s slight flush. He’d never met anyone as blind to his own appeal as Carey was. During their Pendleton days, guys used to clamor for him to join them on their bar hopping, his aloof reserve amidst the frat-boy antics of the platoon drawing women to him like moths to a flame.
“Best wingman ever,” his fellow Marines declared.
“How old are you, anyway?” Jase had asked him one night, shocked when Carey revealed he’d just turned twenty-one. All around them, dudes the same age were doing stupid shit, like drinking to the point of blackout, or getting in fights. Carey did none of that, instead conducting himself with the steady, dependable maturity of someone half a dozen years older.
Curiosity had burned its way through Jase. “My barracks roommate just transferred. Wanna move in?”
“No, I’m not a shrink,” Carey was saying now. “But sometimes a person dealing with a loss like this just wants to talk to a peer who’s gone through the same thing, not someone spouting platitudes or boilerplate advice. Not that professional therapy doesn’t have its place,” he hastened to add. “I’ve gone to therapy myself. But it just adds that extra layer on to talk to someone who empathizes with what you’ve gone through, like no one else can.”
“Well, that’s interesting and important work, son,” the chief said. “It sounds like you love it.”
“I do.”
“Hey! Did you say Bill Barkley?”
The drunken exclamation came from a man who’d come to lean against the table next to them, not really part of their group, but someone who’d obviously been listening in. “I heard about him. Isn’t he some kind of Bible-thumping Jesus freak?”
Jase tensed as Carey’s expression turned glacial.
“And he’s also one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah, right,” sneered the man, obviously three sheets to the wind. Jase knew his type well—a hanger-on, someone who’d washed out of the military and carried a load of bitterness, yet couldn’t stay away from it.
“Probably have to convert to Jesus freakism before he’ll help you, right? Get you to sign away your money in the name of God!” The man raised his arms toward the sky in a mocking posture of worship, his voice rising like a cheesy televangelist.
Carey’s jaw tightened, although he kept his tone mild. “Bill would never turn anyone away, regardless of their religious beliefs or nonbeliefs. That’s not his purpose. His purpose is to help those who have sacrificed more for their country than most people would even dream of. He helps heal them, and heal their families.”
The man sneered again, but he looked less sure of himself.
“He offers religious counseling, yes. There are some wounded service people who desperately want it and need it. You disrespect them also, sir—” Carey’s tone was coldly disdainful “—with your ignorant remarks.”
The man flinched, and without saying anything more, he abandoned his half-finished beer and slunk away.
“Yikes.” The chief glanced at Carey, sympathy in his eyes. “What an asshole.”
Carey sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know I shouldn’t let pricks like that get to me, but they always do. Bill is one of only two people I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for.” He paused, then looked at Jase. “And the other one is right here.”
The warmth in his smile, the press of his thigh, made Jase’s heart skip several beats. “Ditto.”
“Well, I imagine these past four years haven’t been easy for you, son,” the chief said. “I admire your grit, and everything you’re doing now to give back. Oo-rah.” He tapped his glass against Carey’s, then Jase’s, before draining the last of his beer. He pushed back his chair and held his hand out to the woman. “Ready to go, babe?”
With genial nods all around, the couple departed, leaving Jase and Carey alone.
Carey scooted back over to his side of the table as the server stopped to ask if they wanted another round. After a quick glance at Jase, who shook his head, he asked for her to cash them out. He signed the credit slip she brought him, took his copy, and grinned at her in thanks.
She moved off with a flirtatious wink, waving her thumb and pinkie at him in the international sign for “call me.”
Jase heaved a mock sigh. “Got another phone number?” he asked, chuckling when Carey wordlessly displayed the back of the receipt. Sure enough, the server had scrawled her name and number. “Ha. Add it to your collection.”
Carey rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” Still, he folded the receipt carefully and slipped it in his pocket. A twist of jealousy tightened Jase’s chest.
“You gonna call her?”
Carey threw him an incredulous look as they pushed through the front door out into the humid night air. “No. But I’m also not gonna crumple it up in front of her. That’d be pretty shitty, wouldn’t it?” He paused. “Maybe I should call her, though. Then we could double-date with you and Todd.”
“What?” Jase stumbled a little before righting himself. “Why the fuck would we want to do that?”
Carey flicked him a glance. “He told me you two were getting serious.”
Renewed shame slithered through Jase, even as he scoffed, “No way. He’s just—”
Just what? A mouth? A convenient fuck? A groupie?
Carey didn’t say anything more, and they made the rest of the walk back to the club in silence. As Jase drove the short distance to his condo, Carey’s headlights bright and reassuring behind him, he lectured himself firmly.
“Get a grip, dumbass. You’re not the first guy to fall in love with his best friend, and you won’t be the last. Don’t fuck this friendship up. Do not fuck this up.”
He could stuff his feelings down. He’d have to. After all, he’d already been doing it for years.
What was one more week?
Carey eased to a stop at the curb behind Jase’s place and switched off the engine.
Before he could even get out, Jase had jogged up and was lifting the hatch on his SUV.
“All of this going inside?” he called.
Carey grunted an affirmative, then amended, “No, sorry, not the wheelchair. Everything else.”
By the time he’d struggled out from behind the driver’s seat, Jase was loaded down with his two duffels and his crutches. “I’ll get you settled and pour us a drink, okay?”
Then he trotted on ahead and disappeared.
Blessing Jase’s tact in not hovering, Carey limped along the walkway and started pulling himself up the stairs to the second-floor apartment. Normally stairs were no problem, but after sitting for hours in a car, the atrophied muscles in what remained of his left leg protested sharply.
“Fuck, I should’ve taken more breaks during the drive,” he berated himself.
Still, despite the discomfort he was feeling now, Carey had enjoyed the long road trip, getting to be alone with his favorite music and his thoughts. Extended periods of solitude were something he didn’t get much of anymore, as busy as his life was on the ranch. Bill’s fundraising schedule was necessarily brutal—and vital to keeping the ranch going.
At the thought of his boss, Carey firmed his lips. Nothing he himself had gone through could compare to what Bill had endured—a tank explosion during Desert Storm that had burned him over most of his body. How he’d survived, no one knew, especially Bill.
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