Chapter Eight
TREY
Four thirty a.m. and I'm already on edge.
My shoulder throbs from sleeping wrong on the floor again, but it's better than the couch where the nightmares come easier.
Something about the softness of the cushions makes me sleep harder, and then the memories flood back—carrying John's body from our Black Hawk that got shot down, watching him die in my arms as a rescue chopper came in, flying us over an endless sea to the nearest medic unit.
I wake with night sweats in the middle of the night, remembering the explosion that took half my hearing, losing John on that mission.
And then I lost Tommy within weeks. I'll never forget the look on my commander's face when he walked into my hospital room and told me what had happened to Tommy and Sarah.
I swore to him after John Parker died that I wasn't done. That I would do whatever surgery, whatever therapy I needed to do to get back out there.
The mission wasn't over, and John wasn't going to die without meaning—not on my watch.
It was a long shot, the doctors told me—that I'd be able to walk, let alone regain most of my hearing back, but the odds have been against me since being born into the family that I was.
I knew that I was made of something stronger than the X-rays or the CT scans or what doctors could prove on a clipboard.
But then my commander told me that he was issuing a medical discharge against my wishes, because my nine-year-old niece was now mine to care for.
She was an orphan, and she would either go to me or to the state.
My brother’s will and trust denied our parents' ability to fight for custody.
Luckily, they didn't know about the life insurance policy that my brother had for her.
A life insurance policy that I put every penny back into a trust for her.
They would have done anything they could to get their hands on that money.
That's the moment it all sunk in. Everything I lost. It only took three weeks for a lifetime of hardening myself up to realize that you can never prepare for the worst three weeks of your life. John, then Tommy, and next…my military career. Adeline became my new mission—my new purpose.
My phone pings with a text.
Kaenan: I just picked it up. On my way to your place.
The sound of tires on wet pavement draws my attention. He can’t be here yet.
Through the front window, I watch as Vivi pulls up in Isla's car. She steps out wearing black running tights and a fitted jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail. The sight of her here, at my house, in casual clothes … it does things to my control that I'm not proud of.
I open the door and step out into the cold February morning. "Good morning," I say.
She smiles as she walks up with two bags of groceries. “Morning.”
“Here, let me take those for you,” I offer, reaching out to take the bags that she’s clutching to keep anything from falling.
“Thank you. That would be great.”
I take the bags, and her face shows instant relief. The bags are heavier than they look. "Damn, this bag is heavy. What the hell do you buy at the grocery store? Dumbbells?"
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says, then follows me in, closes the door behind us, kicks off her shoes, and hangs Isla’s keys on the key ring by the door. The car she’s been driving since the board took her company car.
In the kitchen, I set the grocery bags on the island, unsure of her plans with any of this.
“Let me know what you paid for it. I’ll reimburse you for anything you spend.”
“It was no trouble. Just some things for breakfast that I promised Adeline.”
I turn back toward the grocery bag because all those curves of hers have me thinking about what I would like for breakfast…and the last thing either of us needs right now is for me to pull her up onto the island and show her what I'm capable of doing between her thighs.
I reach in and grab a bag of chocolate chips.
"What are these for?" I ask.
"I brought stuff for chocolate chip pancakes. But don't worry, I'm making her eggs and bacon too. I wouldn't sugar her up too much before school."
She thinks of everything. But that makes sense. This is what she used to do, and her company runs an entire fleet of nannies now.
"My breakfast skills are pretty much cereal or store-bought breakfast burritos from the freezer," I admit, following her into the kitchen. The way she moves through my space, like she belongs here… It's dangerous how right it feels.
She shoos me away from the bag with a playful smirk and then starts to unload the rest of the contents. "Watch out Chef Boyardee, Trey Hartley's making a play for your job."
I try to keep my distance from her standing barefoot in my kitchen. Too close might kill me.
In less than two months, Vivi will marry Jameson Holiday and become the perfect corporate wife with charity brunches and country club tennis matches on her schedule just like she was born and bred for.
And I'll go back to being what I am—a broken soldier trying his best to raise his brother's daughter.
"It could be worse. The pantry could be stocked with military-issued rations that taste like cardboard," I tell her, leaning against the granite countertop. "And trust me when I say, those are the good flavored ones that we'd all fight over."
"Stop, you're killing my fantasy of military life," she says, unpacking ingredients, her movements efficient and graceful. "The outfits, the food, the luxurious sleeping accommodations." She glances at me through her lashes. "I think I could pull off a tight military bun too. What do you think?"
The image of Vivi in fatigues, hair pulled back in a regulation bun, gives me a new set of fantasies about her. Not that I need anymore. She stars in all of them. My cock twitches, and I shift my stance behind the island.
"You'd make for the cutest damn soldier I've ever seen," I say. "You'd have a waitlist of men willing to watch your back. That I can guarantee."
And I'd have to fight every single one of them off. The thought shouldn't please me as much as it does.
She reaches for a mixing bowl in the top cabinet, stretching up on her toes. The movement pulls her jacket up, revealing a strip of tanned skin at her lower back. My hands itch to touch her there. Feel her soft skin against my fingertips.
"The cutest?" she asks, tossing me a look over her shoulder. "Did you ever date any women in the Army? I'm sure there had to be plenty of good-looking girls on base."
I move behind her before I can stop myself, reaching up to grab the bowl she's struggling to reach. The heat of her body radiates through my thin T-shirt as I press against her back.
"Date? No." The words come out low, close to her ear. "I never dated any military personnel. The base is too damn small for that. That's how you end up with a broken nose, or worse."
She lowers back to flat feet, her ass sliding down my front in a way that tests every ounce of my control. I step back quickly, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like spin her around and make good on what I told her I would have done to her two nights ago.
She turns around to face me, the bowl now in her hands.
"What about outside the military?" There's a slight flush coloring her cheeks where there wasn't before.
"Any ex-girlfriends with a voodoo doll with your face glued to it and pins in your heart that I need to keep a lookout for cutting the brakes to your SUV? "
I laugh. "No, nothing like that." Though I'm sure there's enough people out there in the world that want me dead. Me and every member of my unit for the last fifteen years.
In fact, I wouldn't put it past my parents to have a voodoo doll of me.
Ever since I gave up a probable first-round pick position in the NHL my senior year to enlist, they've made it clear I owe them for "wasting their investment.
" The letters and voicemails haven't stopped in fifteen years.
They birthed me, they're broke, living in poverty, dad needs surgery—how could I be so cruel after they gave me and Tommy so much?
The state should have taken us away with how they would abandon us for weeks, sometimes months at a time, to panhandle or whatever scheme they had going on at the time in a different state.
But I always made sure that no one ever found out.
I made excuses to the ladies at the food banks where I'd ride my bike to get groceries for us.
I'd lie to the schools when they asked to talk to a parent, or I'd use the money I'd make pulling weeds around town to get a bum to agree to take their call and pretend to be my dad for a six-pack of beer.
I knew they would put us in a home—probably separate us because who wanted to take on two pre-teen boys?
But when they started seeing me win hockey championships with my high school team, and scouts started coming around, my parents set up a "home" for all of us.
They pushed the happy family image, and my father loved flaunting me around town, telling everyone how much my contract amounts would be, getting our meals comped at restaurants, free shit for just showing up with me to places, and betting on my games.
So I did the one and only thing I could to hurt them. I took away their precious hockey star image, enlisted in the Army, and filed emancipation paperwork to make sure they were never tied to me ever again.
"Come on," she says, planting a hand on her hip. "You have to have some kind of juicy ex-girlfriend story to share so we're even."
"Even?"
She rolls her eyes at me like I’m being intentionally daft.
"You're part of my runaway bride origin story, so it seems only fair that you share something equally embarrassing from your past." Her smile turns teasing.
"Out with it. No one is lucky enough to have a drama-free life.
Where are your closet skeletons, Trey Hartley? "