Page 26 of Fighting for Valor
The ride passes in silence, and I stare out the open side window, feeling the breeze on my face and smelling the sea. Ryker eases the truck to a stop on Roosevelt—only a little over a mile from the church. If I need to bolt, I can walk there.
It’s then I notice the sign. Emerald City Tattoo and Piercing. “What are we doing here?” My right hand reflexively goes to my left bicep, where my Special Forces tattoo used to be.
“Righting a wrong,” Ry says as he turns off the engine. His voice drops so low, I have to strain to hear it. “And maybe…finding something we all lost.”
Even though I’m not sure anything can right the wrongs from the past six years, I grab my ruck and follow him inside.
“Dax?” He’s sitting on a bench against the wall, his folded cane in his hands.
As soon as he hears me, he heads right for us. “About damn time you showed up. I’ve been here half an hour.”
Ryker gives Dax a quick one-armed bro-hug, and even though they’re both clearly uncomfortable with the gesture, a part of me aches to be able to have that kind of physical contact again. But every time I think I’m ready, panic takes over. These are my brothers. The two people I’m closest to in the entire world. And I can barely manage to shake their hands.
Dax turns to me, and I swear he can see right through my bullshit and into the depths of my soul, despite being mostly blind. “Pick up the phone once in a while, asshole.”
I don’t respond, and Ryker reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, then passes it to me. “Inara’s an artist. When she’s not killing people or translating boring legal documents into half a dozen different languages. I asked her to make this for us.”
Spreading the paper out on the counter in front of me, I freeze. It’s… “Holy shit.”
The Special Forces insignia, a crest with two crossed arrows bisected by a dagger and the motto—De Oppresso Liber—overlays an intricate design of a phoenix bursting from flames. And encircling the entire design: ODA 5150 Ripper ~ Dax ~ Ryker.
Tears burn, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I grind my fists against my eyes for a moment until I can speak again. Turning to my brothers, I realize I’m not the only one about to lose his shit in the middle of the shop. “Okay. Yeah. Together. Right?”
The relief on their faces breaks something inside me, and I let go. For a minute, I can shove my shame and fear aside. As Dax and Ry each put a hand on my shoulder, I return the gesture and let my tears fall for the first time since the plane landed in Seattle.
“Together,” Ry says. “Brothers. Always.”
Chapter Twelve
Cara
As soon as I step outside my apartment, I slam into a wall of stifling hot air. Seattle’s in the middle of one of its summer heatwaves, and none of the windows in the hallways or stairwells open. Probably against some code somewhere, but I can’t complain. I’m lucky to have a roof over my head and a lock on my door.
The slumlord for this building doesn’t care about safety violations, or comfort. But the rent is cheap, and it’s only three blocks from a bus line. Despite the temperature—already in the eighties at 10:00 a.m.—being in the sun, with the barest hint of a breeze, makes me smile.
Meds. Coffee. Wallet. Keys. Notebook. Water bottle.
I pat down my small bag, making sure I have everything I need for the day. I live by lists. Without them, I’m lost. My phone finds its way to my hand without a second thought, and as I wait for the bus, I launch my Solitaire app and start moving cards around. I need the distraction. Left with nothing to focus on, my messed-up brain will wander to places I can’t let it go, and I’ll wind up standing here, drifting, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts while three buses pass me by, get to work an hour late, and lose my job.
Ten minutes later, I’ve finished half the daily achievements the game offers, and the bus lumbers to a stop. It’s full, and I scan my card, then squeeze my way past a handful of standing passengers to position myself by the back door. Someone on this bus smells like they poured an entire bottle of cologne over their head this morning, and I breathe through my mouth, but it doesn’t help. The headache starts behind my eyes and nausea claws at my stomach.
And then I turn and see a guy with his briefcase taking up a full seat of its own. “Mind moving that?” I ask.
He grunts his refusal, and I stare down at him. “Well, then your briefcase is going to get crushed under my not-so-tiny ass. I’m sitting down whether you like it or not. Your bag didn’t pay a fare. I did.”
Another standing passenger murmurs, “You go, girl,” and I flash her a quick smile. Begrudgingly, the man hoists his bag into his lap, but he doesn’t move his legs so I can get past him to the window seat.
“Do I look like I’m a size zero?” I ask. “Either scoot over or stand up.”
“Bitch,” he says as he finally moves his lazy, inconsiderate ass.
“Yep. Grade A bitch. With a seat.”
As soon as I drop down, he tries to crowd me, but I lock my arms in place and he has to pass the rest of the ride with my elbow pressing against his ribs. The feel of his rough shirt against my bare arms makes my skin crawl—textures can do that to me—but I won’t back down.
Two stops before mine, he finally gets up, and his bag clips me on the shoulder.
Asshole.
