Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE_
DECAF
“Five days’ R and R,” I grumble as I drag my ass out of bed at fuck knows o’clock.
“Why don’t you go on five days’ R and R, Travis?
” Yes, I’m arguing with myself, saying what I should’ve said when Trav ordered me to go home and sleep.
So what if I did exactly that and am now awake at …
I reach for my phone on my nightstand to look at the time.
Ugh. Three in the fucking morning. I slept for sixteen hours.
Okay, so I might be able to relent that I was exhausted, but the reason I’ve been killing myself with work lately is because when I’m home, when I’m by myself, I can’t turn off my runaway thoughts.
At least there were no nightmares this time. Complete and utter exhaustion is the key to keeping them away. I can’t have flashbacks if I’m practically comatose.
Each time I’ve come home from a mission in the last eight months, I’ve hoped from the core of my black heart that maybe Haz will have quit.
When it hasn’t happened, I’ve contemplated telling him exactly how his father died, giving him every gory detail of why he should hate me and want to be nowhere near me.
The worst part of it all is when I’m sitting by myself, not only alone but lonely, and all I can think about is Jesse. What his life would’ve been like now. If we’d still be friends. If I would’ve been there for every single one of Little Haz’s big milestones. First steps. First word.
I also think about what Jesse would think about where Haz and I are right now.
Not talking. Jesse would want me to look out for Haz, there’s no denying that.
But with the way he’s turned out, I have no doubt he could look after himself.
I can barely bring myself to even glance at him when we’re in the same room.
There’s something about him that screams dangerous, and I can’t entertain the idea of getting close to him.
To give in to that draw I have toward him.
Not only because I don’t know if it’s him I’m genuinely attracted to or if it’s my connection to his father that draws me in.
I’ve been fighting that urge for months, and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.
It’s my first day of R and R, and the thoughts are already runaway thoughting. Maybe coffee will help those voices shut the fuck up.
Where the majority of people use coffee to wake themselves up, I use it to calm my mind.
It works at keeping me alert but stops the incessant flow of inner monologuing my turmoil.
I’m sure there’s something to say about a stimulant being able to relax me, but at this point, I think my body has built up some kind of tolerance to the caffeine because the more I have, the more I need to keep those thoughts quiet.
Without it, though, I’m a force to be reckoned with.
This last mission Trav sent me on was to scout the happenings in offshore negotiations between two foreign nations—both of which are considered hostiles when it comes to their relationship with the US.
I didn’t really understand why I was sent there, but the coffee was terrible, and I swear there was no caffeine in it.
At one point, I messaged Trav asking if he wanted me to take out each and every foreign dignitary there because the lack of caffeine made me ragey.
He replied with no and then told me to get my ass home.
Luckily. For those dignitaries anyway.
I head for my kitchen and turn my coffee machine on. Number one rule of jet lag is to try to get sleep back into your normal routine, so really, I should go back to bed and try to sleep more, but after sixteen hours, there’s no way that’ll happen. So I may as well start my day. My day of nothing.
I’m already edgy.
So edgy that when my coffee machine beeps that it’s warmed up and ready to go, I flinch from the sound. The sound that usually brings me so much joy.
Then again, nothing brings me joy these days. It’s entirely possible I’m burning myself out by running away from ghosts.
Which means I have a choice here. Keep running and do irreparable damage to my mental health, my friendships within Mike Bravo, and my job, or … fucking face it all.
I pour my coffee and take it into my living room.
My ass hits the large, plush, made-for-more-than-one-person sofa.
My house might be small, but it’s built for company.
The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Hollywood Hills, and even though it’s built into a hill, there are stairs outside that lead down to an outdoor deck with a fire pit and an amazing view.
Yet, no one has ever seen it. Not a romantic partner. I don’t have those. Because if it hurt so much losing a best friend, I can’t and don’t want to imagine what it would be like to lose someone I’d tie my soul to.
Part of me can’t help thinking Haz showing up in my life is Jesse’s way of telling me to move the fuck on already.
I sit here alone and drink my coffee, and when it’s done, I have enough nerve to go to my bedroom and pull out the box I keep all the way at the back of my closet.
Behind the pile of clothes I no longer wear but can’t be bothered to get rid of.
Behind all the sporting equipment from things I thought I would enjoy, but none of them ever took.
Behind a lifetime of memories of everything I’ve failed at on my own.
Because I wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to try and fail together.
The old shoe box is dusty and tattered, even though I’ve upgraded it throughout the years with each new pair of boots I’ve bought. Maybe I should stop putting Jesse-related things in a box that’s degradable. He deserves better than that.
I head back into my living room with it in my hands.
The last time I looked at everything in here was a couple of years ago, after Iris was shot on a mission, and it was touch and go for a bit.
In the moment, I froze. I saw so much blood and assumed the bullet had nicked an artery.
I was fighting flashbacks the entire time while I prepared a tourniquet, but I wasn’t going to lose another friend by sitting back and doing nothing.
Sure, it turned out I was being overdramatic; his artery hadn’t been severed, and he made a full recovery and is still one of the biggest pains in the ass on the team, but I’d rather that than the alternative.
Still, being a pivotal part of his rescue didn’t ease any of the guilt over not helping Jesse. So, just like I did back then, I stare at the box for a good ten minutes before building up the courage to open it.
I contemplated doing this when Haz first joined Mike Bravo, but I thought it would only make my conflicting feelings more confusing. I’m not entirely sure it’s not going to do the same now.
The longer he stays with the team, the more I think I should let him in. He’s going to do whatever he wants anyway, and Trav’s made his position clear. Hazard stays because he has nowhere else to go.
I’m not sure I believe that, but on the off chance it’s true, I’m not going to keep pushing for him to be let go.
With a deep breath and gritted teeth, I lift the lid off the box and breathe in the musky scent of a box of junk that’s been sitting around for two decades.
Long gone is the scent of his cologne from his favorite band T-shirt he would wear whenever we weren’t deployed or on duty, but I still lift it to my nose and can smell his scent anyway.
It’s stuck in my memory. A few years after his death, I actually bought a bottle of his cologne, but whenever I’d wear it or spray it on his shirt so it didn’t lose the scent, it only made me more depressed.
I ended up throwing it out when it was still three-quarters full.
I move the shirt aside and pull out the photo of us and our old unit.
Jesse and I are in the middle, arms around each other, wide smiles on our faces.
We’re the only ones in the line who look happy.
The others are all pulling their stoic soldier face—the one that’s supposed to intimidate the bad guys and make all the ladies swoon at the badasses in uniform.
The next photo is one of Jesse and me playing cards, taken by one of the other guys. Jesse, again, is smiling, and I look pissed. I swear he always cheated at cards, so I’m no doubt losing in this moment. I always lost when it came to him.
Ugh. I’m going to need more coffee. Or a hard drink. Maybe I should make my next cup of joe the Irish kind. With Baileys.
I pause what I’m doing to caffeinate some more. It does nothing to settle the growing pain in my chest. Hell, for all I know, it’s what’s causing that pain. Not the heartache. It’s the physical strain my coffee addiction puts on my heart.
Yet, when I reach inside the box again and produce Jesse’s dog tags, I know for sure it has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with him.
I run my finger over the engraved dog tags, each bump and ridge sending an extra spark of pain to my chest. It brings me back to the day Sharryn gave them to me.
We were arguing about it. Not in the way we argued when she found out what really happened to her husband.
This was more arguing through love and kindness.
She wanted me to have them so that one day, when Corey was older, I could give them to him.
I could talk to Jesse’s son about his military career.
How honorable his father was. How he died a hero.
That was my job as the male role model in Corey’s life.
It was only a month later when she kicked me out of their lives for good.
I kept the dog tags. I shouldn’t have. When Sharryn revoked my role of godfather, I should have given them back for her to pass on, but the selfish part inside me wanted to hold on to anything I had left of him.
They belong to Haz. I should give them to him. Maybe as a bribe to get him to leave Mike Bravo.
And here I go again, trying to get him to leave.
The thing is, I can’t be sure why I want him gone anymore.
Because it hurts for me to see him? I’ve barely seen him in the eight months he’s been with us.
Because I'm worried for his safety? I've barely seen him in the eight months he's been with us, and it’s no secret I don’t want him in dangerous situations, but there’s the bigger part of me that’s worried about getting close to him for one reason only: eventually, he’ll find out the truth and he’ll hate me.
Maybe, deep down, I’ve known all along why I didn’t want Haz to choose this life, but it’s only sitting here alone in my living room that I can admit it to myself: I don’t want him to end up like me.
Bitter.
Single.
Surrounded by people but ultimately alone.
I don’t want him to be as lonely as I am.
Logistically and rationally, there were two paths I could’ve taken after acknowledging the real reason I want Haz out—going straight to him or the scarier option, going right to his mother.
Most people would have gone the easy route. The more approachable course of action. Me? I’ve decided to face the person who told me they never want to see me again.
It wasn’t difficult to track Sharryn down. She’d lived in the same house for Haz’s entire childhood and only recently moved into a smaller place in the last couple of years.
And that’s how I’ve ended up here, outside her apartment block, trying to come up with ways to get her to let me in to talk before she has the chance to slam the door in my face.
I contemplated wearing my tactical gear, not to intimidate her but to let her know I’m still in the game, and that if I’m here to talk about her son, she won’t be shocked when I tell her what he’s been doing for a living for the last eight months.
Ultimately, I decided against that, though.
If I get flashbacks of Jesse by looking at Haz, I’m sure seeing me like that could potentially do the same for her.
So I’ve gone with jeans, a casual T-shirt, and a black-and-tan bomber jacket.
It’s funny to me that I’m trying to dress down so I don’t come across as intimidating, but seeing Sharryn after all these years is intimidating as hell to me.
Maybe I should’ve come in tactical gear. It could’ve been my armor.
I close my fist around Jesse’s dog tags, hoping to channel his bravery as I make my way through the condo building to find her apartment, which is toward the back.
She’s on the ground floor, and the building doesn’t have the best security.
It’s not very safe, but I don’t want to get my head bitten off by bringing that up to her.
She has other reasons to bite. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t from seeing my face alone.
There’s a moment of hesitance when I get to her door, my conscience telling me I should be going to Haz instead of Sharryn, but I’m here now. Besides, she probably has more pull with her son than I do. Haz isn’t going to leave because I ask him.
So I get it over with. I knock. But when I hear shuffling around inside, I’m tempted to make a run for it. Surely, there are kids in this building who play ding-dong ditch.
Before I can get my feet moving, the door swings open, and I come face-to-face with my best friend’s wife. Who doesn’t look like she’s aged a fucking day in twenty years. Okay, there’s definitely more lines around her eyes, but that’s about it.
Either I look drastically different, or she pretends she doesn’t recognize me as she cocks her head and says, “Can I help y—” Her face drops when she pieces it together.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see, and it’s been years, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
“Why are you here?” she asks, her tone almost emotionless. Not angry. Not sad. Just … nothing.
“It’s about Corey. Do you know what he’s been up to? Where he’s currently employed?”
“Some bail bonds place. Bounty hunting.”
A half-truth. “Can I come in?”
“Why?” Her voice cracks. “What has Corey gotten himself into?”
“It’s a lot more than bounty hunting,” I say.
Sharryn’s face goes from concerned to angry in the blink of an eye. She pauses for a moment, and I can practically see the thoughts running through her head, but then she lifts her chin defiantly and steps aside for me to enter. “I want to know everything.”