Fighting For Valor Page 12

  She arches a gray brow and chuckles softly. “I think he’s meant for someone else. So does Charlie, apparently.”

  Her words don’t register for a few seconds. Not when Charlie’s leg is thumping on the ground like he’s just discovered the secrets to the universe. But when they do, I meet her gaze. “I…can’t. I’m not a good bet. My life isn’t…stable. I’d fail every question on the application.”

  Melissa clucks her tongue. “You know the best part about running this place, young man?” After a beat, she turns and heads back for a stack of paperwork on the desk, plucks a blank application from the tray, holds it up, and then crumples it into a ball. “I make the rules.”

  The wadded-up paper sails into the trash bin with a soft plunk, and she smiles. “When you figure out what Charlie and I already know, we’ll talk. Until then…you know where everything is. Go see what speaks to you today.”

  Four hours later, my shoulders burn from mopping every floor in the place. Charlie stayed close to me the whole time, and when I ventured into the kennels, trying to get over my irrational fear of locking doors, he never left my side. I scrubbed his space until it shone, switched out his bedding and got him a chew toy, then sat outside the open door while he lay on his pallet with the toy between his paws and went to town.

  “I’m broken, Charlie,” I whisper, too quietly for him to hear me over the sounds of the other dogs. “Too broken to give you a good home.” My tears shock me, but I can’t make them stop.

  At the beginning…when Faruk first started in on me, I used to dream of escape. Of what I’d do when I got home. I never thought I’d feel like this. Constantly afraid. Constantly ashamed. This isn’t a life. It’s one nightmare after another.

  But then the dog scoots forward and rests his head in my lap, and my tears turn into sobs. Charlie doesn’t move until I get myself under control, then he gives my hand a lick. Just one. And his eyes…the emotion in them is impossible to ignore. I can’t make him sleep on the streets. If I’m going to do this…I have to be able to give him a real home.

  “You want to give this a chance?” He makes a low sound in his throat and sits up so we’re eye-to-eye. “I need a few days, buddy. Gotta take the first step on my own. Okay?”

  With a yip, Charlie wriggles his whole massive body until he’s in my lap, and I wrap my arms around the dog, bury my face in his fur, and promise him, without words, that I’ll be better. For him.

  Cara

  A little after 10:00 p.m., I head down 15th, trying to stay focused on my surroundings. My mind is racing, as it always does when my meds wear off, and if I’m not careful, I’ll walk right into an oncoming car.

  I can’t keep bleeding money and expect to stay safe. I tried to convince Joel to let me work more hours at For Fork’s Sake, but Nance has seniority. Tomorrow, I have to start looking for a better job. If I could pick up a few hours in the early mornings baking for a coffee shop, that might be enough. Otherwise, I’ll end up on the streets.

  Like Ripper.

  He’s been hovering at the back of my mind all day, and I don’t know why. But I tucked a double serving of lasagna in my satchel for him, along with a bottle of sparkling water. Unlike the enchiladas, which were leftovers, tonight’s meal, I had to pay for.

  I don’t know why I did it. I can’t afford my life as it is. But for some reason, I feel the need to try to help this guy. As I approach the church, I search for his prone form wrapped in a sleeping bag. But instead, I find him sitting on the steps with nothing around him. No backpack. No sleeping bag. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  “Ripper?”

  His whole body jerks, and he looks around, his eyes wild. As he focuses on me, the storm in those dark blue orbs quiets a little. “Cara. Hey.”

  “What’s wrong? Where’s your stuff?” I approach slowly, ease myself down next to him, and pull the box and bottle of water out of my bag. “I…um…it was lasagna night at the truck.”

  “You brought me dinner again? Why?” He accepts the offering, pulling back the flap of the box and staring at it like it’s one of life’s greatest mysteries.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “I’m not homeless, Cara.” After one last, longing look at the cheesy lasagna, he passes it back to me. “You should keep this. Have it for lunch tomorrow.”

  His words take a minute to sink in. “But…you sleep out here. Every night.”

  “Yep.” The huffing sound he makes might almost be a laugh, but then he sighs and stares off into nowhere. “Can’t handle being inside when it’s dark.”

  “Why not?” Setting the box down in front of me, I turn towards him. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed halfway up, and peeking out from one of them is an image I recognize. “You’re Special Forces.”

  “Was.” The surprise in his tone is tinged with bitterness as he gestures to the tattoo. “Not many people would recognize the insignia.”

  “I used to know a few. From my old life.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Any mention of my time at JSOC is risky. But there’s something about Ripper that exudes safety. I think I can trust him with this little bit of my past.

  “Old life.” Ripper runs his hand through his hair, his expression changing subtly as he reaches the back of his neck. “Yeah. I had one of those too.”

  “And that’s why you can’t handle being inside?” I shouldn’t pry. Not when I can’t reveal any secrets of my own. But the deep, soul-crushing sadness emanating from this man makes me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything will be okay. Even if I know it won’t.

  He shakes his head. “Not exactly. But also not a good story.”

  “Point taken.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the traffic go by until he speaks again, his voice so low and quiet, I have to lean closer to hear him. “I made myself a deal tonight. I could come out here and sit until 1:00 a.m. Not a minute longer. Then…I’d go home. Figured if I could manage until sunrise without freaking the fuck out, tomorrow night I’d go home ten minutes earlier.”

  “How long has it been? Since you’ve slept inside all night?” Ripper flinches, and I reach for his arm, but he jerks away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to…to pry. Or—”

  “Fuck.” Scrubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a mournful groan. “You shouldn’t hang out with me, Cara. I can’t even carry on a normal conversation. Let alone…open up about anything.”

  “I don’t need normal.” I turn slightly so I can see his profile. “There’s nothing normal about this situation. I’m sitting on the steps of a church, in the dark, talking to a man I don’t know, yet this feels easier than every other personal interaction I’ve had today. Normal’s overrated.”

  Ripper stares at me, and a fraction of the loneliness in the depths of his azure eyes fades away. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

  “Well, I hope not—” My phone buzzes, and I frown. No one should be calling me this late. And not on this phone. “Hang on a sec.” Digging for the cheap flip phone I picked up outside of Vegas, I suck in a sharp breath at the number on screen.

  Leland.

  I hurry a dozen paces away, just far enough I hope Ripper can’t hear me, before I answer. “H-hello?”

  “Cara, I need you to listen very carefully.” There’s a muffled curse, followed by a thump, and then the call disconnects.

  My heart rate skyrockets, and panic floods my body with adrenaline. Leland wouldn’t have called unless he—or I—were in danger. After I shove the phone back into the pocket of my skirt, I limp back to the church steps and grab my cross-body bag. “I…I have to go, Ripper. I’m sorry. Um…I hope…I hope you get some sleep tonight.”

  As I take off at a jog—at least as much of a jog as I can manage with my ankle still sore, he calls my name, but I don’t turn back. I can’t. I have one ID left. I can become Carrie Yates and get on a bus to…somewhere else. And then, Cara Barre
tt will disappear forever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ripper

  Shock slows my movements, and by the time I get to my feet, Cara’s turned the corner onto fifty-third, a full two blocks away. The number on her phone—I didn’t mean to look, but I recognized the area code. Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Why the hell is she getting calls from Fort Bragg?

  The fear in her voice…I can’t just ignore it. Running after her, I find her leaning against a lamp post, rubbing her ankle.

  “Cara?” She yelps and loses her balance, landing on her hands and knees. “Dammit. I’m sorry.”

  “Ripper? You shouldn’t have followed me.”

  Tears shine on her cheeks, and I don’t think. I crouch close to her, cupping her jaw and wiping them away. “I may not be able to have a normal conversation with you—or anyone—but I’m not letting you run down a darkened street, crying and alone, when I know you’re scared.”

  She stares up at me with such need in her eyes, but behind that, wariness. “This isn’t something you want to get involved in,” she whispers. As she wobbles to her feet, I catch the scent of blood.

  “You’re hurt.” I scan her from head to toe, quickly finding the source—a piece of broken glass embedded in her knee. “Stand still.”

  Cara leans back against the lamp post, sniffling softly. I use my left hand to hold her leg still, then carefully slide the dirty shard free. She hisses out a breath, and blood drips down her shin.

  Pulling a handkerchief from my back pocket, I tie it around her knee, just tight enough to hopefully stop the blood from soaking into her sock and shoe. “How’s your ankle?” I ask once I’m standing again.

  “It’ll be fine,” she insists, but as soon as she takes a step, I know it won’t be.

  “Stop, Cara.” Planting myself in front of her—but not touching her, because shit…her skin was so soft, and having my hands on her…it made me want…things I can’t ever have again—I cross my arms over my chest. “Let me help you get home. As soon as you’re inside, I’ll leave, and you don’t ever have to see me again.”

  Her expression tells me she wants to protest, so I arch a brow. “That ankle’s not going to hold up. And whatever’s got you spooked, pretty sure you’re going to want both legs fully functional to take it on. You know what I am…what I was,” I say, gesturing to my tattoo. “We don’t lie, we don’t cheat, and we don’t hurt the innocent. Ever.”

  Cara shivers in the cool night air, and I shrug out of my sweatshirt and hold it open for her to slide her arms into the sleeves.

  She blows out a breath, then seems to deflate as she lets me help her on with the hoodie. “You’re don’t know what you’re asking me to do. The last time I trusted someone…”

  “You want to compare war stories? Because mine won’t be pretty.”

  She’s chewing on her lip hard enough I’m afraid she’s going to bite it clean through, but eventually, she frees the abused flesh and sighs. “Okay. Just…to my apartment.”

  I hold out my hand. “I’m going to touch you now. Okay? Put my arm around your waist so I can support some of your weight?”

  Her nod doesn’t do much for my confidence. I haven’t been this close to someone—at least not while conscious—in a long time, and her curves mold to my side. The fruity scent of her shampoo tickles my nose. Something tropical. “Where to, sunshine?”

  “Two blocks up.”

  The walk takes us almost ten minutes because with every step, her limp worsens, and she’s still shivering. Adrenaline crash.

  “No exterior lock?” I ask as we reach the dilapidated four-story apartment building.

  “Not one that works.” Her tone has turned bitter, and she shakes her head as she leads me into the building foyer. “This is…stupid. I’ve been so careful for so long, but…” As Cara looks up at me, true fear lingers behind her eyes. “Screw it. Will you come up with me? Just to make sure my apartment’s…safe?”

  What the fuck happened to her to make her this scared?

  If anyone found out that Jackson Richards is alive, they’d come after me for war crimes. Treason. A litany of atrocities so long, I’d never get out of jail—assuming they didn’t just execute me. And whatever’s in Cara’s past…she’s just as scared as I am.

  “Yeah. Lead the way.”

  Stained ceilings, threadbare carpet, and peeling paint decorate the halls, along with the vague scent of popcorn. I carry her up the two flights of stairs—though she protests half the way—and set her down outside one of only two units on the third floor. She digs in her satchel for her keys, but before she can manage the lock, they slip from her hand, and I catch them in mid-air.

  “Shit. You’re…fast.” Her voice is getting a little thready, and I’m starting to worry about her remaining upright for much longer.

  “Stay behind me.” The lock wouldn’t keep out a ten-year-old, and I shake my head at the state of this building. As I make my way through her small apartment, checking her closet, shower, and behind the drapes and couch, I can see the care she takes to make the place a home. Candles in every room, all fruity scents—like her hair—and not a thing out of place. Even her bed’s made so you could probably bounce a quarter on it.

  I find her in the middle of her living room, fiddling with the blue pendant around her neck.

  “All clear. As perfect as everything is, it’d be obvious if anyone had broken in.”

  “Are you calling me a neat freak?” she asks with a weak laugh.

  “Maybe. Not saying it’s a bad thing.” What the fuck are we supposed to do now? She’s obviously afraid, and despite the last six years of my life, I haven’t forgotten all of my training. I don’t want to leave her alone, but I barely know the woman.

  Her phone rings again, and she looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes as she retrieves it from the pocket of her skirt.

  “I’ll just…” I begin, but she motions for me to stay.

  “Hello?”

  Whatever the person on the other end of the line says to her must be exactly what she needed to hear. “Oh, thank God. You’re sure?” After a moment, she dashes away a tear and continues. “Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you,” she says and then snaps the phone shut.

  “Everything all right?”

  Her smile, though barely there, brings a hint of light to her eyes, and she nods. “Yes. I…shouldn’t have panicked back there.” She takes one uneven step towards the kitchen, then winces.

  “Sit down. Let me check out your ankle and take care of that cut on your knee, okay? After that…I’ll go.”

  Lips pursed like she’s not sure she should let me do anything else for her, she holds my gaze for a second, then limps over to the couch. “First aid kit’s under the bathroom sink.”

  By the time I return with a washcloth soaked in warm water and the small metal kit, her eyes are closed, her head resting on the back of the sofa.

  “You still with me?”

  She lifts her head and then rubs her eyes. “Sorry. This time of night…I get kind of spacey.”

  The cut isn’t bad, just dirty, and once it’s bandaged, I ease her shoe and sock off. “You should have kept this wrapped another couple of days,” I say as I probe the swollen flesh.

  “Stretches my shoe out.” Her words are softer now, slower. If she lasts another hour upright, I’ll be amazed. Not that I plan on being here that long. “Can’t afford new ones.”

  “Okay. Watch me carefully, then. I’ll show you how to wrap it so it won’t do that.” She meets my gaze, and shit. Flecks of bronze within the brown depths, along with the warmth of her skin, and the trust she’s giving me…

  Cut it out. You’re going to make sure she’s okay, then get the fuck out of here.

  But when I’m done and she gingerly gets to her feet to test out the wrap, she smiles, and my gut churns. No one’s smiled at me like that in…years.

  Shuffling into her sparse kitchen, Cara runs water into a teapot. “I…um…need to take my meds. And h
ave a snack. Do you…um…want anything?”

  Shoving my hands into the pockets of the jeans that still feel too tight, too new, too restrictive, I hunch my shoulders as I try not to focus on the fact that I’m behind a locked door with the drapes closed, at night.

  And then a familiar scent hits me. Cardamom. With cinnamon. Ice fills my veins, and I start to shiver so hard, I can’t manage to reply as I stagger for the door.

  My hand slips off the deadbolt as my vision darkens, and I sink to my knees, covering my head with my arms as I brace for a blow.

  “You have displeased me, Isaad. As restitution, you will fast for seven days. You will be allowed tea and water only. Damsa!” Faruk calls for the slight woman who cooks meals for the compound’s residents.

  “Yes, Amir Faruk, sir?” She rushes into the room, bows, and stares down at me cowering on the floor.

  “Isaad will be fasting for the next week. See that he receives plenty of Kahwah tea, but nothing else.”

  “Of course.” Sympathy flashes in her eyes for a split second, and then she’s gone, and Zaman’s vise grip fastens around my arm before he drags me out of the room.

  “Ripper? Shit. Answer me!” Warm hands rest over mine, and I jerk away with a snarl.

  “Don’t touch me!” My breath wheezes through my clenched teeth as I roll up into a crouch, scanning for ghosts, ready to attack. “Fuck.”

  “What triggered you? Tell me. Right now.” She’s kneeling two feet away, her hands raised slightly, and the commanding tone to her voice drags me just far enough out of my panic-induced episode to answer her.

  “Cardamom.” The single word escapes on a whisper, and she swears under her breath as she rises and limps quickly back to the kitchen. A cabinet door slams, water splashes, and paper rustles.

  “What about hibiscus? Peach? Mango? Strawberry?”