Only for Us (9 page)

Cally seems to be taking me in stride, too. We have a connection that makes me believe I’ll be a million times the dad Pops was to me. As each hour ticked by today, the kid grew more comfortable hanging on me, which made me fall that much more in love with her.

And her mama. Emma flat-out kills at this mom thing. She really does an amazing job—wiping Cally’s face, wiping her tears, laughing at a joke that no one else seems to understand, and communicating fluently in two-year-old speak. She rolls on the ground with Cally and lets her ride her like a horse. The entire time, Emma smiles, as though she hasn’t been struggling to make Cally’s life perfect while giving up her own.

“Hey, you.” Emma pads in wearing a loose T-shirt and pajama pants that swallow her up. Her face is scrubbed shiny clean, and that wild blond hair of hers is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head. Nothing is trying too hard, and everything about her is gorgeous. She steals my breath when she's not even trying.

“Cally asleep?”

She nods. Then her gaze lands on the notebook I decided against giving her today. It’s still wrapped, though the paper is starting to show wear on the edges. “I get to open it yet?”

My gut jumps. I don’t know why. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. But still, I’m anxious. “If you want. Not a big deal either way.”

She giggles and grabs it then jumps on the couch, snuggling into me before I can convince her it's just a silly gift. But it’s not, so even as Emma rips the paper to shreds, I bite my lip and wait for her reaction.

Her eyebrows pull up. “You got me a used notebook?”

I chuckle. “Something like that.”

“Should I open it?” Her fingers trail over the metal spiral binding.

A long sigh slips through my lips. “No idea.”

After holding my gaze, she stares at the notebook then carefully pulls back the cover and leafs through the pages. Not every page is dedicated to an explanation of enlisting. There are rambling notes from Trig and World History, plus some random notes that have nothing to do with right now. I thought about tearing those pages out but decided it would ruin the authenticity of the whole thing. I want her to experience remembering just as I did.

And it’s working. Her face softens, and her eyes are laser focused. Her head tilts as she slips back to high school—where we danced around what we felt and where I paid attention to every girl but the one I wanted while she thought the crackling air around us was one-sided. I can almost taste the nervousness of crossing the line, of telling her I was done ignoring us.

Nostalgia hangs over us both as she pages through the notebook.

“I hated Mrs. Rough’s World History,” she mumbles.

I nod. Emma senses something, probably reacting to my anticipation, and her fingers fidget.

“She wanted me to sit still in class and take notes like this.” Her fingers tap on the page. “But I had too much energy to be contained like that. Unlike you, Mr. Perfect Notes Guy.”

“Ha. I think I was trying to cover up for something worse at home.”

Her face falls. “Wish I’d known more than I did. Or earlier.”

“Not a big deal.”

She shrugs, blowing off my downplaying of Pops’s tendency to beat the crap out of me. I don’t want her guilt right now. “Can’t corral the creative type with lessons about random medieval battles. Right? You needed to… be dancing or something.”

A brief panic crosses her face.

“What?” I’m failing to get her to focus on the notebook.

“Nothing.” She shifts before whispering, “What if you came back and hated me?”

“Not possible.”

“What if you came back, and I disappointed you?”

“You couldn’t.”

“But
what if
I did?”

The earnest pleading in her eyes levels me. “Then I’d hate
myself
for being that way, and I’d deal with it.” I scoot closer to her and nod toward the notebook. “Keep going.”

Her wary eyes relax, and after a long glance, she continues flipping the pages.

There.
Her eyebrows furrow as she realizes the notes are to her and what they’re about. Then her eyes go wet and shiny. I can almost recite verbatim my many attempts to explain that I’d enlisted, that I didn’t want to go, that I’d signed a contract with zero loopholes. Her heavy tear drips onto a page, and her finger traces the side of the loose-leaf notebook.

“Grayson…” She turns page after page, reading my attempt after miserable attempt, giving me nothing now except for an occasional sniffle. But other than that, she’s completely silent and lost in her thoughts.

There’s a knot in my throat that won’t go away. Maybe this wasn’t the right birthday present. Maybe—

“You tried to tell me. That night. And this…”

“I wasn’t…” Crushing pain in my chest chokes me. “Strong enough to risk losing you.”

She closes the notebook and holds it to her chest. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose red at the tip.

“Maybe this wasn’t a great idea for a present.”

Another tear slips down her cheek. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s making you cry. Damn sure there’s a rule about making your girl tear up on her birthday.”

“It’s helping me understand. And I’m pretty sure the no-cry rule has exceptions.”

“Not likely.”

“This”—she hugs the notebook—“makes me feel love down to the very threads of my existence.” She burrows closer to me on the couch. “I choose you, Gray, like you’ve come home to me. Like I chose you then and want us now. What tore us apart had to have happened for whatever reason, and now I’m in your arms forever.”

Hugging her to me, I’m not sure we can ever get close enough. “I feel like I have it all.”

“Me too.”

“What do you think life will hand us next?”

“You should move in here.” There’s a casual certainty in her voice.

An unnerving calmness runs deep. “Move in here?”

“Fast… but maybe…” She smiles. “You’re good with that?”

“Hell yeah, I’m good with that.” We’re hopping over major relationship steps, but it feels right, almost easy. “First, I told you about that job interview?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to be up-front with you. The interview was good, but it gave way to a job…
test
, for lack of a better word. The folks I’d work with, it’s not a desk job, and I can’t talk about much.”

She rests her chin on my chest. “A job you can’t talk about?”

“Yeah.”

“Like you need a clearance?”

“It’s more hands-on than that.”

Concern scrunches her forehead. “Is it dangerous?”

I press my lips together, my eyes narrowing, as I try to word what I think might be a truthful answer in my head. “They haven’t exactly told me what the job entails. But, who they are—”

“What is it? Like, a security firm?”

“Yeah. They’ve helped me out since I was discharged from Walter Reed.”

“Is that where your truck came from? It doesn’t look like you drove it off a showroom lot.”

I have to laugh at that. The big, blacked-out, chromed-out fuel guzzler doesn’t look very standard. “Yes. It belongs to Titan.”

She gnaws on her lip. “So, you’d be in danger?”

“Maybe.”

“Like, risk your life every day type danger or… I don’t know, something less scary-sounding?”

“If it’s what I think it is, there’d be risks.”

“You’re going to come home from war and just to jump into a job like that?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

She turns her face away and burrows into my arm. “Is it what you want to do, Gray?”

I hold onto her, praying this isn’t a deal breaker. I want to provide for her, and working for Titan would do that—very, very well. I miss the camaraderie of a military team, the brotherhood I can’t explain and yet still crave. “This is the only thing I know how to do well.”

She lies against me quietly as time drifts by. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“There’s probably travel.”

“How much?” she asks.

“Honestly, I have no idea. And most likely, you wouldn’t know where I was going.”

Humming against my chest, she sounds as if she’s considering the idea. “But you want this?”

“Better than bartending at Seven’s or—”

“I hate that place.” She studies my face. “But seriously, after everything that you dealt with…
over there,
you want whatever this job is?”

“Good question.” My hands smooth over her back. “I have some baggage to deal with.”

“Over your team?”

My
dead
team. “Yeah.”

“Think you can manage it?”

All of the therapy, the brochures, the stupid pieces of paper where some therapist asked me to circle my emotions that day… there weren’t enough options on the page for me even to begin. But in this little house, with my two girls nearby, I know I can face my demons. “I think I can manage it.”

“Then I can, too.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Grayson

Boys’ night out. Job-interview night. I look as if I totally fit in with this group of guys, but it’s all for show, and I couldn’t feel more out of place than in this bachelor party group. The guys are fine—they’re all part of Titan’s Delta team and know each other really well. They seem like the kind of guys I’d chill with, throw back a couple beers, and talk about whatever game is on the tube. But since I’ve been back, readjusting hasn’t been easy, and running with this team makes me miss
my
team.

My chest has been tight all day. I left Emma’s this morning after breakfast with her and Cally. But the tingle of anticipation has had me pulling at my collar, taking deeper breaths than are needed. Seriously. This isn’t something I need to sweat. We’re a bunch of guys going to a titty bar, albeit apparently a high-class one, and I’m just gonna sit back and zone out.

I didn’t get into details with Emma. Maybe I should have. Hell, I’m not trying to fuck up already. But it’s a job. I’m not headed here to have some stripper grind on my shit.

I hate strippers. They remind me of Pops. His taste in women after my mom died was skank. Cheap vanilla perfume and clear, plastic-heeled shoes. I
hate
this, and we’re not even inside yet. Hell, I’m more likely to have a PTSD meltdown from walking around in Pops’s slutty world than hanging with a group of men similar to my dead teammates.

Fuck me. I need to take a breath
.

“Doing okay, bro?”

I nod at the guy named Ryder. He’s Aussie. Says he’s a sniper. Acts like it too—cocky dude. I chuckle good-humoredly. The other guys are a fun time, too. Brock, Titan team leader for Delta, is here. There’s a guy named Trace who looks too young to have a gold band wrapped around his left finger. Then again, I’m too young to have a woman and a daughter waiting at home for me.

Home
.

God, I haven’t had one of those in… ever.

I make conversation with a guy named Colin about whether the other dude Javier is getting any pussy tonight. With his face busted up the way it is and the angry scowl every time he looks toward the front door, my vote is no. But I’m the only one voting that way.

The guy to my right, Luke, laughs, shaking his head. “Between the accent, the tats, and the street fighting, Javier found the winning combination for panty dropping.”

Right. We cross the parking lot of Emerald’s Gentleman’s Club. I doubt too much effort is needed for the panty dropping to start.

I take a breath and focus. This is supposed to be fun and games, but it’s also a job interview of some kind. Plus, this place isn’t far from where I grew up, and Cally and Emma live too close to
anywhere
suspected of selling women.
Sex-trade fuckers.
I stifle a growl as a hand claps down on my back. It ricochets, and a dull stab of pain hits where my weeks-old wound is still healing.

“Ready?” Brock acts as if we’re boys, and I suppose he’s reading the vibes rolling off me that
aren’t
very bachelor-party friendly.

“I’m good.” We bump fists right before the blacked-out door opens, and a heavy bass thunders from inside.

Into the belly of the beast we go. I can almost taste the cheap perfume and the itch of glitter. Our goals are simple: size up the staff. Connect them later to any known traffickers. If there’s a lead, follow it for information. If there’s a chance to build a relationship, milk it. Easy enough.

En masse, we move through the high-roller crowd. It’s not as skanked up as I would’ve guessed, but I still don’t like it. There’s a general shift as we make our way through. We’re big, muscled up, the kind of group that takes no shit. I can feel the eyes on us: strippers sizing up our wallets and security assessing our risk factor. Everyone else just readies to watch a show.

Colin is the groom-to-be, mostly because there were rumblings Brock wouldn’t take off his wedding band, that Ryder and Luke would never be able to act off-the-market, and Javier’s a no-go because he wants to be here as much as I do. Process of elimination—Colin’s our man. We’re quickly ushered into a VIP section where a brunette nearly drools over our team as she takes drink orders.