Rome. Jay Crownover

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СКАЧАТЬ Churchill was my sergeant first class, and I recognized his slow Mississippi drawl even across the bad connection and with my mind being sleep-deprived. We had moved up the ranks together and served in the same unit for the last six years. We were soldiers first and friends second, but I trusted him implicitly and knew that if he was calling with no consideration to the time change and the fact I was no longer his commanding officer, then shit had to be bad.

      All I could make out was a garbled bunch of words, stuff like “bad intel,” stuff like “FUBAR mission,” things like “outgunned” and “hidden explosives.” I heard “insurgents” and “loss of life” and my brain went haywire. I went immediately into commando mode, trying to get him to give me just the pertinent details, only to get shut down by things like it being classified and on a need-to-know basis.

      I swore at him and had to refrain from throwing my phone at the wall. With gritted teeth I asked why he called if he wasn’t going to tell me anything. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest I could feel each thump, each beat in every tip of my fingers.

      “Three KIA, four in serious condition getting airlifted to Germany. They were ours, just thought you would want to know.”

      The line went dead and I let the phone fall from numb fingers. I put my head in my hands and tried to stop myself from freaking out. I wasn’t in anymore, they weren’t my men anymore, it wasn’t my mission anymore, but none of it seemed to matter. If they were in my unit then I knew two things: they were too young to be dead, and if I hadn’t been such a mess, both physically and mentally, maybe I could have stuck around and prevented it.

      I couldn’t stay in this house. I couldn’t be alone with just my wayward thoughts for company, so I changed into track pants, put in my earbuds, and went running. It was either that or cash the bottle of vodka and be useless the rest of the day. I ran until I couldn’t see the blood and bodies anymore. I ran until my muscles burned and my lungs felt like they were turned inside out. I ran until there was so much sweat on my face no one could notice the moisture building in my eyes was anything but exertion. I ran until my heart thudded and hurt for another, more tangible reason.

      When I got back to the Victorian, I took my time in the shower and contemplated calling Brite to tell him I had zero motivation to be at the Bar today, but then the idea of just sitting alone in the apartment with silence and too much time freaked me out, so I forced myself to go. When I walked in I didn’t say anything to anyone or touch the sandwich Darcy had left for me. I was pretty sure my nasty mood was transmitting to anyone that crossed my path, because for the first time since I started spending time at the Bar, everyone gave me a wide berth. There was no chatting, no stories, just everyone looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of their eyes. Even Brite didn’t impart his sage wisdom on me today, he just left me to my own devices, which was nice, or possibly dangerous.

      I was pulling the wood trim off one of the walls in the back. I was working on autopilot, my mind in a place so far away from this dank bar in Denver that I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. I put my hand on the wall and it landed on a missed finishing nail that was sticking out. It jabbed into the flesh of my palm, which was startling and hurt, but in no way deserved the reaction it got. I swore and threw the hammer I was using across the room. Unfortunately my anger added force to it and my aim sucked, so it smacked into one of the neon beer signs that decorated the wall and shattered the thing into a million pieces. I swore again and let my head fall forward like I just couldn’t hold it up anymore.

      When a weighty hand fell on my shoulder, I didn’t have to look up to know it was Brite.

      “You need the day off, son.” It wasn’t a question.

      “Fucked-up mission. Too many KIA in my old unit. They were just kids, Brite. I shoulda been there.”

      He sighed and hauled me toward the bar.

      “No, you shouldn’t have been. That was your life then. Had you been there, you very well might have been one of the casualties. Now sit here, get drunk and feel shitty for a minute, but shake it off and live in the now. You got someone I can call for a ride?”

      I shook my head but didn’t push away the double vodka and soda he put in front of me.

      “You said no drinking while I was here.” I was still reeling and trying to get it together.

      “Grief is a hard mistress to have, Rome. She eventually wants all you have to give her. Take a breather someplace you know is safe. All of us have been in your shoes, kid. I just want to make sure you have someone to take care of you later.”

      I stared at the drink and blinked stupidly. I shoved my cell phone in his direction. “My brother. Call him when it’s time to go, he might be pissed but he’ll come and get me.”

      Brite nodded and put the phone on the bar rail. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked at him to see if he maybe had some of the answers I so desperately needed.

      “Does it ever get easier?” Life and death, before and after, then and now, I was just having such a hard time finding my footing. I felt like I was going to fall off a ledge and there would be no going back and the inevitable landing would be the end of me.

      He sighed and reached across the bar to clap me on the shoulder.

      “No, son, it doesn’t. You just eventually learn how to process it so that it doesn’t end up killing you.”

      Well, that sucked. The vodka was cold and oh so welcome going down.

       CHAPTER 5 Cora

      I was cashing out the last client of the day and waving to Rowdy as he left when the shop phone rang. We always had late clients on Friday and Saturday night, so I wasn’t surprised by it, only I was alone in the shop because everyone else had taken off already. Nash swore up one side and down the other that Phil was actively avoiding him, so when his last client bailed on the appointment, he left early in order to ambush him at his house. Rule had jetted out early after getting a panicked call from Shaw. Something about the water heater leaking and the basement flooding. I never would have guessed Mr. Live By His Own Rules (pun intended) to be so concerned about home repair. Rowdy had stayed until his last client was done and all the other artists had left on time.

      I didn’t recognize the number on the display, so I answered it a tad more professionally than I normally did.

      “Thanks for calling the Marked, this is Cora. What can I do for you?”

      A long pause followed and I heard noise and commotion in the background. I was going to say hello again and then hang up if there was no answer when a gruff voice came across the line.

      “I’m looking for Rome Archer’s brother.”

      A shiver of apprehension slid up my spine. “Why?”

      Again I was met with silence that dragged on.

      “Do I have the wrong number?” This guy sounded frustrated and like he meant business.

      “Rule is Rome’s brother but he isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

      There was a sigh. “I hate these new cell phones, I can’t ever figure out how they work. Is there another number where I can reach him?”

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