Trask (Diver Downeast #3)

Chapter 1

Trask stared at the ceiling. It had only been two weeks, but if he didn’t get himself a place to live soon, his mother was going to kill him.

Normally a saint, Ellen Sothard had already had enough of his grumpy, bachelor ass, and Trask couldn’t blame her. He’d been in the Marines for nearly thirty years, and wasn’t used to acting like a compliant civilian.

He barked orders.

He looked askance at every little thing out of place.

And for the first few days that he’d bunked at his parents’ house, he’d had to bite his tongue when plans were made for one thing or another, then broken. Like when meals were planned, then cancelled on a whim.

Trask couldn’t stand it. The second time it had happened, Trask had declared he’d either be preparing his own meals, or getting take-out.

His mother hadn’t even argued with him.

That’s what a bastard he was.

Trask had known it wouldn’t be easy for him, transitioning from the military to living in his childhood home town. He’d left Maine as a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year-old, and was coming back as a man of forty-seven with no clue as to how life in the outside world worked.

How did one go about making friends? Integrate into a completely unstructured life? Relate to everyday problems, as opposed to those he’d weathered in the military which were more often than not, crises?

And dammit, it bit him in the ass that his opinion here didn’t seem to be worth shit. At least on the surface.

He’d achieved the rank of Colonel after a lot of sweat and hard work. He’d seen action in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, and the Gulf of Aden. He’d ended up as a regimental commander, overseeing the planning and execution of operations where he’d been responsible for more than three thousand Marines.

Then it had all gone to hell.

Trask was no slouch.

But now he felt like one.

Screw this. It was time to take matters into his own hands; define his exact role in his brothers’ new business, Diver Downeast, and find himself a frigging place to live.

Armed with that weak-ass plan—which was at least a start—Trask swung his legs off the mattress. He’d forced himself to stay prone well after the o-four-hundred hours that would normally have him up and running. Running and working out, because one didn’t stay in shape by lolling about in bed.

It was five AM, and that’s all the down-time he could take. On the plus side however, his father would probably be up. A lumber mill worker’s day began early, too, and just because his dad had recently seen seventy, it didn’t mean the man was slowing down

So far, Trask had been biding his time every morning to give his patriarch the alone time he probably craved, but right now Trask needed a clear-headed sounding board, and that was Guy Sothard.

Buck’s mother would stay in bed until seven, a luxury she afforded herself after raising eight boys.

Not that she was ever idle. She cooked for Hilly Duncan-Anders’ summer camp for three months every year.

She did side gigs as a caterer—which these days consisted mostly of working for her new daughter-in-law Bobbie, several days a week.

And she volunteered at the local soup kitchen. Nothing was slowing his mother down.

As for the rest of the family, they were scattered about.

Two of Trask’s local brothers, Mason and Kyle, worked for a couple different police departments as well as being an integral part of Downeast SWAT. Home ownership had long since been under their belts, so they weren’t at the family homestead for anything but drop-ins.

Spence and Buck, had, of course, been getting Diver Downeast, their dive/rescue venture underway, along with their third partner, Tabitha, Spence’s submarine-operating wife. Those brothers now had houses of their own too, with their new spouses.

Vincent and Julian were still in the armed services—Trask was beginning to think they had the right idea—while Seifer remained a perpetual student, much to their parents’ chagrin.

Which left him.

Here.

Semi-adrift.

Sure, he’d declared before God and an entire wedding party that he would join Spence and Buck in their new diving business back in the fall when things in his life had slowly been going to hell, but he’d had hopes that separating from the Marines could be staved off.

How wrong he’d been.

And Trask hated being wrong.

Add to those circumstances that he’d ended up here, employed but not even a business owner. So why, exactly, was he bothering being an employee, instead of going off to find something on his own?

It was time he had that discussion with his brothers now that Buck was back from his honeymoon.

Trask’s exact job description needed to be decided quickly, because if Diver Downeast looked like it would be a good fit for him, he would be hunting for that place to live.

If not? Maybe he’d travel. Who the hell knew?

One thing was certain, however. Christmas was coming fast, and he needed to be out of the house, ASAP.

If he had to watch his mother over-the-top decorate, filling the place with sugar and spice, he’d probably lose his mind.

Christmas had, in the initial twenty years he’d served as a Marine, been just another day.

War and conflict didn’t stop for holidays.

For the last ten that Trask had been employed by Uncle Sam as an officer, he’d spent much of his time stateside at a desk, not in the field.

At that point, the 25th of December in California had simply been a rare day where he could ignore everybody, put his feet up, and relax.

But that desk job had been the bane of his existence, and the smallest part of the reason he’d finally…separated from the Marines. He wasn’t a man who was designed to sit still. Which is what it felt like he’d been doing for the past couple years.

He didn’t want to make the same mistake here, where he’d been twiddling his thumbs for over two weeks.

That had to change.

Trask padded off to the bathroom on bare feet, making little noise as he brushed his teeth and took care of business.

His mind made up, he’d head downstairs, toss a few things around with his father, then go for a run and take a shower.

After that he’d seek out and confront Spence and Buck to see if they had a concrete plan for him.

He wasn’t used to this…bullshit; not being in charge, following others’ orders. But this was his new reality, and he either had to suck it up, or get the hell out of town.

“Hey Pops,” Trask greeted as he descended the well-worn staircase into the kitchen.

“Good morning, son,” his father returned, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He shook the box. “You want some?”

“Sure.” Trask readily agreed. Even though it went against his new “getting his own food” edict. Meh. Cereal didn’t count.

His father grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard above his head, and poured a second helping.

Retrieving the milk from the fridge, as well as a couple spoons and napkins, Trask made his way over to the large, scarred wooden table that had seen so many Sothards come and go, and sat down.

He smirked, running a finger over a particularly deep gouge that lay inches from the edge. One that he remembered well.

His father laughed, watching him.

“You reminiscing?” Guy asked with a shake of his head and a grin.

“You know it,” Trask snorted, following the groove. “I thought Vincent would be grounded forever for this.”

Vincent, the loosest of cannons in the Sothard brood, had, back in the day—and unbeknownst to anyone—taken up knife throwing.

He’d been eight at the time, and needless to say, it had been a completely unsanctioned activity.

He’d somehow managed to steal away several of his mother’s kitchen knives, which he’d taken out into the woods behind the property’s big barns for practice on a stump.

Apparently, he’d been at it for just over a week when he’d self-proclaimed himself an “expert”.

As a surprise to the family, he’d decided to show off his newfound talent, and had smuggled a knife into breakfast one morning, keeping it hidden in his lap until the perfect moment.

Everyone had been seated, and a large bowl of freshly picked apples sat on the table, front and center.

That had been Vincent’s target as he abruptly stood.

It had started out okay; the knife had left his fingers adroitly, but… He’d missed the top apple by a fraction of an inch, and the blade headed straight toward fifteen-year-old Trask who’d just gotten to his feet at the other end of the table to reach for a piece of fruit.

If Trask’s father hadn’t had superhero-fast-parent-reflexes, Trask might have lost his masculinity that day…

because that precious package was where the weapon had been headed.

But thanks to Guy Sothard, the knife had been swatted from its ill-fated trajectory, permanently scarring the table instead of Trask’s junk.

“Vincent’s still the same,” Guy chuckled. “I almost expect him to attempt those same types of shenanigans, today.” His father took a bite, then chewed, contemplatively.

Trask waited to hear what else his dad had to say, because clearly his father was winding up for something.

“You, on the other hand,” Guy pondered, “are not the boy who left here so many years ago, even though you’ve pretended well when you’ve been here on leave.”

Trask nodded. His father was starting the conversation Trask wanted to have.

“It’s clear you’re not comfortable here, son. It’s very obvious to both me and your mother. And if that’s the case, why did you leave the Marines? What’s motivating you right now?”