Chapter 31
Team Specter squad leader Gavin Aberlour was out on the street for good.
There were no balloons, no party, no welcome wagon, or congratulatory banner as he made his way back to his apartment several hours later.
He wasn’t sad. Not exactly. It had always been a shitty place.
It was one of the oldest buildings on base.
The lodging complex had been built before they’d decided houses were a better bet for those who didn’t want to live in the barracks.
The maintenance crew did nothing to the building beyond giving it a fresh coat of paint every other year and making sure it had functional plumbing.
Yet, it was Aberlour’s. He’d hated it. Bitched about the damp smell and the shitty appliances, but through it all, it had been his.
Now this too would have to be given up.
He wasn’t sad about losing the apartment, but it was a good excuse for getting shitfaced. He wasn’t sure if he even needed an excuse, not when life in general had gone south so fucking fast and so fucking spectacularly.
“To all our dreams,” he toasted himself while standing in front of his bathroom mirror.
He hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lights, since the streetlight outside fully illuminated the sea-foam green backsplash, and the greying tile well enough.
As he lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips, he caught the shadows of four men behind him.
Their silhouettes were dark against the white door.
He didn’t turn to make sure there was nothing there. He just finished the fucking bottle. Sadly, it was just a few sips. Which meant he had to grab his keys and head for the nearest bar. It was a moral imperative.
“I’m still confused,” the sergeant whispered, stealing glances at Aberlour.
Oh, the fucking irony of it all. Aberlour was locked up in the same goddamned cell that still had the same fucking nasty smells, and bizarrely, there was the same old drunk sleeping off his hangover in the corner.
It was like being sent back in time.
“He told the bartender to call the cops,” the officer said, sounding sheepish. “When I got there, he confessed to wanting to drive drunk. He told me if I didn’t arrest him, he’d probably get behind the wheel.”
The two cops bowed their heads closer, whispering and gesturing, occasionally glancing over at Aberlour.
Aberlour didn’t have superhuman hearing. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could tell they were just mostly confused anyway.
To be fair, he was also drunk, so perhaps his judgement wasn’t the best.
He was sitting on the floor, not caring that it was probably still sticky with remnants of piss and puke, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head lolling against the cinderblock wall.
He was drunk. Well past the point of making good choices, and two seconds away from fucking up his life even further. He was a danger to everyone, including himself, which is exactly why he’d turned himself in.
“Son?” Aberlour looked up. The sergeant had a large mustache that twitched when he spoke. He looked uneasy, almost awkward.
“Your emergency contact isn’t picking up.”
Aberlour nodded, because of course he wasn’t.
He imagined the voicemail message they’d get instead. Marcus’ voice, deep and warm, politely asking the caller to try back at a later time, or leave a message he wouldn’t listen to.
“Did you leave a message?” Aberlour asked with a laugh.
“Yes,” the sergeant replied.
Abe did his best not to scoff. Cops usually didn’t like being mocked.
There was a long pause. He looked at Aberlour expectantly, like Aberlour might know who else to call.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just sleep it off right here.”
With a hesitant nod, the sergeant shrugged and walked away.
The floor was cold, the wall was rough. He shut his eyes and nodded off slowly. It wasn’t the best sleep of his life, but he thought it might not have been the worst either. Morning arrived and there was a cop calling his name, dragging him out of his drunken stupor.
“Aberlour,” the officer said.
He stretched his neck and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before he turned to look at him. He still felt drunk, which was odd considering sleep should have helped him return to sobriety.
“Yup,” he said, struggling to his feet.
“Your ride is here.”
It couldn’t be.
Aberlour shoved himself forward, grabbing the bars like the floor might give out.
Marcus was dead. Aberlour had seen it. His head, his blood. He’d seen it all. It couldn’t be. His ride couldn’t be—
“You look like shit,” Oliver declared.
It was rude, but it wasn’t a lie.
Oliver looked good. Well dressed. Put together.
He was wearing jeans and a nice burgundy sweater that outlined a muscular chest and wide shoulders.
His dirty blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, long as always.
His big blue eyes were the same as ever.
Only his smile was missing. Instead, he was scowling in annoyance.
Aberlour didn’t really have the words to reply to Oli’s insult. He’d never expected Oli to show up. They hadn’t spoken in months. Not since they’d parted ways at the funeral, and Oliver had been swept away by his family and girlfriend, leaving Aberlour behind for good.
“You’re free to go,” the officer said, holding the cell door open for Aberlour. For a second, he toyed with the idea of ripping the door from the man’s hands and slamming it shut in Oliver’s face. He didn’t. It would be futile. Oliver had the key. He’d always had the key to Aberlour.
Instead, he dragged his sorry ass out of the cell, each step a little heavier than the last. He didn’t stop for a sermon.
He nodded towards the officer and started walking.
One foot in front of the other. Slowly, like a man walking to the gallows, until he stepped out into the cold evening and filled his lungs with fresh air.
They didn’t talk, which was really weird. Oliver had always been a talker. Always the kind of guy to fill silences. Marcus had been the same. Carlos and JD, too. Ghost and Abe had been the only ones who’d relished silence. They’d liked to have space and time to think.
He didn’t like it quite as much now.
Oliver had never enjoyed driving. That was his usual stance.
If he could avoid driving, he usually did.
He didn’t mind being driven, but sitting behind the wheel always made him feel anxious.
Aberlour recalled that Oliver used to own an old Buick, which had been a gift from his grandfather.
But that ugly thing was nowhere in sight now.
The car that was parked in the visitor lot was a shiny black Mercedes G Class. A rich man’s status symbol.
Aberlour bit back the sarcastic remark he was dying to make.
He sat in the beige leather seat. He dropped both hands in his lap, aware that he probably smelled of beer and puke, suddenly worried he’d ruin the leather.
“It gets really good mileage, and has four-wheel drive,” Oli said, out of the blue.
“Cool,” Aberlour replied, feeling more out of place in the Mercedes than he had in the prison cell.
“I’m glad you called.”
“I didn’t,” Aberlour stated flatly.
“Well, you gave them my number,” Oliver replied, like he was arguing with a stupid child.
“I didn’t,” Aberlour repeated, turning to stare at Oli.
Oli clenched his jaw and started the car.
“At least you didn’t drive drunk,” Oli said, his voice drowning out some late-night radio host talking about love.
Aberlour thought the talk show host might be mocking him.
Once upon a time, Aberlour would have promised that he’d never drink and drive. That regardless of the circumstances, he’d never be so reckless with the lives of others.
He couldn’t promise that anymore.
There was a part of him that had given some consideration to doing just that.
Thought about driving drunk and maybe wrapping his car around a pole.
Maybe he’d hit someone along the way. A car.
With children in it. A family coming back from the movies, or something.
It would be horrible. He’d live, they’d die.
It would be horrible.
But at least then, he’d finally be officially branded the monster he already knew he was. At least then, others would impose the full weight of his guilt on him instead of seeing a martyr and a survivor.
Oliver didn’t ask where he should drive Aberlour, he simply drove. It was better that way. Aberlour wasn’t sure what he’d have said. Home wouldn’t have been the right answer. Not anymore.
“My mother got me a job with a friend of hers,” Oliver said, a few moments later, incapable of remaining silent.
Aberlour felt some measure of relief, knowing that at least some things never changed. He wondered what Oli was so afraid of that he couldn’t be alone with his own thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time.
“Finance?” Aberlour asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“Yeah,” Oliver said, with a nod.
“How’s wearing a tie every day?” Abe asked, daring to glance at Oli’s profile.
As he turned, he had a weird flashback, expecting to see Marcus sitting here, driving Aberlour home, windows foggy with rain. He blinked away the memory.
“It’s no worse than shining my boots,” he said with a shrug.
“Get injured in the field much?” Aberlour asked with a quick laugh.
“Got a pretty bad case of calculator finger last month,” Oliver remarked, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hear those are a real bitch. You should watch out for desk chair ass strains, too, because they’re rampant.”
Oliver snorted and cast a smile in Aberlour’s direction.
Aberlour couldn’t help but smile back.
“I could get you in, if you’d like,” Oliver offered, something akin to pity in his eyes.
And then the connection was broken. Whatever spell Aberlour had fallen under for a few seconds flew right out the window, and the newer, diminished, stripped down version of Gavin Aberlour appeared. The one that didn’t know who or what he was living for anymore.
With a fierce scowl, he turned away and looked out his window in total silence.
Anger washed over him, suddenly and violently. It grabbed him by the heels and dragged him under, making him feel as if he was suffocating.
He didn’t speak a word of it to Oli.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Oliver muttered to himself. “Maybe we can revisit the idea when your discharge is finalised.” Oliver sounded hopeful.
Aberlour didn’t comment that it already was. He couldn’t find the strength to say the words, so he just grunted.
“Here you are,” Oli announced, pulling up to the curb and stopping the car.
Aberlour wasn’t surprised to see that they’d arrived at his apartment complex. The front porch light was busted, and no one had bothered to clean the windows or porch since it had been built. It looked like a haunted house in progress. A bit like Aberlour himself.
There was no red door. The apartment complex sat midway down the block, nowhere near the end of it.
It didn’t feel like home, but it was.
“I can pick you up tomorrow, drive you to your car, if you’d like,” Oliver offered as Aberlour put his hand on the handle.
“I’ll just catch a cab,” he replied.
He pulled the door open but stilled when Oli’s hand settled on his forearm.
“You look like shit,” he said for the second time.
“Then look away.”
“What’s going on? What’s happening right now?” Oliver asked, speaking quickly, like Aberlour might step out of the car and leave forever.
He just might.
“Nothing’s happening. I didn’t ask them to call. I don’t fucking know how you got the call tonight, Oliver. Go home,” Aberlour said, intent on pushing him away and getting out of the car.
“I’m your emergency contact,” he answered, as though it was obvious.
Aberlour turned to stare at him, eyes narrowed at the man he’d once called his best friend.
“Not anymore. Got it changed before we shipped out. It’s Marcus—was Marcus,” he corrected himself quickly, struggling to keep his voice steady.
Aberlour wasn’t sure what world Oliver Darling was living in, but it was like all of the lights in his brain turned on at the same time.
Oliver gasped and fell back against the driver’s door, his head hitting the window hard enough that Aberlour wondered for a second if he’d cracked the glass.
“The fuck?”
Aberlour sighed heavily and settled back into the passenger seat. He shut the door, the cold air giving him chills. At least he pretended it was the air.
“What exactly did you think would happen?” Abe whispered harshly. “Did you think we’d just go back to normal?”
A truce. That’s what Oliver had thought.
At the funeral, Aberlour had called a silent truce and let Oliver lean on him for support.
He’d been too tired, too hollow to hold onto any of his anger.
At the time, they’d been adrift, and Aberlour had begrudgingly shared a life raft with him for a couple of hours.
No more. Truce over. The intense anger and crippling grief had not lessened. It had intensified in a way he could barely stand.
Aberlour shut his eyes for a second. The assault was instant. Behind one eyelid, a ring box was at the bottom of Oli’s duffle. Behind the other, four heads were rolling on a dusty concrete floor.
“We’re still friends—brothers,” Oliver said, uncertainty growing with each word. “We’re all that’s left—we have to—” he shook himself, sitting up, reaching out but Abe wouldn’t let him touch him. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.
“Brothers don’t fuck each other!” Aberlour roared.
Oliver’s mouth fell open and he shook his head.
“We’re still friends. No matter what. We’re Darling and Dumber, we’ll always be—”
“There’s no always in this picture, Oli. You fucked this up. I got our guys killed, but you ruined this. You! Go live your six-figure life, Oliver. I’ll drink to the ghost of you.” He got out of the car and slammed the car door behind him.
“What’s one more fucking ghost,” he lied to himself as he bounded up the steps, two at a time, his head thumping with an impending hangover.