33
Weight of names
Bulwark, early February
Rafferty pulled into the parking space as Jo walked up to her shop. The denim jumpsuit she wore strained against her growing stomach. The last time he’d seen her she wasn’t showing.
A lot can happen in seven weeks, idiot. You’ve only yourself to blame for ignoring your sisters.
He’d started off strong, following Dr. Sykes’ advice by having coffee with his sisters, first Siobhan, then Jo.
That was followed by a barbeque with Jo where he got to know her stepsons better.
And away from the watchful eyes of Aidan, it was easier to relax and interact with the boys.
He even met Kara, Kurt’s eldest, in a hello-goodbye, catching her as she left to drive back to college.
And Siobhan invited him to dinner. Her twin girls had him in stitches with their antics, and Gracie bombarded him with questions regarding his short time in the army.
Her brother, Dax, was in the military, and she wanted the “unvarnished truth” not the “watered-down version” Daniel gave her. He grinned, recalling the conversation.
“Was it scary?” Grace asked, chin in hand, eyes narrowed like she was interrogating a spy.
He blinked. “Uh … sometimes.”
“What does that even mean? Either it was scary, or it wasn’t.” She crossed her arms. “Uncle Raff, I want the real stuff.”
“Well,” he hedged, “there were definitely moments I didn’t love.”
Grace leaned in. “Did you shoot anyone?”
“Grace!” Siobhan snapped from the kitchen. “You’re only ten.”
“What?” she huffed. “I’m just fact-checking.”
A knock on his window brought him back to the present. It was Josie. He hopped out of the Jeep and joined his sister on the sidewalk.
“Smiling looks good on you,” she said in greeting.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Just remembering something Grace said.”
“That kid’s a hoot.”
He stepped back and gave his sister a hard look. “See you swallowed a pea, sis?”
She swatted his arm. “Ugh. I swear, if one more person comments on my exploding belly, I’m gonna commit murder. And I’ve still got five months left!” She eyed the vehicle. “Yours?”
He turned to view the new Rubicon, still a bit shocked at his impulsive action. “Traded in the Ducati.”
She placed a hand on his chest, a light crease forming between her brown eyes. “You traded your motorcycle. Why?”
Good question. One he was still asking himself. All he knew was, “It felt right.”
He’d loved riding the powerful machine. The wind, the power.
The freedom. But after almost colliding with Rosie, his perception had changed.
Driving the Jeep didn’t exactly thrill him, but it felt solid.
Dependable. He could live with that. And if he took off the doors and top, it was almost like riding a bike. Or so he consoled himself.
But he kept the helmet in the back of the Jeep.
Not for use — just for the reminder.
Of whom he’d been. And who he was trying to become.
“It was time.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But army green?”
Yeah. The dark green color had given him pause. He’d’ve preferred black. Charcoal. But it wasn’t as if it were emerald green. Now that would’ve been just plain dumb. He shrugged. “It was either this or wait three months.”
Jo gave him a long, piercing look. The kind that saw straight through his shrug and easy tone. Then she backed away, pulling keys from the material satchel draped over her shoulder. She unlocked the shop, and minutes later, Jo indicated the chair. “What are we doing?”
He shed his jacket and knitted skullcap, hanging both over the coat hook, and dug into his jeans pocket. He held out the scrap of paper to her.
But she was staring at him. Or rather his bald head. “I’d forgotten just how impressive the artwork is.”
“You mean the rose you inked?”
Jo tilted her head. “I never told anyone you visited me in D.C. after …” She trailed off. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring it up.”
“Thank you, really — but it’s okay. You don’t have to hide the fact that I came to you to add the rose after Charlie died.”
She snorted. “Not a chance. Ma will be mad at me for months.” Giving the red rose a thorough inspection, she added, “It’s holding up well.”
“Of course it is. You’re the best in the game.”
“That scorpion is pretty good, too.”
“The guy who did it in prison had been a professional tattooist.”
“You were lucky. I’ve covered some really bad prison jobs.” She pulled up her stool and took the note he still clutched in his hand.
Ná déan dearmad choíche
She wrinkled her nose. “Irish is your and Mammy’s thing. What’s it mean?”
“Never forget.” He peeled off the plaid shirt, leaving him in his white sleeveless undershirt. And admitted, “It’s been six months. Since my return.”
Jo blinked. “Strange,” she murmured. “It feels like so much longer. And yet … not at all.”
He gave a small, wry smile. “Time’s weird like that.”
She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Especially when it’s tied to pain and healing. It stretches and contracts in the oddest ways.” She cleared her throat. “Where are we inking?”
He held out his left arm and rubbed over the inside of his forearm. “Here.”
Rafferty half expected her to comment on the position, but she went with, “Are we going for bold and clean, or something more flowing and handwritten?”
“You decide. But nothing too girly. And black ink.”
“Simple calligraphy, then.”
“You’re the artist.”
Jo snorted, slid across the floor, and lifted the lid of her laptop. “It’s your arm.”
“I trust you, Jo.”
She sent him a side glance before focusing on the laptop, her fingers tapping away, a smile hovering on her lips. The printer spurted to life, and she studied the design, nodding to herself. She snipped excess paper, moved back to his side, and laid the lettering down his left arm. “Yes?”
He viewed the words centered between elbow and wrist. “Perfect.” His eyes lingered on the track marks visible in the bend of his elbow. They were fading but not fast enough. He sighed, wondering if they ever would.
Jo followed his line of sight, and he flinched when she traced the puncture wounds with her finger. “So glad you made it home, Raff,” she murmured, meeting his gaze.
“Me too.” His voice was as low and gritty as hers.
She cleared her throat and lifted the stencil. “We’re gonna be busy working for a while. About your ugly Jeep … it needs a name.”
“My Jeep is not ugly!” he replied, fake indignant.
She chuckled. “Whatever. So, what about Shrek?”
*
Trent grinned. “Sarge?”
Rafferty gave a light laugh. “It was way better than Toad Mobile. Although Rebel Rouser had a nice ring to it.”
Trent sat back and gave him that inscrutable look. “Do you consider yourself a rebel, Raff?”
“A rebel?” he repeated. “No. Yes. Maybe?” A huff. “More a trickster.”
“Ah. Your childhood nickname.”
“Trick and Treat. I ruffled the feathers, and Sully smoothed things out,” Rafferty said, tongue in cheek.
“And how did that make you feel?”
A short laugh burst from him, sharp and disbelieving. He gave Trent a look. “I’ve waited months to hear you say that shrink line.”
“Names are important, Rafferty. What else were you called?”
He exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck.
“It’s run the gamut, Doc. ‘Oh, Raff’s the rascally one and Sully’s the serious one.
’ That was Ma’s favorite line when people asked about us.
Ranch hands called us ‘the wrecker and the fixer.’ Teachers liked ‘the instigator and the soother. ’ ” He gave a tight, humorless laugh.
“Even the damn media joined in with the fucking exposé last year. ‘The devil and the angel. ’ ”
His knee bounced. The air felt too thin. And he realized … “It stuck. All of it.”
“Hmm. Bad versus good,” Trent murmured.
The words landed like a blow. Rafferty flinched. “You think I don’t know that?”
“All because you were born first.”
“By twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes that set the trajectory of your life.”
Rafferty frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If Sullivan had been born first, he would have been called Trick. Not you.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You’ve had other names too. A call name.”
A long pause. Rafferty’s hand drifted to his head, thumb brushing over his inked skin. “ En Scairp .”
“Why scorpion?”
He swallowed. “It suited me. I could disappear. Lie in wait. Sting when needed.”
“Did you choose it?”
“Yeah.”
“And the tattoo?”
He shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Mark of the job. A warning. A promise.”
Trent nodded slowly. “The scorpion defends itself when cornered. But it also survives. Even in the harshest environments.”
“Yeah, well, it also kills what gets too close.”
Trent met his gaze. “Or protects what matters.”
Rafferty stilled.
“You were labeled Trick. Rascally. Dangerous. Then became the Scorpion. Hidden, armored, lethal when needed. But scorpions also carry their young on their backs. They don’t just destroy. They protect.”
Rafferty blinked. The tightness in his throat surprised him.
Trent leaned back, giving him space but not letting go. “The name you gave your Jeep …”
“Sarge.”
“What made that name resonate?”
Rafferty leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, counting the panels like they held answers. The silence stretched between them. Weighty. Pregnant. Enlightening. A smile ghosted over his lips. “It represents discipline. Backbone. Grit.”
“And?” Trent prompted.
He hesitated. The truth hovered, fragile. “It’s the kind of guy I want to be.”
“It’s the kind of man you are , Rafferty Lawson.”
He looked down then, the ceiling suddenly too bright. His throat worked against a swell of emotion he wasn’t ready to name. “I don’t feel like it,” he admitted, voice rough. “Most days, I still feel like Trick. Like … the wrong twin.”
Trent’s voice was steady. “That’s the part of you shaped by survival. But you are not the wrong twin. You are Rafferty — the man who came back. Who’s sitting here. Who’s choosing to heal. The survivor.” Dr. Sykes tilted his head. “What does Rafferty mean?”
Rafferty shrugged. He used to know, but the memory had slipped.
“Well, I looked it up. It means prosperity. Abundance .”
Right. He remembered now.
“It’s time to prosper. Time to live an abundant life. And Raff … I’m not talking about money.”
Rafferty let the words sit. Let them soak in. He exhaled, long and low.
The knot in his throat loosened. Just a little.