Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (12 page)

Bobby
frowns. He forgot he told him about the dream once. He has seen the
place many times, but this is the first time he's experienced
anything outside the sleeping world.

When
he glances back to his mate, who is chuckling to himself, the strange
sense comes over him again. He glances around, but cannot find the
guy with the red hood anywhere. Yet, he now understands what he is
feeling—someone is watching him.

That's
ridiculous. Who wants to watch me? It's not like I'm interesting.

“
Well,
I once had a dream about you saving the world. You were with these
weird people I've never seen. I think Gunner was there too.”

Bobby
cannot take the pressure upon him, and he motions for Danny to set
his feet into motion. A second later, Danny is at his side. As he
breaks into a quick stroll, the sun's rays on the side of his face
cast no warmth.

Danny
fails to tan in the summer, but he burns well. Bobby can smell the
sunscreen mixing with the sweat on his face. Once, Danny's mum forgot
to put sunscreen on him while they were young boys playing with
Danny's old car collection outside in the mud. Bobby wore an old cap
of Benji's, but Danny had no protection and burnt badly. The day
after, he was the colour of a strawberry. He was peeling for almost
two weeks and couldn't lean on his neck, or arms.

“
I
didn't have a cape on, did I?”

“
No,
but there was this bright light coming from your eyes.”

“
A
light coming from my eyes
?”

“
Yeah,
I
think
you had goggles on.”

Goggles?

Bobby's
thoughts drift back to the object he dropped on the beach when the
creature beheaded him.

“
L
ike
the glasses in science class.”

I
thought the same thing.

“
But
they were glowing in the darkness. They were all I could see before I
woke. Weird, huh?”

Bobby
swallows hard and submits a weak nod.

“
Anyway,
hero, are you coming back to mine? We can have a game on
Fall
of Hope
?
I've got the new one.” Danny nudges his shoulder in a playful
manner.

“
Aren't
you supposed to be looking for a job?”

Danny
laughs hard at that and shrugs. “I'll start tomorrow. Today, I
will be a slayer of the undead.”

“
Is
your mum not in?”

“
Nah,
she's at work until six.”

Bobby
grins. “Well, there's no point in me coming round if there's
nothing decent to look at.”

It
is lucky he finds bushes at his side to break his fall when Danny
pushes him, but too bad there are hundreds of thorns that pierce his
palms.

CHAPTER FIVE

The
floorboards creak beneath the burgundy and black diamond rug. The
clumps of mud he trailed through earlier from his magnum stealths are
now dry, but the mess hardly matters with all the debris left by his
partner.

This
was supposed to be his break. Instead, he has to watch over the
curled up figure in the bed as though he is a child. The guy has
bunches of blanket scrunched within his fists as though he is
fighting an enemy.

Nothing
but baby-sitting duties again.

“
Oi,
wake up.” Coban Hayes shakes the other man at the shoulder
harsher than he intends, but part of him cannot help smiling.

It's
time you felt a little of my suffering.

In
the space of staring at him and smelling the whiskey, he recalls how
bad things got last night.

With
a harsh sigh, he shakes him again. “Come on. Wake up, man.”

When
he doesn't stir with the disturbance, Coban slaps him across his
stubble covered cheek, then again harder.

The
heavy eyelashes flutter before the man breaks into a series of
coughs. He clenches his fist in front of his face, then peels himself
away from whatever foe the blanket was within sleep.

Coban
moves back to avoid the outburst with a grimace settling across his
face as he glares down.

At
0900 hours, he came back from the walk around the area and sat in the
armchair. He was staring at the lazy lump and listening to the snores
and pitiful whimpers escaping his cracked lips for three hours after.
Then, he paced around the room for a further hour, thinking how best
to word what needs saying as soon as he wakes.

He
has put up with this behaviour for months—five months and two
days to be exact. Five months and two days since Shield City—the
place they grew up in—fell. It was a shock, but it's now time
to move on.

He
often wonders what he would do if it were him with the family. All he
knows is what his mate is doing is trampling all over their memory.
Elise sure wouldn't forgive him this behaviour.

For
five months (and two days) they have done nothing but try to track
down the people responsible for the outbreak. So far, they have
turned up nothing. All leads turn to dead ends with nowhere else to
turn. Now, they are stuck in the city of Cleone Bréon with
only the chain around his mate's neck as a reminder of what they've
lost. With only their photographs inside the locket, his mate has
given himself the new mission of drinking himself into a coma. So
far, he's doing a
damn
good job at succeeding.

Once
the coughs become raspy groans, he pushes himself into a sitting
position and flickers his puffy eyelids open. As the covers fall
away, he uncovers the pink scars.

They
won't forget the night Shield City collapsed in a hurry; he has his
own scars to remind him every time he undresses. The only difference
is his mate's run deeper, especially with what they did to his
daughter, Alanna.

“
Coban?”

“
I'm
here, man.”

It
isn't like his mate to call him by his birth name. He never does
unless it's a serious matter, or he's feeling guilty for something.
And he has a lot to feel guilty about this morning, like the black
eye and swollen lip he saw in the mirror earlier.

They've
had fights before, especially as kids. They've fought over toys, work
and even Elise when they first met her. That's what boys do, but last
night wasn't the same.

It
wasn't anywhere close with what he said.

Coban
is happy to take some responsibility for the outcome, but things
haven't been as they were for a long time.

Him
getting wasted all the time doesn't help.

“
What
. . .” Rubbing at his head, he closes his eyes and scrunches
his lips into a thin line of desperation.

Coban
resents him then for not remembering what he can and, for a moment,
he considers punching through his hands. If it wasn't for the
impatience of having to wait longer within these four walls, he
would. And, God help him, he isn't sure if he could stop if he
started.

Coban
keeps quiet; he isn't willing to help his mate remember what he can
so clearly. He isn't getting out of apologising, no matter how
difficult it is to watch.

No
way.

“
What
I did,” he grumbles as he removes his hands to stare at the
callous palms. “Last night . . . I shouldn't have done that.
Forgive me?”

Bowing
his head, Coban slips back into the chair next to the window. He
slumps on the burgundy cushion and drums his fingers on the wooden
arms. He dare not look back over at the man. Looking at him—his
once strong, rebellious, take no shit from anyone mate—in this
pitiful state disgusts him.

It
isn't right.

And,
in all honesty, he is close to telling him to forget it because
there's no real harm done. If he does, everything will be okay again.

“
I
dropped everything last night to come and help you. That girl was the
first girl I've been with since Jenna left me. And I dropped her for
this.” Coban scowls and motions toward his mate. “Self-pity,
abuse and a broken face. Thanks a lot.”

“
I'm
sorry. I'm done with this shit this time, I promise.”

His
mate rummages inside the cheap, wooden side table, then reaches for
the clothes on the floor. Snagging his jeans, he pulls them to the
bed and goes through the pockets, but only finds disappointment.

“
Looking
for these?”

He
looks at his smokes and his eyebrows furrow. Once Coban tosses the
pack into his lap, he reaches for the candle holder. Without care, he
flips the burgundy wax free and throws it to the ground.

“
You'll
be getting a slap on the wrist if they catch you doing that in here,”
he says with indifference.

Tipping
the packet upside down, his mate fiddles the lighter and a cigarette
free. He considers Coban's words before putting the orange butt
between his lips and lighting.

The
grey smudges beneath his eyes and the harsh lines indented into his
forehead make him look much older than his thirty-two years. They sit
solemn upon his skin as a testament to the suffering he has endured.

“
Forrest,
look—”

“
Don't
say it,” he spits. It doesn't look as though he intended the
words to sound harsh, so Coban lets it go.

He
flicks the ash into the holder before rolling the cigarette around
the outside, leaving ash marks on the surface.

“
This
will not happen again. I promised, didn't I?” Forrest attempts
to smile, but it's bitter, so he retracts it.

“
You
said that last time and the time before,” Coban reminds him. “I
can put up with most things, but this isn't healthy. You're a
complete mess and, to be honest, I'm sick of having to see you this
way. My face isn't best pleased either.”

Forrest
withdraws his eyes from the bruising and swelling there. Coban is in
no rush to settle that look of embarrassment and guilt, but it hurts
his heart to see.

Stubbing
the cigarette out half smoked, Forrest pulls the cover away. He
reveals more lightened marks beneath the hair across his chest and
stomach. His face crumples in disgust as he takes a strong inhale of
last night's drinking and sweat.

Lining
his denim jeans up, he slips his bare feet inside. When he stands, he
pulls them below his waist and tightens the belt. His fingernails dig
through skin as he rides the wave of dizziness before he can peel the
white t-shirt from the carpet.

From
the side table, he snatches the brown drop-belt thigh sheath he wore
on every mission. He still keeps his combat knife with the fine blade
tucked safety inside the leather.

Some
things never change.