Fighting to Stay (Marines of Misty Glades #2)

Prologue

Seventeen Years Ago

Lance leaned his bike against a fence post on the outer edge of the driveway and looked down, again, at the brochure in his hand.

It was a little crumpled from the tight grip he’d kept on it, but the laminated image still reflected under the afternoon sun.

He knew it was time. He knew he needed to say the words.

Just like he knew he didn’t have the right words to make his family understand.

He started down the dirt drive, letting himself take in the property as if he might never see it again.

The goats were up front, chewing lazily on bushes and grass.

On his left, shielded in chicken wire, was his mother’s garden.

Every year it was a struggle to grow and maintain.

It didn’t seem worth the effort to him. He could smell fire burning from the woodstove in the house, but that was no surprise.

He was a little surprised he could still distinguish that smell, even.

The woodstove was almost always burning.

Up three steps, each one creaking under his sneakers.

The small porch held potted plants of herbs his mother used in their meals and a single chair beside a small plastic table, with an ash tray on top that was probably melted into the plastic for how often it moved.

His father loved to sit out there and smoke his morning cigarette, looking over their piece of land like he was king of something.

Lance pushed the old wooden door open, turned, and threw his shoulder into it to get it shut again. The damn thing had swelled so bad the previous winter it was warped beyond repair, but his father refused to go into town to replace it.

Everyone in his family was stubborn as shit.

He was no exception.

“Lance? Where the hell you been, you’re late!” his mother called from the kitchen.

Lance shrugged out of his backpack and dropped it against the wall where he always did, still holding onto the brochure.

He sucked in a heavy breath, closed his eyes, and waited until he heard the clink of his mother tapping a pot with her spoon impatiently to blow it out. Then he headed for the kitchen.

Their old dog, part hound, part some type of shepherd, raised his head to watch as Lance crossed by the small family room. He gave a low woof of greeting.

The smile that lifted Lance’s lips was strained. He’d had that dog most of his life. When his parents blew up at him in the next few minutes, and he ran, Bolt was who he’d miss the most. It wasn’t even a question.

Still, he kept moving until he was standing at the edge of his mother’s territory. “Sorry for being late,” he offered. She wouldn’t forgive him.

She narrowed her eyes at him critically, then turned toward her stove and stirred whatever stew or soup she was making for dinner.

“Your father’s going to tan your hide for skipping out on chores again,” she said.

“This place doesn’t run if we don’t all chip in you know. Even that old dog does his part.”

Lance ground his teeth and held the brochure a little tighter at his side. “Where is dad?”

“Out back, probably still working on that damn generator.”

“I need to talk to you,” Lance said, firming up his voice. “Both of you. It’s important.”

His mother didn’t even turn her head. “We can talk over supper. At least go wash yourself up, it’s almost ready.”

He really hadn’t wanted to have the talk at the dinner table, but he supposed he should have known better. Lance bowed his head, mumbled his agreement, and dragged himself the opposite way through the house. He’d wanted to have the talk before sundown. That was out the window.

He freshened up in the bathroom, then took the opportunity to grab his toiletries and slipped into his room.

He had an old sack that looked like something out of the previous century, but it would do just fine.

So, while he waited for dinner, he picked out the clothes he might keep and the things he might take with him, and packed them as best he could into the sack.

He grabbed his sleeping bag, because he knew his father’s temper, and set both things on the bed.

Half his stuff would still be left behind, but he supposed he’d known that.

Lance blew out a sigh, hauled up both items, and trudged back down the hall.

His mother would be focused on setting the table and dishing out whatever meal she’d made.

She tended to have tunnel vision when she had a task.

He hadn’t heard any doors creak or slam, so his father was still out back.

That made it all too easy for Lance to quietly set his things down beside the front door for when he’d need them.

Then he ambled into the family room to spend at least a few minutes more with Bolt. Even though each stroke of his hand over the old mutt’s short fur hurt more than the time his father kicked him into the yard and his back had cracked on the deck railing.

“I thought I told you to wash up!” his mother screeched as the back door slammed shut. “What good is washing up if you go and pet the dog? Do it again, and come to the table, supper’s ready.”

Lance sighed, kissed Bolt’s head, and retraced his steps to the bathroom.

A tense silence had already settled over the table by the time Lance took his seat. Their table was square, and technically seated four. But Lance’s little sister had passed away a few years back, so her seat was empty. It would always be empty.

“What the hell you been up to, boy?” his father demanded. “You were supposed to chop the wood after school. You think I’m not busy enough around here?”

Lance stared down at the stew waiting for him.

Thick, gelatinous brown gravy clumped around chunks of potato and beef.

Smaller pieces of chopped vegetables added color but wouldn’t add much relief to the heavy flavor of the stew.

That was how his mother cooked them. That was how his father liked them.

He clenched his hands beneath the table, further crumpling the damn brochure, and forced himself to meet his father’s glare. “I need to talk to you, actually.” He glanced toward his mother, who sat silent and immobile, waiting for his father to eat. “Both of you.”

His mother frowned.

His father leaned back in his chair. “You skipped out on your responsibilities, and now you want to talk?”

Arguing with his father would only make it worse, so Lance ignored the prompt and dove in.

He set the crinkled brochure on the table between his and his father’s dishes.

“I’ve decided to join the Marines.” He wanted to be like the men in the commercials, sharp, strong, chins up and stances proud. Confident.

He wouldn’t get any of that if he stayed where he was.

Silence descended over the table. Disbelief and mounting outrage so heavy they were nearly visible. His mother had gone pale, her eyes wide and a hand over her mouth like she’d heard the most horrible news. But his father … his father was turning red.

Lance dug his fingers into the side of the table to brace himself. He won’t stop me.

His father slammed his open palm onto the table so hard the dishes shook and beer sloshed over the edge of his tumbler.

“You want to what? Are you out of your mind, boy?” He shoved to his feet, chair scraping the floor, both hands on the table and violence in his eyes.

“Why in the hell would I ever allow a son of mine to run off and support this country with the state it’s fallen into?

No! My answer is no! How dare you even bring that garbage into my home!

” He snatched up the brochure and ripped it to pieces, throwing them at Lance like confetti.

Several pieces landed in Lance’s stew.

His father punched the table again. “You eat your dinner without another goddamn word, boy, and then you go outside and you work on that fucking generator until it’s fixed.

No sleep, no breaks, no school, not a goddamn thing until it’s done!

” His voice climbed with every word, bellowing as the words bounced off the walls.

“And maybe then—maybe—I’ll consider not whipping you until your ungrateful ass is torn to shreds. You hear me?”

Lance curled his hands into fists and stood, meeting his father’s glare head-on. They were the same height these days and he was done letting his father treat him like an inconvenient toddler. “No,” he said. “I’ve already met with a recruiter. I’ve already signed up.”

His mother gasped.

His father opened his mouth to spit more venom.

“I’m eighteen,” Lance continued. “I can make this choice on my own. I’m not asking permission, I’m telling you. I’m going to join the Marines.” He drew a breath and softened his voice. “I was hoping we could talk about why, that we could talk it out and you would support me.”

It was a longshot. He’d always known it was a longshot. But for as rough as his life had been, he didn’t hate his parents. He just didn’t agree with their way of thinking.

“You’ve already decided,” his father repeated, his tone suddenly low and calm.

The red faded from his skin, but the violence didn’t fade from his eyes.

“And you think I give two shits about the fucking Marines?” He extended his arm to point at Lance, nearly poking him in the eye.

“No child of mine will ever join any military. I forbid it.”

Lance squared his shoulders. “You can’t.”

His father’s nostrils flared and suddenly he was shouting again. “Then get out! Get the hell out of my house, off my property, and don’t you dare come back! I see you here again, I’ll shoot you dead myself!”

Lance winced. It was precisely the response he’d expected, but still it stung.

He dipped his chin in hopes that, at least someday, his father would see he wasn’t trying to be spiteful, and he backed away from the table.

He tried to meet his mother’s eyes one more time, but she had turned to the side and raised both hands to her face, sobbing the way a person might at a funeral.

The way she had at his sister’s funeral.

I guess I’m dead, then.

Lance turned without another word and walked to the door.

He scooped up his stuff, slid on his backpack, and nearly toppled to his ass trying to yank the damn misshapen door open.

He’d have left it open for his father to deal with, because maybe he was a little spiteful, except Bolt would follow if the door was open too long.

He couldn’t take Bolt with him.

Chest aching, eyes burning, throat swelling shut, Lance struggled with the door one more time until it was closed.

Then he picked up the sleeping bag he’d had to set down, jumped over the rickety steps, and ran down the driveway.

He’d expected his father to lose his temper.

He’d expected to be thrown out of the house.

His father had always been of the ‘my way or the highway’ mindset.

Yet, somehow, it still hurt. Even though he’d known it was coming. Prepared for it the best he could. To see the hate in his father’s eyes aimed at him. To watch his mother turn away without even a goodbye or an attempt to talk one of them down.

To lose his home.

To have to leave his best friend.

“Shit,” Lance muttered, roughly wiping at his face in between his sloppy attempts to balance things on his bike.

At least the bike hadn’t been stolen. They lived on the outskirts of the county, down a side road, and that meant when the sun went down it got real dark real fast. It meant there weren’t a lot of people around.

It also meant the ones who did wander by were usually terribly lost or looking for trouble.

Finally deciding to sandwich the sleeping bag down low over his lap and loop the sack’s one strap at an angle around his neck and shoulders, so that the sack sat forward over the top of the sleeping bag and under his chin, Lance kicked off.

It was awkward as hell riding that way, but he had no choice.

His father would probably be pissed he’d taken the bike, even though it had always been Lance’s.

Stupid, stubborn old man.

Lance ground his teeth and peddled harder toward town.

There were a couple weeks left of school.

The recruiter had made it clear he needed to graduate, with more than barely passing grades, if he wanted to be let onto that bus at the end of the month.

As things stood, his grades were pretty decent.

He was no rocket scientist, but he had more functioning brain cells than the morons on the football team.

Probably put together. As long as he kept attending, as long as he stayed the course, he’d be okay.

And he was going to get on that bus.

He was going to make it.

The country was changing. Growing, evolving, and Lance wanted to be a part of that. So regardless of how his family felt—about the idea, or about government in general—he was going to become a United States Marine.

As long as they didn’t have any weird rules about guys with superpowers….