On His Six Page 3

  “Z. Holy Fudgsicles. What—?”

  “Help me.”

  And then…our last conversation. “I’m never going back to that life, Wren. I promise.”

  I promise.

  “So much for promises, Z.” I swallow my sob and press a quick kiss to the top of Pixel’s furry head. “It’s just us now, baby girl.”

  She whines, and I think, maybe…just maybe she understands my pain.

  After I send Dax a quick email, letting him know I won’t be in today because I need to start packing up Zion’s apartment, I bundle Pixel into her harness and head for the outskirts of Back Bay. I don’t want to go. Heck, in the past two hours, I’ve cleaned my bathroom, gone through a whole pile of junk mail, and dusted the top of the fridge.

  But I can’t put this off any longer. When he didn’t show up at his trial, the police issued a warrant for his arrest and searched his place. No drugs. No indication he was backsliding at all.

  I kept up with the rent. Always hoping he’d come back to me. But now… The prospect of talking to his landlord fills me with dread. As we exit the T, Pixel yips at me, sitting up on her haunches and begging as she catches the scent of barbecue from the shop on the corner. “You ate this morning, little miss.”

  Though…I didn’t. And the sweet and spicy scent calls to me. “You should try the brisket, sis. It’s just like Mom used to make.”

  Probably why Zion picked this apartment building. That and the reduced rent they offered to halfway house graduates. “Fine. But you only get one piece,” I say as I urge Pixel down the street. Once she’s tied up outside, I venture into a tiny, hole-in-the-wall space jam-packed with tables. And no customers. Of course, it’s only a little after eleven.

  “Can I get a brisket plate to go? And a side of burnt ends?” I ask when a tired looking young man stifles a yawn behind the register.

  “Sure. That’ll be ten minutes.”

  As I turn over my credit card, the cashier stares at my name. “Wren Kane? Are you Z’s sister?”

  “Y-yes. You know—?” The lump in my throat threatens to choke me before I can correct myself. No one knows Zion anymore. We all…knew him.

  “I haven’t seen him around in a few weeks. Is he okay?”

  My legs start to feel like wet noodles, and I brace myself against the counter. “No,” I whisper. “He’s…he’s gone.”

  The kid—he can’t be much older than twenty-three—skirts the counter and takes my arm to help me into a chair. “You don’t look so good.”

  For some reason, that strikes me as the funniest thing I’ve heard in two days. I can’t help laughing until a rough sob escapes my throat. Still…no tears. God, I wish I could cry. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept. I’m not…dang it.” Bracing my elbows on my knees, I drop my head into my hands as the kid shifts from foot to foot next to me. When I finally manage to rein in my emotions, I wipe my cheeks, amazed they’re dry.

  “Zion OD’d. The police found his body yesterday. Or…maybe the day before. I don’t…I didn’t ask.”

  “He wouldn’t.” The kid sinks down into the chair across from me. “Wren—Miss Kane—Z came in here every weekend and washed dishes in exchange for a brisket plate. My pop owns this place, and when he found out Z was an addict, he made him a deal. Stay clean, work the weekends when we’re slammed, and he could eat here any time he wanted.”

  “Really?” Pixel yips from outside, and I glance at the sidewalk, seeing her wagging her tail as she stands up and sticks her little black nose through the open door. “Sit,” I say as I hold up a finger.

  “Aw, man. Is that the puppy? Z talked about her all the time. And you. Can I…go say hi?” The kid practically bounces out of his chair when I nod, and he drops to his knees next to Pixel and scratches her belly until her back leg starts to thump on the ground with delight.

  Z gave me the dog because when I’m in the throes of an anxiety attack, having something else to focus on can help me forget about the tightness in my chest, the shaking hands, the nausea. Grief and anxiety—they’re not altogether different at times.

  When he returns, he holds out his hand. “I’m Brennan.”

  “Wren. I mean…I guess you know that.” My cheeks heat and the band around my heart warns me grief is hovering, ready to drown me at a moment’s notice. “Did you…know Z well? Were you…friends?”

  “Yeah. I mean…we didn’t hang out much, but we talked whenever he worked.” Brennan’s gaze falls to my wrist. “Shit, man. He really is gone, isn’t he?” Gesturing to the beads, he says, “Dude never took that off. Said it reminded him why he couldn’t ever use again.”

  My eyes burn, and I fiddle with the bracelet.

  “I can’t believe he OD’d. He wouldn’t even have a beer with me at the end of the night. Said even though he’d never had a problem with alcohol, he didn’t want anything that might make him feel…not himself again.” Brennan shakes his head as a bell dings from the kitchen. After he washes his hands, he bags up two brown cardboard containers.

  “They found him with all the paraphernalia,” I say quietly as I accept the bag. “In a known drug den. He promised me…”

  “Pop always said Z had demons.” With a shake of his head as I try to offer my credit card, Brennan stares back out at Pixel. “But he also said if anyone could beat them…Z could. No charge for the food, Wren. You come in here anytime, and I’ll take care of you.”

  “Can I…” I’m not a hugger. Hell, I don’t even like touching people most of the time. But this kid and his dad might have been the closest things Zion had to real friends. “I mean…never mind.”

  But Brennan seems to understand. He trudges out from behind the counter again and gives me a quick, tight embrace. “He always said you saved him.”

  I barely manage to make it out the door before finally, my tears fall.

  Zion’s apartment looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here—right after he disappeared and I met the police officers to let them in. Pristine. Well, other than the thin layer of dust that covers everything. It smells faintly of him, and as Pixel races around the small space, searching for her favorite uncle, I hover at Z’s bedroom door.

  My cheeks are still wet, though by the time I’d reached the rickety elevator, I’d lost all will to cry. With a loud sniffle, I give in to the pull of his bed and lie down, burying my face in his pillow.

  I remember that newborn smell he had when Mom brought him home from the hospital. How he tried aftershave for the first time when he went to prom and used so much, he had to take a second shower as his date waited in our living room. The scent of vomit that clung to him when he showed up at my apartment after traveling for two solid days on six different flights to get home from Russia.

  “You promised.” Hugging his pillow, I give serious thought to claiming a fraction of the sleep that eluded me last night, but Pixel yips from the front room—the little happy noise that generally signifies an impending meal, and I remember my barbecue.

  We eat on the couch, the dog getting her own plate next to me—sans sauce. Z wasn’t kidding. The food tastes just like the slow cooked brisket Mom used to make, and I let myself sink into memories of happier times. Before Dad died, before Mom abandoned us, before Zion’s first taste of heroin.

  Lost, eating on autopilot, I finish the whole container before a knock on the door makes me yelp, and the dish clatters to the floor.

  Snatching up my phone, I swear under my breath as I see five missed texts.

  “Wren,” a familiar voice calls from outside, “you in there?”

  I don’t speak as I unlock the door—I can’t. I’m too shocked. “What are you doing here?”

  Ford, Ella, and Trevor—my closest friends from the office—stand in the hall, holding boxes, packing tape, and beer. “You shouldn’t do this alone,” Ford says as he slips by me. “We should be able to get everything done in an hour or so. Maybe two tops.”

  “I…” I don’t want them here. But…I don’t want
them to go either. Ella wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze her back. “Thank you.”

  Late that night, I crawl into bed with a mug of tea and Zion’s copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. He must have read the damn thing a hundred times—the cover’s worn, the spine broken and floppy. On the title page, he left me a little note, which nearly sent me into tears again. So the book came home with me, rather than end up in a box I might never open again.

  Wren, this book is like me. Used up, tattered, and kind of a mess. But that’s why it’s perfect. Because on every page, there’s a story. All for you, Firefly.

  His nickname for me. Silly. But I’m paler than a sheet, and with my red locks…he used to say my hair lit up the whole room.

  Flipping to his favorite part—when Hagrid shows up at the hut on the rock to tell Harry he’s a wizard—I try to focus on the words, but the strain of the day weighs me down. The citrusy scent of chamomile infuses the room, and I sip my tea as I stare at the framed photo Zion had on his dresser—the one that now graces my nightstand.

  A month before he disappeared, I took him to a Red Sox game. We binged on hot dogs and nachos, and even though it started pouring in the ninth inning, we stayed until the end—a Sox walk off home run in the tenth.

  Exhaustion has my head bobbing, and a few drops of tea splash onto one of the pages as I almost drop my mug.

  “Snack cakes!” Scrambling up, I grab a handful of Kleenex and blot the liquid. The action forces the spine to bend further, and I catch sight of Z’s writing. Tiny, cursive letters almost hidden in the crease between the pages.

  Four sets of numbers, separated by periods. Followed by a slash, then the word “firefly.”

  “What in the whole of the universe, Z?”

  When I took computer programming classes in college, Z wanted to learn too. So we studied together every night. The kid had so much natural talent…and zero motivation beyond impressing his big sister. But he could have aced that class. The numbers…they’re an IP address or I’ll eat my mug…handle and all.

  Once my computer wakes up, I enter the numbers and the directory name.

  She who stands up for herself…_______________.

  Anxiety wells in my chest as I type the password: rules her own heart.

  A quote our father scribbled on Post-It notes all over the house after I broke up with my one and only high school boyfriend. I punched the little weasel when he pulled up my dress in the school hallway after prom.

  When the screen fills with text, I gasp. “Oh, Zion. What did you do?”

  3

  Ryker

  Pressing my thumb to the biometric lock, I wait for the beep, then enter my ten-digit passcode. As I step inside the warehouse, I breathe deep. Sweat, coffee, bleach, and the lingering scent of laundry detergent fill my nose. Home. Or as close as I’ll ever get to one.

  Despite my condo’s comforts—and security measures—the warehouse is the only place I’ve found any peace since I left the military.

  Dim lights along the ceiling illuminate the wide-open room. The boxing ring almost glows, the light blue surface clean and shiny. The clock on the microwave flashes. Power must have gone out sometime in the past two weeks.

  Heading for the lockers, I let the backpack fall from my shoulder. I can’t go to Cam and West’s wedding, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total dick. I slide the card out of my bag and slip it between the slats of West’s locker. It doesn’t say much—then again, neither do I. Not anymore.

  Inara gets a note too, though hers… I open the letter, wishing I could talk myself out of this, but knowing I can’t.

  I’m going dark while I’m away. You and Royce need to focus on healing. Cam and West should have a proper honeymoon. I’ll be back when I figure my shit out. Until then, you’re in charge. Run drills. Keep the new guy on his toes. But no jobs. Stay safe. I’ll make contact when I get back. - R

  She wants me to “open up.” Hell, she even offered to make me an appointment with her shrink after the mess that almost got us all killed. But I’ve had enough people in my head. After I escaped Hell, I spent a year in therapy. Talking about my feelings. Recounting every single day. Every fear. Every time I prayed for death. Didn’t do a damn thing. I still have nightmares every night.

  So I’m taking the coward’s way out. At least until I get my head on straight again. This isn’t who I am. I’m the guy who took down ten Taliban guards while bleeding from a dozen different wounds. The guy who crawled over rocks and through the Afghan underbrush for two miles in pitch blackness before he found West and his SEAL team. The guy who couldn’t wait more than ten days to go back in and try to save the only member of his squad left.

  I’m not a fucking coward. But as I pull my go bag from my locker and rifle through the contents, shame warms the back of my neck.

  The overhead lights come on with a crackle, and I whirl around, pulling my gun as I move.

  “Ry?” Inara holds up her hands twenty feet away, wariness edging her tone. “I didn’t think you were coming back for a while.”

  I blow out a breath and holster my gun. “It’s not even five in the morning. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Royce and I have an early flight.” She glances back towards the kitchen, where Royce leans against the counter with his arms crossed. “We’re…um…going to meet his parents. I needed to lock up my guns. We have a new safe on order, but it won’t be in for another couple of weeks.”

  I should apologize…to both of them…for the hurt in her eyes I put there. But I don’t know what to say. “That’s...I’m happy for you.”

  Closing the distance between us, Inara touches my arm. “I’m worried about you, Ry.”

  “I’m fine.” Always am. “Just need a few days away. I’m going to catch up with a buddy from my army days. Blow off some steam in Boston.”

  “Blow off steam? You?” Her fingers tighten around my wrist. “Talk to me,” she whispers. “Please.”

  I want to. For a few seconds, the urge to confess everything wells up, almost choking me. But I can’t. She’d never trust me again. “Nothing to talk about. I fucked up with Coop, and I need to get my head on straight before we go out on another mission.”

  Pulling away, I snag one of the many ID packets from my go bag and shove it into my backpack. “I’ve got some shit to take care of before I head to the airport.”

  “Fine.” Her tone says she’s anything but fine. “Have a safe trip.”

  Her eyes glisten, but she turns away to punch in her locker code. Unable to stand the awkward silence any longer, I throw the backpack over my shoulder and head for the kitchen.

  Royce holds out his hand as I approach, and I force myself to shake. “You solid?” I ask.

  “Good as broken.” He offers me a lopsided smile, the left corner of his mouth a little lower than the right. “Sorry. Stroke humor. D-didn’t sleep well last night. And…seeing you draw down on Inara—”

  “I’m sorry.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I force myself to hold his gaze. “For everything.”

  “You didn’t put the gun in Coop’s hand. Or knock the screw out of his head. The People’s Army did that.” Royce stares at the lockers, and I can almost feel his need to go check on Inara. But he shakes his head and focuses on me again. “You don’t need to apologize to me. She’s the one you’re hurting now.”

  Regrets crawl up my spine, and I turn, watching one of my only friends fumble through securing her guns, pausing every few seconds to run a hand over her cheeks.

  Give me a compound full of armed hostiles and I know exactly what to do. This… My fingers curl around the key to my bike, and I turn on my heel and stride towards the door.

  “Ryker,” Royce calls, and I slow for a beat until my demons grab hold, and I burst into the cool, dark morning. “Don’t—”

  As the door slams behind me, I wonder if I’ll ever feel at home here again.

  Logan Airport never changes. The white walls of baggage claim are
scuffed and dirty, devoid of all decoration beyond the rental car posters and the occasional pay phone.

  Striding past the throngs of grumpy passengers—an hour delay outbound, turbulence over the Rockies, and a busted toilet don’t make for a happy flight—I sling my backpack over my shoulder and stride towards the T-station. I want a beer and some privacy.

  An hour later, the room at the Fairmont has every luxury I could ever want, but I chose this hotel because the insulation is the best in the city, and from my corner room, I won’t hear another soul the whole time I’m here. Cracking open the mini-bar, I pull out a Sam Adams. When in Rome…or Back Bay, I guess.

  Before my deployment, I lived five miles from this spot. I grew up in San Diego but did four years at Boston College and a year in the Boston Public School System before 9/11. Now, memories of my former life haunt me in the dark corners of the room.

  The kids playing at recess. The smell of pencil lead. Finger paints. The heat of a June afternoon as the last bell rings, signifying freedom…

  The beer goes down too easy and doesn’t do a damn thing to silence the voices in my head. So I switch to vodka. When that’s gone too, I strip down to my briefs, set the desk chair against the door, wrap a length of wire around the window crank, close the blackout shades, unplug the clock, and fall face down on top of the sheets, wondering why the fuck I came back here.

  Wren

  Trudging into the office a little after ten—this is becoming a habit—I drop my messenger bag at my desk and head directly for Dax’s office. After my customary two raps, he motions me in.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Wren.” His gentle tone threatens to send me over the edge. I don’t know if I want to cry, curl up in a ball in the corner, or hit something. Though, with my luck, I’d break my fingers and still wouldn’t feel any better.

  Shutting the door behind me, I rest my back against the smooth wood. “Zion didn’t OD.”