Man of Honor (Battle Scars) (4 page)

F
rom my place against the wall just outside the kitchen, I stare with stupid disbelief. Drake’s big body is hunkered over the bar in front of a tumbler.

He’s dressed more like himself today in faded jeans tucked into black combat boots. His gray tee sports a vintage muscle car on the front. His black leather jacket is hanging over the back of his stool. I breathe an unbidden sigh of relief when I notice there’s no bimbo parked next to him tonight.

He’s alone.

And his gaze has been focused on his drink for the last hour I’ve been watching him.

Lenny slides him a second glass of whatever he’s drinking, and she raises her eyebrow at me. I know her silent question is:
What gives with him?

But I’m not Drake Sullivan’s keeper. I helped him out last night because I didn’t want the idiot to drown in the ocean on his way home. But two nights in a row?

I’m not the one who’s going to listen to his sad story every night.

With that thought comes a niggling sensation of guilt. Drake is obviously hurting. He lost his mom this week. I have no idea whether they were close, but it seems to be dragging him down. He might even be drowning in his mourning.

I know how tough the guy is. He’ll get through this. I mean, he’s been to war. He served as a Special Forces soldier for heaven’s sake. He’ll make it through the loss of his mother.

But my feet are drawing me forward without my permission until I’m standing beside his stool.

I pull out the one beside him and climb up into the tall seat.

Glancing up, Drake’s honeyed eyes brighten. “You again.”

Narrowing my eyes, I snap back. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? Two nights in a row at the bar, Drake?”

But even as I’m fussing at him, the electricity he awakens in me starts to buzz all along my skin. It draws me in, making me lean forward so that I inhale the smoky, spicy scent that is Drake. He smells like woodsy masculine soap and the ocean. There’s also the faintest scent of motor oil clinging to him like fog to the sea.

I breathe him in and I’m instantly intoxicated. It evokes all kinds of memories from that night three years ago that I’ve tried my damnedest to erase from my mind.

I don’t want to forget that night because it wasn’t the greatest sex I’ve ever had. It was definitely that. I experienced a physical connection with Drake I never had before, and never have since. But then…it all fell apart. I left that night because I had to. Otherwise I would have lost myself in front of a stranger, and that’s something I would never allow to happen.

“So,” comments Drake. “Interesting coincidence. That night, three years ago?”

Oh my God, does he read minds, too?

“…You know, the one where you disappeared on me? I kinda had déjà vu this morning.”

I sucked the corner of my bottom lip in between my teeth, a habit I can’t help, and notice his eyes zero in on my lips. I immediately stop biting it and thank the good Lord for my bronze skin tone. Maybe he can’t see the blush I am most definitely feeling.

Shrugging it off, I twirl a strand of curly hair around my index finger and turn around on my stool so I’m facing away from the bar.

“Nothing personal, Sullivan. I don’t do morning-afters.”

He nods, swirling his drink around in the glass. “Point taken. Do you do go-out-to-dinners?” He looks up from his drink and looks me straight in the eye. I’m stranded there in his gaze, held by the intensity and sincerity in those warm, warm eyes.

I’m caught so off guard, I start to stammer. “Um, what? Wait—what? Uh…”

Chuckling, he leans in until his lips brush gently against my ear. The shock of the slight touch sends a jolt of heat through me, and I shiver visibly.

Drake notices my reaction and grunts, nuzzling his nose against the shell of my ear. “You smell like heaven. Just dinner, Mea. Say yes.”

My pulse is pounding in my ears, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal fighting to be free. Why does he have this effect on me? No guy ever has this effect on me. I’m always completely in control when it comes to the opposite sex. But with Drake, that control flies right out the window whenever he’s around. And when he gets close…holy hell frozen over. I’m a fucking mess quivering before him.

He pulls away but not far, and his stare burns as I try hard to remember how to breathe.
What is he asking me?
For a date? I don’t date!

“Drake…”

He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Stop thinking, Mea. Just say yes. Dinner…that’s it.”

“I need to get back to my tables.” The words fly out of my mouth and I practically leap off my stool to hurry back to work.

Safely back in the kitchen, I lean against the wall and try to control my breathing once more. He’s under my skin, somehow. I thought I flushed him out of my system, but there he is again, wreaking havoc on my body and my emotions. And when will it end?

Maybe if I just give in to him, go to dinner one time, that’ll be the end of it. I don’t have to touch him. I don’t have to let him touch me. Just dinner.

“Order up!” Boozer barks at me from the food window. Grabbing ahold of the two plates and placing them on a tray with two drinks, I back out of the kitchen. As I breeze past Drake, I mutter my answer.

“Yes.”

He glances up, surprise and a genuine grin lighting up his face.

God, he’s beautiful.

And I’m in deep shit if I can’t learn to control myself around him.

By last call, Drake is in much better shape than he was the night before. Sipping on three drinks throughout the night wasn’t nearly enough to intoxicate his big, strong frame, and with a cocky grin on his face, he watches me flit around, closing out tables. A grin I’m so, so tempted to slap right off of him.

My last table is full of a group of rowdy guys clearly out for some boys’ night fun. Throughout the night they became rowdier and more annoying, but despite my size I’m always able to handle myself. Anything else is unacceptable, and I make sure to stay in control at all times. I move around the table, smiling at the guys while handing out checks as their flirty banter reaches my ears. Stopping beside one particularly mouthy member of the group to put down his check, I’m frozen in place when he grabs my wrist and pulls me onto his lap.

Quicker than I know what’s happening, I’m thrust back into a time I never, ever want to remember.

The dinner table is quiet as usual. The lamp that hangs overhead gives the only light source in the room. Mikah shovels food in his mouth like it’s his first meal of the day. But I can’t eat. I stir the green beans around on my plate without putting any in my mouth. I keep glancing at Mama. I scrutinize her out of the corner of my eye, trying so hard to remember the last time I heard the sound of her voice. She prepared this dinner, but she did it like a robot.

I remember when it first started. When pieces of her started to drop off and float into the cold Kentucky wind. My dad would snap at her, trying to force her back into this day and this time. But she never stayed long. Then he started taking her to doctors. She would come home with medication after medication until finally a psychiatrist was able to make a firm diagnosis: dysthymia. A constant, withering form of depression that no medication could stave off for very long. She completely withdrew from daily activities. My father threatened her, so she would continue to keep the house. But the fun-loving, vibrant woman I knew as my mother? She was gone.

I can very vaguely remember a time of smiling photos. Of her attending my dance recitals. Of our faces pressed together, her wild curls identical to mine. My mixed heritage was sometimes a sore spot for me growing up in Kentucky, and when I came home in tears because someone had made fun of my skin color or my name or the fact that I had a black mama and a Spanish daddy, she knew just how to comfort me. Chocolate chip cookies and love was all she said I needed. She was the one who taught me to hold my head high and be proud of who I am.

Looking at her now, it’s hard to keep hold of those memories. I’m sure they’re all but nonexistent for poor Mikah. He’s only two years younger than me, but he was so little when she began to disappear. He might never remember her the way she was.

“Eyes on your plate!” My father’s slightly accented English broke me from my reverie and I snapped my eyes back to my plate.

“Eat!” he barks. “Your mother worked hard to prepare this dinner. Eat it. Now.”

My stomach is churning with turmoil, but I obediently stuff a bite of chicken and rice into my mouth. Mama doesn’t move at all, just stares off into a distance that the rest of us can’t see. But I can feel his eyes on me.

My father.

My room, the very last one in the back of the house, is utterly black at night. But at twelve years old I have no reason to be scared of the dark. My room is my safe haven. It always has been.

My bed is the place I crawl into when the loss of my mama is too much. My pillows catch my tears. My blankets protect me from the pain. I am completely at ease and safe in my room, the way a bear cub is secure and protected in its cave.

I pictured Mikah, most likely fast asleep in his own cave. At night, I didn’t have to worry about my little brother. During the day, he got into fights at school. He’s hotheaded and temperamental, and suffers from ADHD. I’m his voice of reason. I’m the person he comes to when he feels alone. Which is a lot of the time. Daddy is too wrapped up with Mama and her medications to worry too much about us. Which is good, because when he is worried about us it’s usually to tear us a new one when we’ve done something wrong. Or when we’ve done something he deems wrong, even though we’re just doing what other kids do.

I sigh, content in my safe haven, turning over in my warm, comfy bed as my eyes drift closed.

What was that?
A soft click causes me to peek over my shoulder. A sliver of light slices through the darkness in my bedroom as the door slowly opens. But my bedroom door doesn’t open at night. My little cave stays warm and dark, and that’s the way I like it. That’s what I’ve come to expect.

The door closes again and I sigh in relief. Daddy must have been checking on me. Or maybe it was Mama?

Like a lifeline, hope floods me as I picture my mama opening my bedroom door to make sure I’m safe and cozy in my bed. The way all mamas do for their children at night.

“I know you’re not asleep.”

Daddy’s voice, close to my ear. Only it’s different than usual. Heavier, full of something dark and moody.

I’m startled as I turn over again and blink up at him in surprise. “Daddy? What do you need?”

He kneels down beside my bed and leans on his elbows, staring at me. All I can see in the darkness is the glow of his eyes. It’s dark to make out his expression, so I struggle to understand what’s happening here. Why is he in my room?

When he speaks again, his breath coasts over the front of my face. It’s warm and smells sour. I don’t know what that smell is, but it’s something I have never smelled before.

“You know I wouldn’t have to be here if your mother were well. She’s gone, you know. And it’s because of you and your good-for-nothing brother.”

Tears immediately spring to my eyes. But I fight them back, because nothing ever gets done if you cry about it. My mama taught me that. “That’s not true. Mama is sick.”

He swipes a hand over his eyes, and I wonder if my big, strong daddy is crying. Surely that’s not possible. I’ve never, ever seen him shed a tear. But I understand that even through his meanness, he must be going through a hard time the same as Mikah and me.

“No, Mea. If it weren’t for the stress of raising two kids, she would have been able to fight it. As it is, she can’t be my wife anymore. Not in all the ways I need her to be. Do you know what that means?”

I shake my head, the large lump forming in my throat making it impossible to speak. Then I remember that he probably can’t see the motion, so I release a strangled, “No.”

A noise escapes him. It sounds like a sob, and it rips me apart inside. My daddy is hurting. The same way Mikah and I are hurting.

“What can I do, Daddy?”

Then I feel his hands on me. They are rough and fumbling, and all of my muscles go rigid at the same time my blood turns to ice in my veins.

His next words chill me from the inside out. “You can take her place. I need this. Do you understand?”

On the inside, I’m screaming as he rises from his knees and climbs onto my bed. But on the outside, I can’t make a single sound. I’ve been struck mute. God, how I wish I was struck unconscious as well.

My eyes are so wide and my breathing so harsh and fast. I shake my head from side to side, but he ignores me. The pain and the shame fight for the top spot in my heart. He thinks he needs this. But does he know he’s shattering me into little, irreparable pieces?

After tonight, my room will never be my safe haven again.

When I snap back to the here and now I’m still on the drunk Neanderthal’s lap and he’s pulling me back against his chest. His paws are all over me, and I’m in serious danger of hyperventilating. I try to gather my composure, because this isn’t me. I’m not weak. I am in control.

I am in control.

But then why do I feel so utterly out of control? Dizziness and nausea settle in my belly at the same time, and without even thinking twice about it, I look toward the bar, where I know Drake is sitting.

He’s turned all the way around in his stool, his eyes narrowed and focused on me. As soon as I meet his gaze, something intense and taut passes between us. I swear he reads the expression in my eyes because he’s up and by my side faster than should be humanly possible.

Damn, the guy is
big
, but he’s also
fast.

I’m off the drunk guy’s lap and in Drake’s arms before anyone can say a word. He squeezes me to his side and looks down at me, his eyes gentle and soft.