Chapter 8 #2
“I’m responsible for the deaths of eleven men.
I can tell you their names and ranks, the dates they died, the names of their wives and girlfriends, parents and kids.
They were my men. I was responsible for them and they died on my watch.
Their faces, and the faces of their families, are the last faces I see at night and the first I see in the morning. ”
Her jaw drops and all wariness, all irritation, leaves her eyes.
I take a deep breath and plow on. “Had I done things differently on the days they died, hell, if I’d taken longer over my morning coffee, they might still be alive.
Time’s funny in battle. A few minutes, even a few seconds, can be the difference between those eleven men coming home to their families on their own two feet or in a casket. ”
Bren closes her mouth. Her hand steals out of the covers, finds mine, and grips it.
“I’ve been told a hundred times that their deaths are not on me.
I made the right call for the mission. I got the job done.
I brought the rest of my men home safely.
It’s easy to say, but I don’t think I’ll ever believe it in here.
” I tap my chest with my free hand. “I’ll carry those eleven men with me to my grave.
I’d like it if you could work them into my sleeves somehow. Maybe their names or something.”
“Of course, sir,” she whispers.
“That’s the worst thing I carry, Bren. There are other truths I’ll tell you when the time’s right, but that’s the worst. I don’t know if you told me your worst truth last night, but I want you to have mine, so you know I’m not hiding my shit from you.
And that you’re not the only one with dark places in your past.”
“I—sir, I wouldn’t think that.”
“Good. I put some pieces together last night after you told me about Ruby and your girls. I want to share my thoughts with you, so you know where my head’s at and that I’m not judging you. Are you ready to hear what I have to say, or do you want some coffee first?”
Her eyes search my face. Seeking clues to what I want, because first and foremost, this girl wants to please. I smile gently so she knows I’m fine with whatever she chooses.
“I’m ready now, sir.”
I squeeze the fingers she has wrapped in a death grip around mine.
“I’m going to say this once, so you understand that I know the difference between sympathy and pity.
I’m sorry life dealt you a shitty hand when it came to your parents, but without their neglect, you might not have become the strong woman you are today.
I’m sorry they didn’t protect you the way good parents should and that you had to grow up too fast and experience things a kid shouldn’t.
But that experience has made you kind and tolerant of other people’s flaws in a way many people in this world just aren’t, Bren.
So, I’m sorry about what you went through, but I’m not at all sorry about what it made you into. Do you understand?”
She nods and blinks rapidly. “Yes, sir.”
“I expect that being abandoned by your parents and bouncing around through the system without many good male role models and really only feeling safe with Mother Kay and Ruby and your girls left you thinking that men aren’t good for much.
You like our dicks and what we can do with them, but outside the bedroom, men are a liability.
You couldn’t count on your father or your foster fathers, so why the hell should you count on any of the men who come into your life ‘cause they’re just going to let you down in the end. Am I right?”
She swallows hard. “I-I guess.”
“And maybe the men who won’t be pinned down, the bad boys who play but won’t commit, they felt safe to you.
You knew they weren’t reliable, so you never relied on them.
You knew they’d eventually move on, so you never invested in them.
You told me you go to the club, you do scenes, you get fucked, and you go home.
That was fun for a while but it’s not scratching your itch anymore, is it? ”
Her voice is firmer when she says, “No, sir, it’s not.”
“You need more, Bren. You’ve grown beyond what your shitty childhood taught you.
You’re ready for an adult relationship with a man who is more than an interchangeable dick.
And I would like to be that man. I’m probably not going to feel safe to you.
I’m going to push you out of your comfort zone.
I’m going to demand things from you you’ve never given before.
But I won’t let you down again. That’s why everything yesterday was about apologizing and starting over.
That’s why I’ve started today with my worst truth, so you become my secret-keeper like I’ve become yours.
I hope you don’t think any less of me, because I don’t think any less of you this morning than I did yesterday.
You’re still my brave, beautiful, bold girl. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She squeezes my hand. “But you’ve always felt safe to me.”
I lean in and give her a gentle kiss. “You are safe with me, Bren, whether it feels that way or not. I will always respect your safe word, but it’s more than that.
I will always respect the gift of your trust. I know I fucked up with you once.
Well, twice, if you count my stupid assumptions about what you were doing with Theo.
That’s why I needed a reset yesterday, too.
So, I can focus on what you need and not let you down again. Are we good?”
She pushes the bottle of water aside and flows into my arms. “We’re good, sir.”
“Good.” I take the minute to enjoy the warm press of her against my chest. Drink in the buttery scent of her hair. These are the moments that make the harder shit worthwhile. “I know you need to head in for eight. D’you have time for breakfast, bold girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Emmy will want to feed us, but I have a hankering for cholesterol this morning. Any chance you know a greasy spoon we can sneak off to?”
She laughs into my shoulder. “I know just the one, sir.” She lifts her head and looks at me, her eyes bright. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, girl. Gimme some feedback. How am I doing this morning?”
“Do you want a Dom-rating, sir? Zero to ten?”
“Navy usually rates one to five. It’s a government thing.”
“Four point nine five, sir.”
I chuckle. There’s the sass. “Where’d I lose point oh five, girl?”
“No blow job at the end of the real talk, sir. I think that should be a ritual.”
“I’ll have my test results today and then we can talk about what I want and when, but I’ll tell you now that I’ll usually want your ass after real talk. Offering it before I tell you to bend over will earn you orgasm privileges.”
I feel the shiver that runs through her. “I know I have to earn sex, sir. Do I have to earn orgasms, too?”
“Anal orgasms. Your kitty can come as often as you can manage, but you won’t be coming when I’m in that greedy ass without earning it.”
She shudders, gripping me tightly. “You’re killing me, sir.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, bold girl.”
“Tippy-top, sir.”
I chuckle and pull her out of the tangle of covers as I rise off the bed.
Amy always wore suits. Two-piece for casual wear.
Three-piece when she wanted to impress. Skirt suits.
Pants suits. Always suits. After we married, I never saw her in anything that wasn’t perfectly tailored.
After her hair grew back, she wore it in a straight, black curtain to her shoulders.
Never a hair out of place. She rarely ate in front of me, even though we had family dinners every night I was home.
Bren’s wearing the oxblood leather pants that seem to be a staple of her wardrobe and one of my Navy sweatshirts.
Her dreads are up in a sloppy bun, a few stray rattails sticking out behind her left ear.
Her lips are swollen. Her neck’s decorated with bite marks above the leather circle of her day collar.
She’s not wearing an ounce of makeup. She’s shoveling ketchup-soaked eggs into her mouth and chasing them down with black coffee.
She gets more gorgeous every time I look at her.
“Nice to see you enjoying your food, girl,” I say around a bite of my own eggs and hash browns.
She swallows and wipes her mouth before she says, “Thank you for suggesting this. Sometimes a granola bar just doesn’t cut it.”
“Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day. I’m not interested in controlling what and when you eat, girl, but when we’re together, you’ll eat a good breakfast.”
She toasts me with her coffee cup. “No argument from me. I love big breakfasts. It doesn’t make sense to make a production out of it when I’m cooking for myself, but if it’s not just me, only way you’ll keep me out of the kitchen is this.” She gestures with her fork to the spread between us.
I should have guessed from the pancakes that she’s a fellow breakfast-eater. Girl after my own heart.
“Tell me more about Bebe J. I know she could cook.”
Brenna’s face splits into a grin of incredible fondness. “Better than all those cooking-show chefs put together. I’ll make you her jerk pork and red beans. You’ll never want to eat anything else.”
I tap my coffee cup against hers. “I’ll hold you to that. I know she didn’t get custody of you when you were a kid. You ever live with her?”
Bren nods. “After I aged out of care, I went and lived with her for a year. My hip was still messed up and I needed a lot of help. She was on a walker herself, but she still got me up every morning and chased me around her apartment with her cane when I was feeling sorry for myself. By the end of the year, I could run and dance again. I came back to New York hoping to go to school.” She shrugs.
“It didn’t work out and I wish I’d stayed with her.
She hid how sick she was from me. I only got to visit her once more, at Christmas, then she was gone. ”
I put down my fork, reach across the table, and take her hand. “Sorry, bold girl.”