“So, it’s settled,” Keets says brightly. “Stone will work for you until the damages are paid off. I’ll take the ‘help wanted’ sign off the window.” He disappears before either of us can say a word.
Shannon sighs and runs a hand over her head. “I guess you can start tidying up out here,” she mumbles, not looking at me. “The broom’s behind the bar. I’ll be in the back; I have some paperwork to fill out.” She leaves the room without waiting for me to respond.
I watch her go, trying desperately to ignore the gentle sway of her hips in those damn jeans. Finding the broom, I begin to sweep up the broken glass, but my mind is still stuck on Shannon. Who is she? Are she and Keets an item? He’s never said anything, but I know it’s none of my business. So, why am I jealous at the thought of my best friend’s hands touching her?
I shake my head, forcing my resolve to harden. I can’t get involved with a woman. I’m too angry, too bitter … too imperfect.
By the time I get home that afternoon, I’m exhausted. Unlocking the front door, I step inside and kick it closed behind me, dropping the keys in a bowl on the coffee table as I walk by the couch and into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I let out a slow breath as I pull my t-shirt off and force myself to look at my reflection. I’m still fit, my body rock-hard despite the beating I’ve been giving it the past few months. But it’s the scars that draw my attention the most. They pucker my flesh starting from my neck, disappearing into the waistband of my jeans. Jagged, red and angry, they mar my skin, a constant reminder of all I’ve seen.
My right leg aches from the exertion of the day, a grim memory of the shrapnel that severed nerves below my knee when a grenade nearly took my leg off back in 2003. I was told that I’d never walk again. It’d taken me two years of hard work, but I proved them wrong. I’d been able to go back to Afghanistan and get back on the field with nothing more severe than a horrible scar that runs all the way around my leg below the knee, and a limp that becomes more pronounced when I’m too active. Then came the surprise attack from the Taliban on our small group. We’d been asleep, never stood a chance. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, flown home to Texas with a medical discharge from the United States Army.
To this day, no one seems to be able – or willing – to share how the Taliban found us.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer. Starting the shower, I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes and stand beneath the water, feeling the heat begin to soothe my tired and aching muscles. Bracing one arm against the shower wall, I lean my head beneath the water and close my eyes.
“What secrets did the United States entrust you with?”
My head is pushed back down under the water, my entire body tensing as I thrash around, trying desperately to hold my breath. My head is pulled back up, and I cough violently as I blink the water away from my eyes. My head is forced back, and I stare wildly into the eyes of one of my captors.
“Last chance,” the man says. “Tell us your secrets, or you will die.”
I stubbornly refuse to answer.
The enemy soldier glances at the man holding my head up, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. This time, I’m not prepared for the rush of water that closes over my head. Instinctively, I open my mouth and immediately my lungs fill with water. I struggle helplessly, but I can feel myself slipping. White lights burn behind my eyelids, and I’m sure my chest might burst.
This is it. I’m going to die . . .
My head shoots up and I cough violently. Gasping for air to rid the sensation of water clogging my lungs. I lean back against the wall, running my hands over my face as I fight to control my breathing. These flashbacks come all too often.
The shower has gone cold and it bites into my skin, leaving goose bumps as I reach through the water to turn the faucet off. I wrap a towel around my waist and leave the bathroom. I grab a pair of black shorts from the dresser and pull them on, not even bothering with briefs. A quick glance at the clock tells me I still have two hours before I have to be dressed and back at the bar.
Plenty of time for a beer . . .
“Why would you tell him to work here? Are you insane?”
I’m standing face-to-face with Keets, my hands on my small hips. I know how tiny I am, and to most people this sight would be ridiculously funny . . . if I weren’t so angry.
“Admit it, Shan.” Keets grins, placing his can of beer down on the bar. “You need the help, and Lord knows Stone needs the distraction.”
“So, you send an alcoholic to work in a bar?” I shout, causing a few girls seated at the bar to turn and stare, giggling into their drinks.
“Shan,” Keets says, his tone suddenly serious. “The guy needs help.”
“So, send him to a shrink. I mean, what am I supposed to do with him?”
“Please,” Keets begs.
It’s the pleading tone in his voice that makes me pause. I drop my head down toward my chest and let out a loud sigh. I love Keets, but sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass. “All right,” I finally say, lifting my head. “But,” I continue, fixing a fierce look at him even as he grins in triumph. “If he fucks up, you can deal with him.”
“Done!” Keets agrees, raising his can to me in a mock salute.
“Now, I just have one question,” I say leaning over the counter conspiratorially.
“What’s that?”
“Where the hell is Stone?” I yell in his face, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction as he flinches.
“I don’t know,” Keets says sheepishly, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it over the growing crowd in the bar.
“You don’t know,” I repeat. “His first night of work, and you have no idea where he is.”
“Relax,” Keets snaps, putting his glasses back on as he stands up and slaps a few bills on the counter. “I’ll find him.”
I watch him leave before letting my shoulders slump in defeat. Picking up a rag, I wipe down the bar, pocketing the money he left behind on the counter. It’s just after 9 p.m. on a Saturday in the middle of January, and the bar is rapidly packing with people trying to keep warm.
“Shannon, what are you still doing here?” Effie’s shrill voice echoes across the bar.
I groan and suppress the urge to roll my eyes as the middle-aged woman makes her way through the crowd and parks her large ass down on a bar stool. “Effie,” I greet her with what I hope is a warm smile. I’m really not in the mood for the woman’s snarky attitude tonight.
“I’ll take a cherry Coke,” the older woman says, adjusting herself on the seat. “With two cherries.”
“You got it.”
As I prepare the drink, I can’t help staring at the other woman. She always dresses a little eccentric but tonight, she’s outdone herself. Effie is wearing a pair of bright pink leggings that barely stretch across her rump, a plain pink t-shirt and a ridiculously large white fur coat. Honestly, that damn coat. I’m surprised PETA hasn’t thrown paint on it yet. “Here you go.” I smile, placing the drink on the bar while trying not to look at Effie’s teeth, stained pink with lipstick.
“Thank you,” she replies, lifting the straw to her lips and swallowing a large mouthful, murmuring her appreciation. “That’s good.”
I pick up the empty glass the customer next to Effie left behind and wipe down the counter.