48. Blow Shit Up and Bounce
blow shit up and bounce
Strider
I have five glorious days before dealing with the reality of what a cross-country move entails. And I don’t have that much to do in the grand scheme of things.
From Mirren’s half-circle kitchen table, I’ve managed to get my house ready for a corporate leasing company to come in and do their thing. Utilities are changed over into a new LLC’s name. I’ll pack my personal effects and drive them down after the holidays.
Who am I kidding? I’m not hanging out here waiting for the holidays. I’m waiting to see if this operation Mirren has will fizzle or ignite. I’m hoping for the former while preparing for the latter. And, make no mistake, I’m preparing.
I’m no operative. I’m sure as hell not trained for combat. I don’t even own a gun aside from a small revolver I bought at twenty-one just because I could. It’s been in the box for damn near two decades because I don’t want to injure anyone.
The idea that my Freckles plans to waltz into a terrorist cell and bullshit her way as an insurgent, makes the skin want to crawl off my body.
I know she’s capable. I know she’s a badass. I know she’s trained.
But knowing doesn’t settle my nerves.
Knowing doesn’t make it easier to let her walk headlong into trouble.
Knowing doesn’t make anything about this better.
But I’m pretending. I suck at it, but I’m pretending. The June in her would revolt at being asked to not participate. The Army vet would lecture me about duty and honor. And the Ranger… Well, she’d just up and go because she couldn’t not.
She runs daily with Jamie, pushing herself until her knee requires ice and the rest of her is just as exhausted.
But she hasn’t told him. She won’t. Her best option for having protection on this op would be her brother.
The man’s a vault. He’d say exactly jack and shit about anything he’d see. That much I know.
But she refuses to bring him in. The last time I asked, she ended that argument by dropping to her knees, double fisting my basketball shorts to my ankles, and sucking me until I thought my spine would melt.
I’m not arguing with the way she ends a fight.
Hell, I’ll pick another just to have the same end, but I still lost. I won, but I lost.
I’m skipping today’s run. She needs it to be grounded, she says. So after dropping her at her brother’s, I’m off on an errand of my own.
Pulling into the circular drive of a two-story brick home on the water, I take a deep breath and bite the bullet. I ring the doorbell and wait.
Just as I suspected, an older man answers the door. “May I help you?”
“Mr. Jones?” I extend a hand. “I’m Strider Anderson, Mirren’s…” Yeah, I should’ve planned this better. Boyfriend? No. Partner? Ugh. “I’m Mirren’s. May I come in?”
The man is not as tall as his oldest sons, but he’s certainly no slouch.
He meets me eye to eye. Gray at the temples, with some silver shot throughout his dark hair, and deep-set crow’s feet at his eyes are the only signs of age.
The military posture is still in play, and it’s obvious he lifts and stays in shape.
His watchful gaze assesses me before he accepts my outstretched palm.
“Call me Harry.” He opens the door wide and ushers me in.
He leads me down the wide center hall, past the family room and large kitchen on the right, toward the huge French doors that stretch out over the expansive lawn and onto Mobile Bay.
The last door on the left is a gorgeous library painted a rich merlot red. Dark woods and fresh creams cut what could be overwhelming as does the huge wall-to-wall window with a waterfront view.
“Can I get you a drink, Strider?”
“Water. Thank you.”
Taking a seat on a plush leather sofa, I study the view… and the chocolate lab with exceptional ears lounging on a cushion in a ray of sunshine whose eyes never leave his master.
A rocks glass with ice and water appears in front of me. Harry’s includes an amber liquid. He takes a seat opposite me, his gaze following mine to the dog, he offers, “That’s Rufus. He doesn’t have two whole brain cells. Still, I love him.” Studying me, he asks, “What brings you here today?”
“Your daughter, sir. I’m too old school not to offer the respect you deserve. So I wanted to introduce myself, tell you I’m moving down here to pursue a life with Mirren, and let you ask any questions you need to to make the transition easier.”
“My wife said you were a straight shooter.”
“She did?”
He nods. “Said she told you about us, dropped a bomb on your relationship with Scooter, and was impressed at your forthrightness.”
Okay then…
“And that you told her you were in love with our daughter,” he continues, his brow dropping.
“Correct on all accounts.” My sandpaper mouth begs for the water in my hand, and I give in to take a sip.
“I’m impressed. Not only that you came here, but that you held your own with my wife. She’s a bit…”
“A bit what, Harry?” June leans on the door frame, one leg folded over the other, head tilted, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Go ahead. Finish your thought. I’m curious what you plan to say to Strider here.
” She crosses her arms over her chest and turns her gaze to me.
“Hey, Strider. Good to see you again.” She doesn’t wait for a response before lifting her focus back to her husband.
Is it though? It’s not as if the last time was a good visit.
They stare at each other over my head. I use every bit of discipline in me not to glance between the two of them like a tennis match, sans the tennis ball.
“My wife is a bit much… at times,” Harry enunciates. “My daughter has a similar streak. I wouldn’t change either of them for all the money in the world.”
“That’s not an insult, you know?” June puts in. “I like that I don’t diminish myself to make other people comfortable. I love seeing it in my daughter.” She looks thoughtful before adding, “Y’all enjoy.” She taps the doorjamb and strides away as if she didn’t just blow shit up and bounce.
I’m sure my face registers the whole scene when I look back at Harry. “You sure you want years of that in your future? Because…” His words trail off.
“Yes, sir. If I wanted average, I could find it. My life would be easier”—his gaze on me hardens—“but not worth it.”
He lifts his glass to clink with mine. “Truer words have never been spoken. And enough with the sir shit. Appreciate the respect, but my Navy days are well in the past.”
“Yes…” Catching myself before adding the now-forbidden word, I relax back into the couch as Rufus meanders up to me, placing his head in my lap.
“Now, about my daughter,” Harry launches in and we spend the next two hours talking about his love for the baby of the family, what he wants for her, what he expects from any partner of hers, and stories about her childhood.
I leave with a deeper understanding of their family dynamic, an idea for how to help on this operation she’s planning, and a fucking nickname—Bootsy.
Kill me now.