Chapter 12
I’ll pick the kids up.
Laura looked down at her phone, ashamed that her hand trembled as she set it down. That single text message sent a thousand emotions racing through her, but mostly she hoped that the kids wouldn’t try to break him again. Kids were funny that way, always pushing to see what they could get away with.
A little piece of her heart soared when he’d told her he wanted to pick them up. He was still in the fight. Still trying. And it made her heart hurt how happy that little effort on his part made her.
So when she walked in the door to hear the kids shrieking with laughter, she was thrown off balance so much so that she stopped and simply stood there for a moment, taking in the sounds of their joy. This? This sounded like a normal she’d only dreamed about.
“Ethan, get the hamster out of the dishwasher.”
“Daddy, she needs a bath.”
“The dishwasher is not the place for Fluffy to conduct hamster shower operations.”
Laura smiled where she stood just out of sight, listening to the debate between her husband and her son. Trent sounded disgruntled but not on edge.
Emma giggled. “Hamsters don’t take showers, Daddy!”
Trent grunted and she heard the scrape of metal on metal. Peering into the kitchen, she saw both kids sitting on the floor next to the open dishwasher, two small rodents crawling around on the space in front of them. Periodically, a set of small hands would scoop up one of the hamsters and move it farther away from its planned route to freedom.
The hamsters did not seem to mind. Stinking little buggers. Probably teaming up to plot their next escape.
“You can’t wash hamsters,” Emma said wisely. “If you do, they’ll catch a cold.”
She thought she heard Trent mumble something to the effect of “That’s why they smell so bad” but she couldn’t be sure. She smiled. He was a man after her heart after all.
“All right, guys. Ready to check it out?”
“Did you really fix the dishwasher, Daddy?” Emma asked.
“Well.” He stood and wiped his hands on a towel. “It’s either going to turn on or catch on fire. Either way is better than it just sitting here broken, right?”
Ethan frowned. “Why would it be better for it to catch fire than for it to just sit here?”
“Because at least it will be doing something. Action is almost always better than inaction.”
Laura stepped into the kitchen and five pairs of eyes settled on her. Well, actually four because one of the hamsters had snuck off around the trash can. The escape was short-lived. “How did you fix it?”
“Home Depot left a message that the part came in. Me and Lieutenant Google got down to business.” He straightened, brushing his hands on his thighs. Sweat ringed the neck of his t- shirt, causing the fabric to cling to his torso. Laura swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her gaze drawn to his powerful shoulders.
“Should we test it?”
He shoved his glasses to the top of his head and grinned. “I put a few dirty dishes in it, and I was going to run a test cycle. Hopefully it’ll clean the dishes.” He crouched down to Emma’s level. “Want to push the button?”
Emma nodded. Trent slid his hand over hers and pressed the button with her. The dishwasher churned to life with a familiar swish.
Laura met his smile tentatively as the kids cheered around them. Ethan high-fived his father, clutching his hamster to his chest. Trent stood near the dishwasher and braced his hands on the counter, looking easy and relaxed for the first time since he’d come home.
“All right, guys, it’s time for the hamsters to go in their balls for a little while. Fluffy is looking a little…fluffy. She needs exercise,” Trent said.
Emma rolled her eyes at her dad. “She’s a hamster, Daddy. She’s supposed to be fluffy.” As though it was the most obvious association in the world.
“Scoot,” he said.
The kids ran out of the room to go find the hamster balls, leaving Trent and Laura alone without a buffer—separated only by the kitchen island. Trent leaned down, his shoulders flexing as he moved. He brushed his thumb over her healing knuckles.
His expression tightened as he stroked at the pink flesh. “Why didn’t you just call someone to do it?” he asked softly.
The ghost of their kisses twisted around them as Trent slipped his index finger over her hand. She shivered, needing more than this hesitant touch.
“Because I like fixing things,” she said simply. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the microwave. “We’ve got to get dinner started.”
She started to straighten but he caught her fingers gently between his. His palm surrounded hers. “Can I help?”
She frowned then, wanting badly to ask how he had become so calm. Whether this mood had come out of a little orange bottle of pills. But the comfort between them was so new, so fresh, she did not dare broach the subject.
And honestly? She didn’t care if the calm was from the bottle or not. It was working. If it had helped Trent have a normal afternoon with his children, then damn it, she refused to judge. He’d been through something extraordinary. “I’d like that,” she said quietly.
A distant buzzing interrupted them, refusing to be ignored. “I don’t suppose you’re going to let that go?” she whispered. Too many nights during his time as a commander, his cell phone had pulled him from bed, only to keep him up for hours afterward. But those days were long gone.
She didn’t want that same stress coming back into his life now. Not even for an instant. He was working too hard at being here, at being normal. She closed her eyes and wished she could shut out the war, shut out the world, and just keep him there until he knew what normal felt like. Until he was ready for the world again.
But he was already gone, pulling the phone out of his pocket and stepping onto the back porch. Not before she heard him say Story’s name.
And just like that, the war slipped back between them.
* * *
“Hey, Top, how’s it going?” An odd thing to say to a man in a war zone but then again, Trent had always hated the questions about how often he was getting blown up or shot at. Trent sat on the back porch of their home, listening to the static on the cell phone line, waiting for the call to come back in.
“You there?” Story’s voice sounded gritty and far away.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Trent leaned forward, cupping his forehead in his palm. “How are things?”
“Bad.” Story paused, no doubt to spit into the dirt. The man had an expensive chewing tobacco habit. It was a wonder it didn’t break the bank every month. “This is the worst I’ve seen it.”
Fear curled in Trent’s guts, twisting with fresh guilt that he wasn’t there with Story. That he’d let him go downrange without him. He glanced toward the house, where Laura and his children were waiting for him. The fear remained but the guilt flittered away. He was where he needed to be. The war would get him again if he stayed in. He’d spent too much time chasing the adrenaline and not enough time being a dad. Still, he wished Story wasn’t there without him. “What can I do?”
“Can you send me about seventeen boxes of Copenhagen? The PX is out of my flavor and this generic shit they’ve got tastes like balls.”
Trent grinned, glad it was something simple. Something he could handle. There was silence on the line and Trent thought for a moment that he’d lost his old friend. “Yeah, I can do that for you. Is that why you’re calling? Not to tell me you love me?”
Story scoffed. Trent could hear the derision in his tone. “Not likely. Nah, I was just…had a shit day. I need a goddamned cigar. Where’s Carponti when I need someone to yell at to unwind?”
Trent stilled. “We can do that when you get home. You’re only on a ninety-day stint this time, right?”
“Hope so. I’ve never seen things this fucked up. They have platoons holding sectors that used to be run by full companies.”
That meant the troops were stretched thin. That was never a good thing. “Story…”
“Look, just…promise me that if something happens, you’ll look out for Rebecca. Don’t let some scumbag take advantage of her when she gets all the money from me dying. She’s going to run off and get a boob job before she buries me. Just, don’t let someone fuck her over, okay?”
“That’s a fucked up thing to say, man,” Trent said, wishing he could make some kind of smart-ass joke like Carponti would to ease the soul-crushing fear that rose up to squeeze his heart tightly. It pushed away the happiness from earlier.
Left the too familiar cold and emptiness once again.
“So look, there’s maybe a different reason I’m calling.” Story’s voice took on that tone that Trent knew too well. He was about to give him some really bad news. Trent hoped it didn’t ruin the rest of his night, not when things were this close to going really right with Laura.
Story cleared his throat on the line. “Maybe Randall had the right idea. Maybe paying the bastards off wasn’t such a bad call.”
Trent stilled, his mind screaming in denial at what Story’s words meant. “What are you getting at, Top?” he finally asked.
He heard the sigh over the static. “Look, we had our damn hands full. We were getting blown up every goddamned time we ran outside the wire, we were losing guys left and right. I was willing to try anything.” Another pause. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all this. I knew Randall was a shit, but not this bad.”
Trent was speechless. He searched the darkness for something, anything to say. “Top…”
“Look, I’ve sent a sworn statement to Major MacLean. I knew about this. Randall somehow kept me off the list of witnesses but I’ve fixed that now.”
Anger, cold and violent, surged through Trent’s veins. “You knew? Top, you fucking knew he was selling sensitive items and you didn’t fucking tell me?”
“I thought it was best if you didn’t know,” Story said quietly.
“Jesus.” He fought to find anything to say but the words were locked in his throat. Anger. Betrayal. A man he’d trusted had stabbed him in the back.
For what?
For fucking what?
The line went dead, leaving Trent alone with the bitter anger of his thoughts. Story, a man he trusted, a man whose advice he’d taken, whose counsel he’d sought, had known what Randall was doing. He’d known and he’d said nothing to Trent.
He’d lied.
And that single admission knocked Trent’s whole world off its axis.
The back door opened and Laura stepped into the shadows. He wasn’t ready to face her yet, hadn’t put all the wrong emotions back in the box and pulled the right ones out again.
He tossed the cell phone on the bench next to him and scrubbed his hands through his
hair.
And fought for control. He looked up at his wife—his beautiful, patient wife—who was looking at him with expectation and something else that was a little too close to fear. It settled in his stomach like something fetid and vile.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, leaning against the door.
“No.” He scoffed harshly, then looked up. He shouldn’t have. The sharp worry in her eyes had crossed the line, snuggling up to full-blown fear.
“I’m not crazy, Laura. I don’t have PTSD and you can stop looking at me like I do.” His words were sharp, meant to wound, and he instantly regretted them.
But he could not take them back. Goddamn it. He buried his face in his hands. He just needed a few minutes to pull all the violent emotions back inside him. But he couldn’t push her away right now.
What he did right now, in these next few minutes, mattered. More than anything else. He fought the pain, fought the anger. And did everything he knew how to put it away to avoid lashing out at her.
Because she didn’t deserve that.
“I didn’t say that you did.”
He leaned back, resting his head on the brick. Keep talking. Keep letting things out, one thing at a time. It was better than bottling it up, stuffing it down. “I feel like you keep waiting for me to snap.”
“I’m worried about you,” she whispered. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”
He opened his eyes, looking up at her. Willed himself to stay calm. He was pissed at Story, not her. Then she did something unexpected and changed everything. She took a single step toward him. Crossed the tiny distance and sat next to him on the bench. “You said something the first night you were home. You said your normal was screwed up.”
Her palm came to rest over the scar on his heart, his pulse pounding against her hand. She seared him with that gentle touch. His body tightened; the scar ached beneath her touch.
“I think you never gave yourself the chance to reset. And I’m sorry if that’s hard for me to deal with.” The admission was crushing in its simplicity. The fingers of her free hand danced against his neck. “I’m afraid,” she whispered, refusing to meet his gaze.
He lifted one hand, stroking her cheek until she met his eyes. “Of me.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, her eyes filling.
He lowered his forehead to hers, their noses brushing together. For a long moment, Trent simply sat with her. The world was not as chaotic here with her. Everything was calm. Everything was quiet.
Real.
Even her admission, as painful as it was to hear, was real. And that was something he held on to as he lifted his other hand to trace the line of her cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you again, Laura.”
“I’m trying to believe that,” she whispered.
Something snapped and broke inside him. All restraints ripped from their tethers.
“Believe this,” he growled. He held nothing back in this kiss. The kisses they’d shared in the coffee shop had been a tender question. This was violence and pain, hurt and hell all wrapped into one intense embrace. It was an outlet, a release valve that he’d never allowed because he had been afraid of hurting her. He kissed her then, pouring everything he had into that single moment, telling her without words how badly everything inside him was hurting.
This kiss was a branding. A violation of the boundaries she’d set between them. He tore
them down and marked her soul, refused to let her breathe or think or protest.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, his other hand on her back, holding her tightly to him. He nibbled on her bottom lip. “I want you so much,” he murmured.
She gasped against his mouth, the sweetest pleasure in that sound. He kissed her gently then, his tongue playing over her lips, teasing her, loving her.
He cupped her cheek with his hand, stroking her hair out of her eyes.
“Trent—”
“I miss you, Laura,” he whispered right before he kissed her again, drowning out thoughts of anything but him. There was pure heat in his touch. “I miss us.”
He sucked on her bottom lip, loving the feel of her mouth beneath his. Everything about her was soft and sensual, this woman who filled the dead space inside him. The stone where his heart used to be was a little softer, a little less solid.
“I don’t know how to be home, Laura,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. “But I’m trying.”
Her only response was the slight shift of her nose against his. Her lips, swollen from his brutal kiss, curled slightly. His fingers just skimmed over her cheek, teasing her with the promise of more. “I know.” The words scraped past a dry throat. He leaned closer, and their mouths were just a hint apart.
She opened her mouth like she wanted to speak. And part of him wanted to hear her out. But the other part of him was so tired of fighting. All he wanted to do was hold her, take her mouth in sweet nibbling kisses.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made love to his wife but his campaign to win her back called for patience. He had no doubt he could get her into bed right now, but the moment the sexual haze faded, she’d regret what they’d done.
Instead, he pressed his lips to hers, hesitant, questioning, letting her control the pace, letting the trust and the love that still lived inside of her bloom. She tipped her head and opened her mouth beneath his. His tongue stroked hers and with that simple touch, brilliant heat exploded inside him. Still, he yanked it back. This had to be under her control, on her terms.
* * *
His fingers pressed into her hair and angled her head so that their mouths could join completely. She gasped as his jaw scraped against hers and liquid need slid between them. Every touch reminded her of why she loved him, of why she’d waited so long for him to come back to her. And every touch brought with it a renewed intensity that refused to be ignored.
This was Trent. Trent who kissed her. Trent who brought this heat to life inside her and reminded her of all the reasons she loved him. Trent who’d held her as she cried the last time he told her he was leaving.
Trent who was holding her now, making her crazy, one slow, sipping kiss at a time. She did the only thing a woman who loved a man could do when there were children running around in the house.
She leaned back, brushing his bottom lip with her thumb. “Tonight?”
She didn’t want to wait. But she also didn’t want the first time she touched her husband in almost two years to be interrupted by a child or two beating on the bedroom door. “We have to wait until the kids go to bed,” she said against his mouth.
“Can’t we tie them up in the bathroom or something?” His words were light. Teasing. Pained and heavy with arousal.
She laughed, then buried her face in his neck.
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