Pieces of Broken Time (7 page)

Feeling a bit nervous, she chewed on her bottom lip while waiting for Colonel Norwalk’s response. He knew how close the guys had all been, so there was always a chance.

“You know how Blake cherishes his privacy after what happe—”

“What happened to him?” Her heart thrummed against her ribs as she tried to wait out the silence on the other end of the line. Her conversation with Blake the day before came into focus. He’d mentioned having a bad day.

“I’m sorry, but it’s none of my business. As I said, I’m not at liberty to divulge Army matters to anyone, but I’ll give you his address. Hold on, let me get it for you.”

Jennifer sighed and rummaged in her drawer for a pen and paper.

A click sounded just before the colonel came back on the line. “Here . . . looks like he moved when he returned to the States. You ready?”

As Captain Norwalk recited the address, Jennifer’s hand began to tremble. She wrote down everything, feeling as if someone had doused her with cold water.

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded brittle even to her own ears.

“You’re welcome. Call me anytime you need anything, child.”

“I will.” She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the newfound information.

He’s here.

Questions began running through her mind. The sooner she got some answers the better off she would be, with or without Blake’s friendship.

“If you ever get in touch with my boy, tell him I want him back. Desk job isn’t so bad. Tell him to reconsider.” The man’s tone was laden with remorse.

“I’ll make sure your message is delivered as soon as possible.”

And in person.

They hung up soon after, and she sat at her desk, pondering her next move.

Chapter 5

Blake drove straight to the rehab center from Jennifer’s house. With a huff of disgust at his carelessness, he pounded the steering wheel.

She could’ve seen him that close to her house. Next time, he needed to be more careful.

He attached the leash to Drew’s collar and walked to the front entrance of the building where Drew was supposed to wait for him to complete another session of painful exercises to loosen up his constricted muscles.

Given that he’d been plagued with anxiety attacks, the doctor had proclaimed him a good candidate for a companion dog. Voilà, Drew was promoted to elite status and could now enter any establishment with him. If he’d had a choice, Blake would have skipped the therapy session altogether, but the noticeable change in his range of motion might well mean he had put off therapy too long this time.

Sam Sweeney met him at the door, undoubtedly evaluating his mood as they made their way to a private therapy room.

Blake looked around, taking inventory of the few people in the room. Early morning sessions were far better than late ones, since he didn’t particularly cherish the curious stares or the pitying glances that came his way. Although Sam hadn’t asked too many questions, Blake was sure the therapist understood his reluctance to attend the sessions. Sam had served in the military, too, and as an ex-marine, there was no question he’d been exposed to enough injuries to give him a lifetime of sleepless nights and recurring nightmares. He would know how Blake felt.

“Good morning, man. Glad you showed up today.” Sam gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Hello there, Drew.” He patted the furry head as Drew passed.

“Thanks.” Blake sat down with a grunt.

Just as he had been trained to do, Drew settled in close to him.

Sam didn’t waste time. “So . . . tell me how you feel today.”

Why is small talk so awkward?

Blake adjusted his legs in front of him.

Sam chortled.

“Um, let’s see . . . I’m stiff and can’t move in this damn body. I ache everywhere, and I’m bored to death. And how are you today?” Blake smirked and cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m good. Could be better, could be worse.”

Same damn answer every time he saw the guy.

Blake couldn’t help but grin, finding it difficult to dislike Sam. As much as he’d tried to keep his distance from the large man in his late forties with a likeable personality, quick wit, and admirable patience, the two men had hit it off from day one. They spoke the same language and had seen the worst in their stints in the military. Blake liked the guy, but not enough to show up like he should. He abhorred the monster he’d turned into, and being reminded of it every day was too much to bear.

“Good. Now, can we skip the bullshit and get this session started?”

Sam chuckled but narrowed his green eyes as he caught Blake flinching. “We’ll start with your hand and arm this morning.”

Blake knew the drill by heart. He offered his healing hand, and Sam took a tube of moisturizer to the affected areas. Blake closed his eyes as Sam began massaging. The soothing sensation of the cream seeped through his cracked skin and provided a cool relief to the dryness.

Conscientious massage could be effective in limited areas of scarring. The convenience of having a family member performing the massage would eliminate unnecessary visits. In Blake’s situation, he had to do the massaging himself. Between limited mobility and refusal to stay consistent, he hadn’t had much luck in that particular area. He had refused to get his parents involved, and Katrina was barely more than a distant memory these days. Ideally, the technique should have been performed several times each day. 

“Are you wearing your compression vest?” Sam was quick to catch every reaction.

“I forgot,” Blake said, not even bothering to meet the other man’s gaze.

Sam snorted. “Sure . . . I told you already, compression garments must be worn twenty-four-seven until scarring decreases. It takes twelve to eighteen months after an injury before you can shed them. You’re not taking your well-being seriously.” Sam shook his head, appearing disappointed with Blake’s obvious lack of cooperation.

Blake had heard all the cautions, and as much as he wanted to disregard Sam’s claim, he realized the man was right. The trouble was his inability to look at his body in the mirror. There were too many changes and damage he couldn’t bear to see.

“I’ll start wearing the damn vest when I get home.”

“Tell me, what do you do in your spare time?” Sam acted as if he was oblivious to Blake’s need for silence.

Blake ground his teeth and tried to choose his words carefully. “Do I have to remind you that I don’t work anymore? Spare time is all I’ve got. I watch sitcoms, soaps, and a lot of those stupid infomercials, if that’s what you want to know.” He gave Sam a clear
fuck off
warning glare, but the older guy seemed intent on getting under his skin today.

“Well . . . that doesn’t sound like fun. Why don’t you meet me at The Cage after work today? The place is cool, dark, and no-nonsense. No one pays attention to anyone. Besides, they have a free mic night. Anyone can come on stage and perform. Nothing doing, just hang out with me.”

Blake’s biggest mistake had been mentioning once to Sam his disgust at being stared at and his passion for music. These days, the other man seemed hell-bent on making sure he performed his Mother Teresa duties by getting Blake out of the house and back into circulation.

“No, thanks.” Blake shook his head.

“You know better. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll let it go today, but I’m not going to stop asking. Don’t forget I know where you live, and I got your cell number, too.” Sam grinned and his eyes glittered.

“You can try annoying me, but it won’t work.” Blake seethed when he recognized the determination in Sam’s face, and he knew better than to argue. The man had been in the military for a long time. Persistence and patience came with the territory.

“Just saying.” Sam finished the hand massage and worked on the rest of Blake’s left arm.

Blake kept his eyes closed and his mouth shut while Sam worked on the rest of his limbs. It was the part of therapy that he detested the most. Looking at his body in the mirror was one thing, letting another person see his scars and what was left of his body was too much for him.

Sam remained quiet, whistling and humming while he worked.

After their session, Blake felt a remarkable difference in his range of motion, although he refused to admit to it. Stubborn was his middle name, after all, and anger had taken up permanent residence in his psyche.

Drew jumped up the minute Blake set out to leave.

The dog had been a puppy when Blake had begun serving in the military. Now at seven years old, Drew still had spring in his step despite the noticeable swelling on his front legs—the onset of arthritis, according to his veterinarian.

Wagging his tail, Drew licked Blake’s hand as soon as he took the leash.

“Hey, boy, ready to go?” Blake murmured, giving his pal a thorough rubdown on his back and neck.

The minute they walked out of the air-conditioned building, searing heat hit Blake full blast. Only ten in the morning, and the temperature tipped the nineties. They hustled to the Jeep where Blake began pulling the soft top back. The leather seat was way too hot to sit on. He fanned the material to help cool it down, giving it several more minutes before he could manage to bear sitting on the hot surface.

He drove to town and grabbed some food before heading home. His body began reacting to the blistering heat, making him a little lightheaded. It was a sure sign that he needed cooler temperatures right away.

What a joke.

The last place one would expect to find a burn victim was living in a sweltering town that boasted cacti, tumbleweeds, and mile after mile of barren land.

Once he reached home, he snagged his take-out burrito and a glass of iced tea, and settled into the lounger perfectly situated in the cool shade of his backyard, while Drew sprawled out in contentment by his feet. Blake shed his beanie but not his eye patch. Months hadn’t helped him get used to the empty eye socket, and he doubted he ever would be. In a few weeks, he would be meeting with an ocularist to get fitted with an artificial eye. He’d still be blind, but at least he wouldn’t have to garner stares because he looked like a misplaced pirate. Pretending to be normal was taxing, but if he ever had a sliver of desire to rejoin the rest of the world, he should at least
try
to fit in.

Not that I care.

With a sigh, he downed the remaining iced tea.

The doorbell rang.

Persistent bastard!

Blake padded past the living room and yanked the front open. “Can’t you take no for an answer? Shove your shit down your throat and scram!” Blake almost stumbled backward when he realized it wasn’t Sam’s face on the other side, but Jennifer’s.

God, she looks better every time.

Her smile faded and she gasped.

He couldn’t help wondering if it was due to his not-so-warm welcome or his appearance.

Two guesses, and the first don’t count.

“What are you doing here?” The moment the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back and crawl under the nearest rock.

“Blake?”

His shock finally dissipated and anger began to seep in. “I asked you what you’re doing here.” He’d never wanted her to feel pity for him.

“I—”

“Go home. There’s nothing for us to say to each other.” Blake had started to push the door closed when he saw her expression turn from wretched to livid in a matter of seconds.

Jennifer moved forward and wedged her foot against the door to stop him from closing it on her. “Trent was wrong about you. He kept telling me what a nice person you were, how helpful. Not only have you ignored me, ignored losing Trent, but you’re also rude.”

“I don’t care what I am. You’re not welcome here. Go home, Jennifer.”

His words must’ve struck a chord because Jennifer took a step back without saying another word and turned away, but not before he saw tears trickle down her cheeks.

I’m sor—no! No turning back. It has to be this way.

Blake slammed the door behind him and stormed back to the patio when he heard her car drive off. He plopped onto the patio chair with unrestrained anger.

How in the hell did she find me? She’s better off thinking I’m a prick.

With a grunt of self-reproach, he buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Trent. I can’t do it, buddy.”

Chapter 6

Blake lay on his bed tossing, turning, and staring into the darkness while replaying Jennifer’s unannounced visit. He cursed his inexcusable rudeness and felt remorse upon remembering her hurt expression. His actions were unforgivable, and he wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again.

Groaning, he reached for the bottle of sleeping pills on his nightstand. Tonight he needed the help. He crushed the pill with his teeth, turned on the lamp, picked up the
Playboy
from the floor, and started ruffling through the pages.

“ ‘What must a man do these days to get laid?’ Okay, not the article I should be reading right now.” He groaned and flipped past several bunnies gracing the pages in their cuddly pompom tails and adorable headpieces, and he was reminded of his vow of celibacy. He’d be a hypocrite to say missing that aspect in his life didn’t bother him, but with his injuries, his bum eye, and patches of shit over his entire left side . . .