Chapter 14 #2
For his part, Lance was a bit surprised, too. He’d thought he might have to suck up that itchy, exposed feeling for the day.
“Sure, we can do that,” the girl said, before guiding them down a row and swiftly to a booth at the back of the front-facing window aisle. “Will this do?”
Lance offered her a smile. “Just fine.” He motioned for Lynn to slide in first, then scooted himself down the bench with the wall at his back.
The hostess set down their menus, took their preliminary drink orders, and scurried off.
Lance looked across the table. “If you wanted the wall at your back, there’s plenty of room.” He grinned. “I won’t bite.”
Lynn reached over and shoved his untouched menu at him.
“My dad’s retired Navy, remember? He does the same thing.
I asked him about it when I was in high school and he explained it was a learned thing, something about feeling exposed.
Said it had been worse when he was fresh out but that it never really went away.
” She shrugged. “So, I figured you might have the same mentality, seeing as you were in longer.”
Lance chuckled. “Well, I appreciate that. You were not wrong.” Not by a mile. But lunch on their first official date was the wrong time to tell her that story. So, to distract himself, he flipped open the menu. “What do you recommend? I can eat just about anything.”
They talked about food for a few minutes, a kind older woman took their orders after dropping off their drinks, and Lance was trying not to stare like a psycho at the straw caught in Lynnette’s lips when commotion behind her drew his attention. Probably for the better.
From their corner booth they had a straight-shot line-of-sight to the main entrance, and a cluster of patrons was gathered near the front, not quite up to the bar-top seating.
Voices were raising with every word, and while the tones were agitated, Lance realized it didn’t feel like a fight was brewing.
It felt more like a group of agitated people commiserating together at the expense of those around them.
And a quick glance at the occupied seats nearest the source verified that the agitated group was definitely ruffling some feathers.
Lynn set her drink down and twisted in her seat. “What’s all that ruckus?”
“Some old guys pissed off about something,” Lance replied with a shrug. “Politics, bad day at the fishing hole, or maybe one of their grandkids decided to date that punk they warned them against.” He said the last with a laughing grin.
Lynn chuckled and started to resettle, but went completely still halfway through the motion, her eyes going wide. “Wait a minute,” she mumbled. “Isn’t that…?”
Lance frowned. “Lynn? There a problem?” He’d barely asked the question before he could have sworn he saw one of the grumbling old men turn their head down the aisle and point.
The man raised his arm with a look of exclamation. “Hey! Garver!”
The fuck? Lance narrowed his eyes at the loud, discourteous call.
Lynn twisted the rest of the way back around with a hard breath. “Shit. Listen, don’t go postal, but that beer-bellied, balding guy standing next to the one who just pointed at me?”
Lance arched a brow as the aforementioned guy strode toward their table. He kept his visible attention on Lynn, simultaneously counting the man’s every step. The shorter, rounder one she had mentioned was hot on his heels.
Lynn leaned forward and lowered her voice. “That’s George Johnson. Meaning unless Jen dated two Jon Johnson’s in the same small town before she graduated high school, that makes him your Jon’s father.”
The words rang in Lance’s ears as the men reached their table.
Jon’s father. He’d heard stories. Jon’s father was fifty-percent of the reason Jon had left home at the age of seventeen to enlist in the Marine Corps, with no plans to return.
Rather, Jon’s father was the entire reason Jon had not intended on returning.
And that was before they’d learned that the old bastard had apparently gone around town telling everyone who might lend an ear that Jon had died in combat.
Lance still hadn’t heard all the glamorous details of that story, but the punchline was plenty. Lying about his best friend’s death, when they’d both come damn close enough in reality, just to gain some sympathy or maybe some money from local bleeding hearts really pissed him off.
Then the man who’d called out to Lynn—and who’d yet to even glance Lance’s way—opened his mouth. “What the hell’s goin’ on at that shiny new hospital of yours, Garver?”
Lance ground his teeth in an effort not to make a scene the very first time he went out in public in the town he was apparently going to be moving to. Let alone the first time he went out with his girl.
Lynn narrowed her eyes as she shifted to turn sideways in her seat, scooting her body back a bit and angling her head up to meet the glowering jerk’s stare. “That hospital’s been up and running for eleven years now, Jack. It’s not new.”
The man—Jack, of Asses—slammed a meaty, wrinkled fist onto the bench back just shy of Lynn’s shoulder. “Don’t get smart with me—”
“’scuse me, Jack,” Lance cut in, sharpening his voice. He kept himself seated by the thinnest of fraying threads.
The old man cranked his neck to the side like it was an effort and narrowed his eyes Lance’s way for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”
Lance met his glare unflinchingly. “I’m the guy who takes an issue with other guys trying to intimidate his girlfriend.
” He tilted his head toward Lynn. “That’d be her.
” He motioned to Jack. “I’m gonna need you to remove your hand from her bench seat and take one large step backwards.
And modulate your tone when you speak to her. ”
Jack of Asses scoffed.
George had the glaring audacity to step around his pal and point a finger toward Lance. “Keep outta business that don’t concern you, boy.”
Lance exhaled hard and cracked his neck.
Lynn jumped in. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re trying to ask about, Jack. As you can plainly see, I’m not on-duty today. If you have an issue with something the hospital’s done, take it up with the hospital. That’s not my department.”
Jack leaned closer. “Don’t get smart with me, girl,” he snarled. “Someone at your—”
“Jacky,” Lance called. “If I can reach across this table and touch you, we will have problems.” He hardened his voice. “You don’t want us to have problems.”
“Boy,” George said like he was issuing a warning.
Lance raised a hand between them, palm outward in a stopping motion. “You shut up. We already have problems, and I’ll get to that.”
Predictably, George sputtered.
“Lance,” Lynn said, glancing his way, “it’s okay. Let’s not escalate anything.”
“Tell that to the surly mouth-breather who won’t back the fuck out of your personal space,” Lance replied, never taking his glare off the man in question.
Heads were starting to turn, people paying more attention to the scene neither of them wanted to make than the meals they were paying for.
So, Lance did the only thing he could think of to try and acquiesce to his girlfriend’s preference while the option wasn’t entirely off the table, and loudly adjusted the direction of his words.
“Would you mind politely asking your question, Jack? We’re trying to enjoy our afternoon. ”
George made another disgruntled sound.
Murmurs drifted down the aisle in an audible wave.
Jack dug his fingers into the wooden top of the bench, still too close to Lynn’s shoulder.
If he had claws, he’d be gouging that wood.
His chest heaved as he glared between them like they were the problem, then finally spat words Lance had not been braced for.
“What’s this bullshit about Sheriff Morty being arrested at your stupid hospital?
I heard they were chargin’ him with attempted murder! ”
Something clanged as an almost comical series of gasps went through the diner, followed by more murmurs of semi-respectfully hushed conversations.
Lance ground his teeth. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Lynn raised her chin. “It’s making me more than a little angry that you’re interrupting my personal time to yell at me over that like it’s my fault, Jack.
” She did not do him the courtesy of speaking quietly, and Lance loved her more for it.
“I have no control over Morty Parker’s actions or the charges he earns himself. ”
Jack slammed his hand down onto the wood. “It’s fuckin’ bullshit!”
“Bullshit!” George echoed.
Lynn flinched, just a bit, almost undoubtedly on reflex, when the loud slap of Jack’s hand on wood carried through the air. But that was enough.
Lance pushed out from his seat, forcing George to stumble back, and stood to his full height.
Neither old timer could match his six feet, let alone the pissed off aura he’d long honed to perfection.
“I gave you multiple chances to mind your manners, Jack. I asked clearly, you even acknowledged my words, but instead you went and continued encroaching.”
“Fuck off,” Jack said, raising his other hand and flipping Lance off as if Lance were only trying to intimidate him.
Lance crowded into his space, reached over, and physically removed the stubborn old man’s hand from the bench top.
Using his grip on the man’s wrist he walked the man backwards until the old man was parallel with the unoccupied aisle table nearest their seat.
He didn’t let go as the man attempted to pull his arm free, and he didn’t lower his voice when he spoke.
“The hospital ain’t up to shit, Jack. Morty went off the deep end the other day, walked into a fully functioning hospital in broad daylight, and made three attempts to end a life.
So yeah, he got his ass landed in jail where he fucking belongs. Any other questions?”
Jack glared back at him. “How the hell would you know that, stranger?”
Lance released the old man and held up a hand, two fingers raised. “Because I was two of those attempts.” He swore the whole damn diner went quiet for a moment.
Jack’s eyes widened.
George, of course, couldn’t stay out of it. “You’re lying!”
Lance turned his head to lock eyes with George, not bothering to step away from Jack. “You have a lot of nerve tossing that around, when we both know the liar in this conversation is you. George.”
George’s face turned red with anger. “The fuck are you talking about, boy? Who are you to even accuse me of—”
“Oh, I am so glad you asked,” Lance interrupted.
He dipped two fingers beneath his shirt collar and scooped up the identification tags that still hung around his neck, holding them out so the tags dangled for curious eyes to see.
He kept his own stare firmly fixed on George’s face while the older man slowly realized what he’d stepped into.
“Master Gunnery Sergeant Lance Blackburn, United States Marine Corps. That’s who the fuck I am.
” Lance let the tags fall against his shirt front.
The diner had gone breathlessly silent. Even Jack of Asses had ceased his blustering.
Lance kept his narrow-eyed glare on George. “Word is you’ve been telling everybody and their mothers how your son was KIA. Funny thing, ‘cause Jon’s a damn good buddy of mine, and I talked to him just this morning.”
George’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, his fists clenching, his expression saying he wanted to argue.
“But you knew he was still alive,” Lance continued. “You were the one who passed along the letter his mama left him just the other day, the one that led Jon to his inheritance. Weren’t you, Georgey?”
“It’s George,” the man spat.
Several voices started talking at once and a chair squeaked against the floor.
“Is that true?” an elderly woman’s voice asked, calling from halfway across the diner.
Lance finally looked away from the old asshole he knew he wouldn’t punch, if only for the man’s age and frailty.
He found himself taking in a gray-haired woman in a peasant dress with pain written all over her face.
She stood beside a sideways chair and a table with two other occupants—one male, one female—while she lifted a hand to clench it over her chest.
“Is it true,” she repeated, settling her wide stare on Lance, “that Jon Johnson is still alive?”
More murmurs carried as if Lance’s words hadn’t been shocking enough.
Lance attempted a more friendly smile for the woman he harbored no ill will toward. “Yes, ma’am. The story of his death was a fabrication he never even knew about until last week.”
Scandalized gasps and voices too loud to qualify as murmurs followed the declaration.
George let loose a furious growl. “You impertinent son of a bitch! How dare you—”
A larger, mid-fifties woman burst out from the interior of the diner and nearly everyone went silent.
Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the three of them and she planted her hands on her hips, emphasizing the waist-style apron she wore.
“George. Jack. Who do you think you are, storming into my place and disturbing my patron’s meals?
” She snatched up a towel and stomped closer, snapping it toward them like a displeased mother.
“Both of you, out! And you”—she turned her attention to the third member of the agitated group, who’d hung back near the front—“you, too! Don’t think I don’t know who you came in here with.
Take your attitudes outside to drown in this rain, or take them to the pub, but don’t bring them in here!
” She snapped her towel with each new declaration, spurring Jack and George to scurry down the aisle like scorned children.
It might have been funny if Lance didn’t want to beat them as badly as he did. He flexed his hands at his sides but held his position.
The woman huffed and turned her attention to him with a frown. “You didn’t have to escalate things, you know.”
Lance rolled his jaw. “Those two should’ve minded their business. I gave them opportunities to back off.”
“Lance,” Lynn called from behind him. “Come sit down.”
Lance dipped his chin to the woman he presumed to be the owner, then turned and reclaimed his seat in the booth across from Lynn. He smiled at the frown she aimed at him. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Jack needed some perspective. I held back.”
Lynn propped an elbow on the table and pressed her fingers to her temple with a sigh. “I know you did.” She lowered her arm, then, and lifted her eyes to his. A smile tipped her lips. “Let’s not let old blowhards ruin the day. We haven’t even ordered.”
He matched her smile and thumbed open his menu.