On Solid Ground Page 10

  Without any further goodbye, Dax exits the Jeep and walks away. Dumbfounded, I shake my head and start the Jeep. With my hand on the gear shift, my attention is drawn to my side, where Dax stands.

  Standing on the side-rail, he’s hovering over me, leaning into my space. His head dips to mine, taking one last kiss—no tongue, no hands in my hair, and no passionate gasps of breath. No, what lingers when he walks away for good this time is the promise of something I’ll never forget.

  And if the call from Nikki is about what I think it’s about, if my lawyer pulled through like she said she would, I know for sure that my life will be changed in ways I never could have imagined.

  “Rise and shine.” Chloe’s cheery-ass voice is the last thing I want to hear at eight in the morning. When her words do nothing to get me out of bed, she jumps on it, her small frame barely making me move at all. “Seriously, Dax!” she whines. “Get up.”

  “No.” I grab her ankle, toppling her over. “Sleep. It’s Sunday,” I groan. After the night I had last night, I’m shot. The combination of a few drinks, a panic attack and a seaside blow job make for a very lazy morning. At least the last part puts a smile on my face.

  “What are you grinning at?” Chloe forces my eyes open with her thumb and forefinger, her other hand poised to tickle my side. “I’ll get it out of you somehow.” With her fingers curled like a claw, she slowly inches toward my side.

  In one swift move, my legs wrap under hers, flipping her on her back. Shocked and unable to move, I pin her hands above her head before she even realizes it. “What’s that now?” I mock, mimicking the position with which she just threatened me.

  “Don’t you dare,” she threatens as her face twists with laughter and firmness.

  “Oh, I dare.”

  Her squeals of laughter fill the room as she tries to squirm away from me. When I finally let go of her hands, she retaliates. Not for long, though. I’d never tell her, but I usually let her get in a few good moves before she calls it quits. After she’s exhausted herself, we sit in bed, backs resting up against the headboard.

  “So,” she extends the word, clearly hinting at last night.

  An arched eyebrow is all I give in return.

  “Oh, come on, Dax,” she begs, bouncing on her crossed legs. “I need to know.”

  “Bullshit! You don’t need to know anything. You’re just too nosy for your own good.”

  Tapping a finger to her lower lip, she acts as if I’ve just made some kind of major revelation about her nosiness when we both know it’s her worst feature. “But I tell you everything,” she pleads. Her face is pulled into the most sugary sweet look I’ve ever seen, as if she’s a little girl asking for the latest Barbie.

  “No,” I correct. “You tell me way too much. Besides, there’s nothing much to tell.”

  With a faux puff of frustration, she launches herself off the bed. Spinning back around to face me, hands on her hips and everything, she taps her foot on the carpet. “I’m waiting,” she demands, a hint of laughter hanging from her lips.

  “What for exactly?”

  “You to make me breakfast, obviously.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, well, since you won’t give me the dirty details on hot tattoo man, you’re going to have to make me pancakes. It’s part of this ‘best friend slash you get to live in my place’ deal. You feed me the sordid stuff or you make me fluffy, delicious pancakes. Your choice.”

  It takes a huge amount of energy on my part not to laugh in her face, but knowing that she is letting me stay here for nothing weighs heavily on me. Even if she is making a joke out of it—her intention is not at all to make me feel guilty—I can’t help but feel like I’m a massive burden to her.

  “Pancakes it is then, but you have to make the coffee.”

  Without looking back at me, she struts to the door announcing, “It’s already brewing.”

  When the door clicks closed, I wonder whether she really wanted to know about last night at all. Or was she just using it as a cover to get me to make her breakfast.

  Swiping a T-shirt and pair of shorts from my dresser, I make my way to the kitchen, the aroma of dark-roast coffee lingering in the air. Chloe hands me a mug as I pass her. When I see all of the ingredients for blueberry ricotta pancakes spread out over the counter, I almost spit out my coffee.

  She totally played me, but that’s why I love her. And a homemade breakfast is the least I can do for her.

  Tossing me a towel, she instructs that I better “get to work.” Hoisting herself up on the counter, Chloe watches as I measure out the milk and crack open a few eggs. “So you really don’t have anything to say about last night?” Her tone has changed from earlier. She’s no longer prodding to get something out of me. She’s asking out of genuine interest and the change makes me feel like I can open up.

  “He drew me naked.”

  She chokes on her coffee, nearly falling off the counter completely. “What?” she gasps through her coughing fit. “Like Rose and Jack-style from Titanic? Please tell me you wore that gigantic blue heart necklace thingie. Because I would actually pay money to see that drawing.”

  “Shut up.” Tossing a pinch of flour in her face, I try my best to wipe that image from my mind. It’s not difficult, because from the moment Beck sank to his knees in front of me, and wrapped his lips around my dick, I haven’t been able to see anything else.

  After a quick clean up with a wet paper towel, Chloe resumes her seat on the counter—and her line of questioning. “Okay, so back to the naked drawing. You have to explain that one.”

  Leaning my ass up against the counter, I hold the bowl in my arms, whisking the blueberry streaked batter. “When I saw him at the beach yesterday afternoon, he had a sketch of me naked.”

  She slaps me on the chest, almost knocking the bowl out of my hands. “You’re freaking kidding me!” she squeals.

  Shaking my head, I continue on to the less than sexy part. “Nope, definitely not kidding. But when I asked him about it, things got a little intense and then his friend scared the shit out of me.” With those words, Chloe’s face morphs from one of amusement to one of worry. “Yeah,” I answer the unasked question that’s hidden in her face. “I had an attack, but not before I kind of beat the crap out of his friend.”

  “Oh, no,” her hand covers her mouth, trying to hold back the shocked gasp. “Is his friend okay? Was hot tattoo man okay with it?”

  “You know he has a real name? You can call him Beck.”

  “Sure, sure,” she deflects. “Hot tattoo man is just so much more fun.”

  While I make breakfast, I tell her the rest of what happened. How Ty ended up being okay, despite my overactive reflexes, how Beck and I talked on the beach, how he calmed me down and actually made me laugh.

  I left out all the horny details. Some things are best kept between the people who were originally there. Besides, Chloe might be the only one who knows that I’m gay, but that doesn’t mean I’m particularly comfortable sharing the explicit stuff with her just yet.

  She’s not happy about it, but I promise her that when I decide to tell anyone about anything, she’ll be the first to know.

  “So,” I dangle that out there as I hand her a plate of pancakes. “How would you feel about a dog?”

  Her eyes widen and a smile splits her face nearly in two. “Oh, my God, of course.”

  “I’ve been in contact with the local VA about a service dog and they have one for me coming in this week. I wanted to check with you first before saying yes, but I think it could really help me with my–”

  She cuts me off, holding her hand up to my face as if that will literally stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “It will help you. The answer is yes. That’s it,” she says definitively, before cutting a larger-than-her-mouth portion of pancake and shoving it in.

  After clearing my own plate, I stand and pop a quick kiss to the top of her head. “Thanks. It really means a lot to me.”


  “Dax,” she drops a hand to my arm, “you mean a lot to me. I’ve said it before and I don’t know how many times I need to say it until you believe me, but this place is yours. Stop worrying about what I think, or what money you feel you owe me. You need a home and I am more than happy to let you make mine yours.”

  “I swear, if I wasn’t gay, you’d be–”

  Again she cuts me off, this time mumbling around the bite of food she’s still chewing. “Are you kidding? If you weren’t gay, I’d be tappin’ dat ass and then dragging you in here to cook for me. But I guess I’ll just settle for the food and your pretty face.”

  She quickly finishes her mouthful of food so she can stick her tongue out at me. I toss the towel at her face. After she swallows her last bite, she leans back in her chair, rubbing her stomach. “I’m stuffed. I need a nap.”

  “It’s not even nine in the morning.” Taking her plate from her, I wash the dishes. “Get your ass in there,” I point to her room, “change and we’ll go for a walk on the beach.”

  On a loud groan of protest, she lifts herself from her chair. Clicking her heels together, she salutes me. “Yes, Sir,” she snaps and then walks to her room to get ready.

  As soon as the suds are rinsed from the last plate, the phone rings. I’ve been here long enough to feel comfortable picking up the phone, not that anyone really calls here for me. It’s usually Devon or Ashley, Chloe’s friend from work. Mostly it’s telemarketers, but this number is one I recognize right away.

  “Hi, Mom.” We’ve talked a few times since I’ve moved in. She’s always the one to call me. Again, guilt rests heavy on my shoulders that I was the one to leave her.

  “Hey, Jakey,” her warm voice sounds through the line, making me feel just a little homesick. No one, except her has called me Jakey since seventh grade. At that point, it was Jacob. Then, by the time I was in high school, everyone had taken to calling me Jake. Only a few teachers stuck to my full name. And then when I was in the Army, I don’t think anyone even knew first names. Dax was really the only option. Since I enlisted so I could start my life over with a clean slate, a new name was just what I needed.

  Lost in my only random tangents, I’ve lost track of what Mom is telling me about her needlepoint and canasta group. “Wow, that sounds great, Mom.” Feigning interest, I hope I didn’t miss anything too important. I’m sure I didn’t.

  “How is it there?” There’s a sense of longing in her voice, and if I’m not mistaken, a touch of disdain. When I told her I was moving here, she wasn’t too thrilled. In the end, she said she understood that I needed to spread my wings and all that crap mothers are supposed to say. I could tell she didn’t really mean it. I’d left home right after high school, desperate to get away, figure out who I was. Then college happened.

  Then it happened.

  Then I ran. I enlisted and, as far as my mother was concerned, I was gone for good. I knew when I enlisted that I was breaking her heart, but there was no other choice.

  Life is like that sometimes. It backs you up into the corner, kicks you while you’re down, makes you question everything you know, who you are and then leaves you so bloody and beaten that getting up seems impossible.

  But then your lungs start working again. The beating of your heart rouses you from the coma you thought you were in. Your legs start moving once more, and before you know it, you’re standing—and running, fast and far away from everything you thought you ever knew about yourself, about the world.

  Shaking that scene away, I remember I still need to answer her. “It’s good, Mom. Really good actually,” my voice carries the enthusiasm I feel. If she would have called a few days ago, there might have been less of it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mom.” Eyes rolling, I feel as if I’m answering my drill sergeant. Needing to change tactics, and get her focused on something other than me not being home, I bring up a completely different topic. “So, it looks like I’ll be getting my service dog this week.”

  “Then you’re still having the attacks?” She goes into nurse mode. Unfortunately—for both her and me—I had a few attacks right when I came home. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, not sure of where I was, confused and disoriented, screaming at the top of my lungs as the images of my fallen brothers haunted my dreams. I wish she’d never seen me like that. Fuck, I wish no one had ever seen me like that. Maybe if they hadn’t, I’d still be able to serve. I’d still be able to hide.

  Choosing to just come clean, rather than deflect like I usually do, I flop into a chair and open up, “Not as frequently as before. But they still happen.”

  Her saddened silence is the only thing I hear on the line. “Mom,” my reassuring tone rivals the buzzing of the line. “I’m working on getting better. The dog is part of that. I’m excited about it, so can you stop worrying for a second and just listen?”

  “You’re right,” she lets out a deep exhale. “You know how much I worry about you, though, honey.”

  “I’m not a kid any more, Mom. I fought in a war. I’m sure I can live on my own.” I’m not sure who my words are meant to convince more, me or her.

  After sighing in understanding and agreement, she tells me she’ll call me later in the week. As she wishes me good luck with the dog, Chloe bounces down the stairs, ready to face the day when all she really wants to do is sleep.

  Closing the door behind us, I wonder when I’ll feel that way, too.

  Two days later, walking up to the local veteran’s affairs center, I feel vomit rise in my throat. The flag flapping in the wind, the metal rungs clanking against the flag pole grate on my nerves. It’s a steady, pulse-like beat, reminding me of the men who I couldn’t protect—of the brothers who are no longer here with me. There’s a ramp next to the stairs, amplifying my guilt. Not feeling particularly deserving of the ability to walk, there’s a huge part of me that wants to turn around and skip out on my appointment.

  Someone else deserves this dog much more than you do.

  “You can do this, Dax,” Chloe coaches at my side, lacing her hand through mine. Seriously, I’ll never understand what I did to deserve a friend like her.

  But then again, not everything in life can be explained. Besides, the idea of deserving what you get, well, it’s a screwed up one in the first place.

  The rising panic in my chest makes speaking impossible. Wordlessly, I let go of her hand and press the button that automatically opens the doors. The fact that there’s no other way to open the doors is a ringing endorsement for the brutality of war and the gruesome reality to which many soldiers must return.

  Though I’m cheerfully greeted by the woman sitting at the front desk, I feel anything but welcome. And it’s not through anyone’s fault but my own.

  Men and women, some missing limbs, some with prosthetics, some wheeling around on the cream-colored linoleum floor, linger about the front room. Essentially, they’re strangers to me, but in so many ways they’re not. Though their faces are completely unfamiliar, I see traces of my team in them. In fact, when a vet, about my age, maybe a few years older, hobbles past me on his prosthetic leg, I actually have to do a double take. My heart knew it couldn’t be him, but those eyes, that face, he looked just like Delaney.

  That’s the funny thing about the ghosts that haunt us. They can show up when and where they want. We have no control over them and it’s when you least expect them that they do the most damage.

  The shock of thinking I’d seen someone I knew for a fact was dead, hit me hard. Could it really have been him? No. I assure myself. My hand was covered in blood trying to stem the bleeding. My own eyes saw his roll back in his head when his last breath left his lungs.

  Now my own lungs won’t even work, barely pulling in oxygen in short, labored pants. “Dax?” Chloe tugs on my arm at my side. “Come sit down.”

  “Can I get you something, sir?” a female voice that’s not Chloe’s asks from in front of me. The only reason I can even figure out where she’s st
anding is because I can see a blurred image of her sneakers as I hang my head in my hands.

  “Water, please. Can you get him a cup of water?” Chloe speaks for me since I can’t and it fucking angers me even more. Not that she did it, but that she had to.

  The blood pounding in my veins boils to a river of rage. “I can’t fucking take it,” I growl, standing from my seat. The abruptness of my movement scares the shit out of Chloe, knocking her back in her seat. “I j-just needed to d-do a s-si-simple . . . I-I can’t—I ne-need air.” With my hands pulled up against my chest, I try to ease the pain of the anxiety, but nothing is working.

  The secretary, who intends to help me, hands me a cup of water. Smacking it out of her hand, I watch in horror as she gasps and lets out a small yelp as the water splatters across the floor.

  Just like at the bar with Beck, just like every time before that—like the time I nearly punched my father in the face after only being home for a few days because he tried to calm me down from a nightmare—the rage quickly morphs into embarrassment.

  The need to flee creeps over me, and if not for the hand that’s suddenly resting calmly on my shoulder, there would be a Dax-shaped hole in the door.

  “Come with me.” Oddly enough, the stern, yet compassionate voice does enough to calm me down so my feet begin working again. When the fog clears in my eyes, I see Chloe flopped back in the small sofa in the main room, wiping a few tears from her cheeks. The older gentleman next to me tracks my line of sight. “She’ll be just fine. Lauren will take care of her.” Sure enough, the woman who greeted us at the door, whose hand I slapped when she offered me a cup of water, is sitting next to Chloe, comforting her because I screwed up—again.

  We move through the room, passing people along the way. Part of me feels lighter when I see that they’re not even looking at me, as if my outburst is just par for the course. I’d imagine that around these parts, it probably is. Saddened by that, I drag my feet into a small office to the back of the main room. My mystery escort holds the door open for me. With my eyes cast down in shame, I walk past him and stand next to the chair in front of the small, simple desk.