Fighting For Valor Page 8

  “Look, doc, this is all I’ve got in me. You want to make me feel like shit for it? That’s your choice. I met your minimum requirements. Ten minutes in the chair twice this week. Get me the damn script and I’m gone.” Pushing to my feet, I sway as a brief wave of dizziness hits me. But Neery is too busy scribbling on his prescription pad to notice.

  “I’ll see you next Monday, Jackson.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Five minutes, and I’m outside in the sun. By the time I reach the pharmacy, I’m shaking. Will this be the day I slip up? Get distracted and give the wrong name?

  Breathe. You’re Rick Mercury now.

  The day Dax asked me to choose my new name, there was only one I wanted.

  “Fred Mercury.” I shove my hands into the pockets of the hoodie. Since we landed in Boston, I haven’t been able to get warm.

  Dax chokes on his coffee. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “No. If you’re going to take my name away—” I clear my throat, unwilling to let anyone know how much it kills me to give up the name I just got back, “—then I’m going to be Fred Mercury.”

  “Rip, come on,” Ry says as he drops into the chair across from me. “You’ll draw way too much attention to yourself. After the movie…fuck.”

  “What movie?” I haven’t seen a movie in more than six years. I’ve missed so much.

  Ry’s girl takes his hand, and her engagement ring catches the light. I don’t know her—or Dax’s fiancée, or anyone else in this room. Clive-something-or-other is Dax’s relocation specialist, and he and Wren can get me a fake identity, complete with credit history. She meets my gaze, and her soft voice holds sympathy. “They released a Queen biopic last year. Won all sorts of awards.”

  “Fine. Rick Mercury.” Before Dax and Ry can protest again, I hunch my shoulders and stare down at the floor. These are my brothers. I should be able to be straight with them. But all I can hear is Faruk’s voice in my head telling me Jackson Richards is dead, and I’m Isaad now. “I can’t lose anything else,” I whisper. “Please. Richard Jack Mercury. Let me keep…something of who I used to be.”

  The pharmacist calls out, “Mercury. Rick Mercury?”

  It takes me a minute to remember that’s who I’m supposed to be, and when I approach the counter with my ID and credit card, I want to throw up. But I get through the transaction and leave with a week’s worth of anti-depressants and anxiety pills.

  I hate this. Hate my life. Hate what those years of brainwashing and torture did to me. My hands shake as I twist the top off the bottle of anxiety meds and toss back two of them with swig of cold brew coffee I picked up while I was waiting.

  I should be better by now. Stronger. But instead, I’m fighting the physical and mental effects of too many traumatic brain injuries, sleeping on the streets, and spending the rest of my days walking. Just so I can be outside, somewhere no one can lock me in again.

  By the time I reach my apartment building, Ryker’s sent me two more text messages, both ignored with a quick tap to the screen. I swear under my breath as I check the time. Sunset is in twenty minutes. I can’t be here after dark. Won’t be.

  Up three flights of stairs—there’s no fucking way I’m getting into an elevator—and I round the corner and freeze. “Last time I checked,” I say, trying to keep my tone measured and level, “I was two years older than you. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Ryker pushes off the wall, his hands in his pockets, and ambles towards me. “Then return my damn messages.”

  “I was busy.”

  He arches a brow. “Doing…?”

  “None of your fucking business.” Shouldering past him, I don’t miss his flinch—or my own. Neither of us like to be touched. Punching in the fourteen-digit code that saved my life—94820RJT008000—I wait for the secured door to open. “What do you want?”

  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.”

  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 Rip Dax Ry.

  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.

  I stop myself before the word escapes. Getting myself into trouble—hell, getting myself noticed at all—isn’t smart, but I’m just so sick and tired of manspreaders on this route. Every damn day.

  The short walk to the diner on the main floor of Pike Place helps ease some of my frustration, and by the time I secure my bag in one of the lockers and reach the kitchen, I feel almost…at ease.

  “Hey, Cara,” Lindsey says as she balances a tray on her shoulder. She moves with a grace I’ll never have and slides the overly full monstrosity onto the counter without so much as rattling a glass. “Didn’t expect to see you in today.”

  “I needed to pick up a couple of extra shifts this month.” My fingers tremble slightly as I tie the apron around my waist. “My landlord’s raising the rent.”

  “Aw, shit. I’m sorry, babe.” She slings her arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “The offer’s still open, you know. I have a second bedroom. It’d take me a few days to clear it out, but if you ever want it, it’s yours.”

  “Th-thanks. But…I’m not…I don’t want… Um, living with me…isn’t easy. I drive off roommates. Kind of…set in my ways.” While I am…very, and I have to be, that’
s not the whole truth.

  It’s not safe for me to live with anyone else. For eighteen months, I’ve tried to keep to myself. But the day I started working here, Lindsey marked me as “friend-material,” and after a couple of months of refusing her invites to go out for a drink or a movie after work, I could no longer resist her infectious personality. Plus, I was lonely.

  Now, she’s my only friend in this town, though I’ve shared nothing honest about my past with her. I think she knows I have secrets I can’t confess, but to her credit, she hasn’t pressed. Much.

  “Well, you know the offer’s always there,” she says with a smile.

  “I do. And I love you for it, Linds.” I rest my head against hers for a brief moment, then straighten my shoulders. “I’ve gotta get out there or Barry’ll have my ass.”

  “Yeah, he’s in a shit mood today. Guess he didn’t get any last night.” Lindsay elbows me in the ribs lightly before she tucks a fresh tray under her arm and heads back out through the swinging doors to the dining room.

  Great. Just what I need. Another male asshole to deal with. Spinning my Lapis Lazuli pendant inside its silver cage, I take a couple of calming breaths.

  My meds keep me mostly together, but on my bad days, the constant frenetic pace of the popular tourist spot, along with the smells and cacophony of sounds I can’t control can leave me totally and completely wiped by the end of my six hours on the floor. And then, I have to work a shift at For Fork’s Sake—a food truck that roves around the city, setting up at a different location every night.

  At least my four-day-a-week stints there as a chef make me feel a little more like myself. My old self anyway.

  Okay, Cara. Get out there and kick some ass. If it’s a good day for tips, you can splurge on a couple of slices of pizza for dinner.

  My time cooking at For Fork’s Sake makes me feel…alive again. The pay’s crap, but they let me try out some of my own recipes, and I rarely have to talk to people. This late in the day, I’m prone to anxiety attacks—a side effect of my meds—and people make me nervous.