Page 25 of Fighting for Valor
He doesn’t answer, just follows me inside, and the idea of anyone between me and the door sends my heart rate skyrocketing.
It’s Ryker. He’s your goddamn brother. Get over yourself.
But I can’t. “If you’re going to come in, don’t block the door,” I manage as I stow my meds in one of the empty kitchen cabinets. Five minutes. That’s all I need. Enough time to grab my rucksack and sleeping bag, take a piss, and make sure I have enough cash to hit up the pizza place on the Ave.
“Ripper, stop.” Ryker steps in front of me as I’m reaching for my sleeping bag. Not hard, since I wouldn’t let him set me up in anything but a studio apartment. Too many walls.
“Back. Away.” I don’t meet his gaze. Too many years of being beaten every time I tried to stand up for myself, and now…I’m a fucking coward.
“Look at me.” His voice isn’t steady, and the shock of hearing Ryker McCabe break is enough to drag me out of my own head. “I don’t…do this, Rip.”
“What?”
“Talk.” His hands ball into fists at his sides, and he cracks each knuckle before turning and heading for the door. “Get your stuff. Do whatever you need to do. Then meet me outside.”
Whatever this is…it’s serious. As I hook the strap of my sleeping bag to the bottom of my ruck, I glance around the studio. He did all of this for me. By the time I was strong enough to make the trip from Boston to Seattle, he had this whole place furnished and outfitted with the best security system money could buy, and had Wren set up a bank account for me with enough money to live off of for a decade. All courtesy of the man who imprisoned, abused, and brainwashed me. Wren found a couple of his accounts, traced the transactions, and transferred the money to me.
I wish I could sleep here. In the king-sized bed with the navy blue duvet and five hundred thread-count sheets. Use the brand new pots and pans, the top-of-the-line refrigerator and stove. But I can’t manage to do more than shower here. Last week, I bought a patio chair and tried to sit on the balcony for a while. I made it all of ten minutes.
The alarm on my phone beeps, warning me I need to get the fuck out of here if I don’t want darkness to fill the small space from the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Lake Washington.
Down on the street, I find Ryker scanning the few passersby. This is a quiet neighborhood, a safe one. But that doesn’t mean I can stay here. Not when the nightmares come.
“Say your piece. I’ve got places to be,” I grit out as I reach for my bus pass.
“Yeah. You do. Come on.” He jerks his head toward his pickup truck parked at the end of the block.
“If I don’t get to—” I can’t tell him I’m sleeping in a church doorway. He’d never let me go back.
“I took care of it.” He hits a button on the key fob, the door locks disengage, and he opens the passenger side door. “There’s a guy saving your spot until you get there.”
Mouth agape, I don’t move as he rounds the truck and slides behind the wheel. The vehicle’s massive. It has to be. Ry won’t fit in a normal vehicle. He turns from behind the wheel, and his eyes…the greens and golds and blues darken, seeming to almost swirl together with the raw emotion twisting his features.
“Do you think I don’t understand?” he asks quietly. “After Hell, I did my time sleeping places no sane person would ever choose. Tried the park just south of Fort Bragg for a while until the cops caught me. Rented Hidden Agenda’s warehouse a week after I got to Seattle and slept on the concrete floor for a month. Even that didn’t do it. I had to get a TV and put on a horror movie every fucking night. Six years later and I still can’t stand small spaces. Anywhere dark. Anywhere I can’t move…”
“I…” The memories hit me hard, and I stagger back, the rucksack hitting the sidewalk first, followed by my ass.
Ry’s next to me before I can scramble up, but he doesn’t touch me. Just crouches a foot away, clenching his hands on his thighs so hard his knuckles turn white. “Rip? You don’t have to talk to me. Hell, you don’t have to come with me now. Just answer your damn messages once in a while so I know you’re still—” He swallows so hard, I can hear it, then shakes his head. “You’re family. And I…care.”
My eyes burn, and a single choked sob scrapes over my throat. “I…don’t know who I am anymore.”
“I know, brother. But that’s where we’re going. If you’ll trust me.” Ryker rises and holds out his hand. Two of his fingers aren’t entirely straight—courtesy of Kahlid and our time in Hell.
For a long moment, I stare at the scars winding up his arm. Then I look down at my own wrists where the thick, shiny skin from so long bound will never disappear.
Stay strong, brother. Don’t give them anything. You’re fucking Special Forces. Remember that.
Clasping his hand, I let him pull me to my feet. “How’d you know where I was sleeping?”
“Royce told me. He has some sort of post-stroke support group down there once a week. After that…I drove by a couple of times.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
His voice roughens as he stares down at his shitkickers. “Pulling you off the street isn’t going to fix you, Rip. You have to find your own way back. Just know…you’re not alone. One call, and I’ll be there. Anywhere. Any time.”
With a nod, I pick up my ruck and throw it in the bed of his pickup. I wish I could tell him everything. All the shit that happened after they took me from Hell. It’s too hard. And if I do, he’ll never look at me the same way again.
I can give him this, though. A couple of hours where we’re brothers again. “Let’s go.”
