Page 49 of Proof Of Life
If he could only see what his face looks like, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. It’s fucking hilarious. “Yeah,” I laugh, “she’s gonna cry over your leg, and my scars and my lost hearing. And then she’s going to nag us about not having jobs and your physical therapy. Then she’ll make us lunch, pat us on the back, and send us on our way for another six months.”
“Six months?! If I have to put up with her fucking tears, that should at least buy me a whole year.”
I lean against the door jamb, grinning, because I find him absolutely hilarious and absurd, and adorable. “So you’re going then?”
“You know what? You still owe me for making me join the Bitches with Stitches. You’re skating on thin ice. You better watch it.” He pushes past me, purposely throwing his weight into my shoulder, and yanks open his dresser drawer. “You’re asking a whole lot. Too much!”
Taking a seat on the bed behind him, I’ve got a spectacular view of his ass as he’s bent over the drawer. So firm and round. I’d like to–
“Are you checking out my ass?”
He’s standing there, holding a pair of jeans with a disbelieving expression on his face. “Maybe.”
“Well, quit. It’s fucking weird.” But he’s smiling, so I know he doesn’t mean it.
“Speaking of social engagements–”
“No,” he insists as he leans his back against the dresser to support his weight as he struggles to put the jeans on. “I’m not seeing anyone else. I’m not playing nicey-nice. No more. Your mother is the limit.” When I don’t elaborate, he gets antsy. “What?”
“Some of the guys from Bragg want to get together, catch up, like old times. They’ve been texting me.”
“Fuck no.” I admire his skills as he sits on the edge of the bed to put his boots on. Occupational therapy has taught him a lot, but also he’s getting the hang of it, figuring out how to achieve what he needs and solve his own problems. Like the team leader he is.
“West, it’s just a barbecue.”
“It’s not just a barbecue. It used to be a barbecue. The guys would come over, we’d hang out on the deck, grill, soak in the hot tub, go fishing. It’s not a barbecue anymore.”
I bend down to grab his other boot so he doesn’t have to. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a fucking interrogation. Rubbernecking on the freeway in rush hour traffic. They all want to come over and take a look at my leg, ask me a bunch of nosy-ass questions. No thanks.”
“We haven’t seen these guys in almost a year. They were our friends, West. Don’t you think they’re concerned about you?”
“They used to be my friends. I mean, it’s common not to keep in contact during deployment. But now that we’re home? Fuck, we’re retired. What do I have in common with these guys anymore? I live in a different world. They just don’t get it.”
He bends over to tie his boot, and then props his prosthetic in my lap, so I’ll tie it for him. I know it’s difficult for him to reach because that leg doesn’t bend. When he gets his new leg next week, he’ll be capable of doing so much more for himself.
“So the notion of brotherhood and dying for your brother, serving for your brother, that’s all well and good as long as you’re enlisted, but once you become a civilian, it’s out the window?”
“That’s a cheap shot.”
“But that’s what you’re saying.”
He blows out a frustrated breath. “What I’m saying is, because they used to be my friends, I don’t want their pity, and I don’t want to feel like a bug under a microscope. Nobody wants to feel that way, Reaper. Especially not from people who used to respect them.”
Placing my hand on what’s left of his knee, I look into his doubtful eyes. “Why don’t you just trust in me and leave everything to me? I know how you feel. Have I ever let you down?”
His throat slides, and he covers my hand with his. “Never once in all our years together.” The poignancy of the moment makes me pause, and I can feel my chest warming. I’m dying to kiss him again, like he kissed me last night. He blew my fucking mind with that kiss. I lean in, hoping he’ll meet me halfway, but instead, he removes my hand from his knee.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than a knitted pair of socks to make up for all this, just so you know. I’m keeping score.” And then he does meet me halfway, but it’s not the cock-hardening kiss I’m hoping for. Just a sweet touch of his lips on mine.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. It’s never going to be enough.
The heat and smoke coming off the grill smells like charred meat and it’s making my mouth water. I grab two beers out of the cooler and pop the tops off, handing one to West.
“Let’s have a toast while we wait for the guys to show.” He accepts it and taps it against my bottle. “Here’s to hoping this barbecue goes a lot smoother than the visit with my mother did.”
West scoffs, a sarcastic little fragment of a laugh. He's remembering the disastrous luncheon, where my mother definitely broke down in tears over his leg and his future, and then worked herself into a near panic attack over the state of my body and future. I can’t even tally how much I owe him for that, for sticking by my side, and treating my mother with kindness.