7. Rick
Chapter seven
Rick
A hhh, night. So peaceful and quiet. Stars and moonlight, romanticism, mystical, lovely dark night.
Yeah fucking right.
Night hasn’t been a thing of beauty for me in a long time. Not sure it ever was. I do remember a time as a kid when I was scared of it. Scared of the dark, scared of my own endless thoughts that would never shut off. I guess in that way, I haven’t changed much. A lot of tactical shit is carried out at night when you’re in the military. Then there was Special Forces, and yeah, not a lot of sleeping happened, especially not in the dark. Dark is a cover. A mask. The dark hides so much.
Peaceful?
No, I don’t find it peaceful.
I’m a shit sleeper at best. I only need a few hours here and there, which I usually get in the very early hours of the morning. Mission complete. Mission over. Or in the late hours of the afternoon. Before go time.
Now, there is no go time anymore. No more missions.
However, I still can’t sleep.
There aren’t any stars in the city. There’s too much smog and light pollution. The city isn’t quiet or peaceful. There are always cars. Always people up. People like me. People who don’t use the cover of dark for rest. They work, they play, and they carry out their whole lives in the dark.
I boil the kettle, then let the water sit for a few minutes to cool off until it’s at the perfect temperature. I can tell just by looking at it. I’m good at counting down the minutes with my internal clock. It used to be used for missions. In places where a mistake could be fatal. And where an extra minute or even a few extra seconds gone wrong could cost a life. No lives tonight, though. Just coffee.
I pour the hot water into the press and let it brew. There’s probably only one thing I’m truly addicted to in life, and that’s good coffee. I went so many years without it. There were never care packages from home. Never like what the other guys got. Jace, though, he knew. He knew about my coffee snobbery, so he started getting his mom to get me the beans I liked. And she’d send them over. I don’t know how he figured it out because, at best, the java we drank was usually about as good as toilet water. I won’t ever forget the day he shyly offered me the package of beans.
“Jesus, man. Getting sentimental over coffee here. That’s what lack of sleep does for you.”
Apparently, it also does for me in the form of talking to myself.
I pour myself a mug and drink it standing. It’s bitter as hell and goes down just right. It also burns a little when it hits my stomach because it’s been more than a few hours since Aspen made dinner. She made pasta with buttery, garlicky shrimp, some cream sauce she made from scratch, and asparagus that she perfectly charred.
She has spent the past three days feeding me while I’ve spent it cleaning out this house.
There are a lot of rooms, so it takes some organization and research to find the right places for the stuff to go to. I act like I don’t care, but I want someone to make good use of it, and if the money is going to help other people, then that does matter to me.
Aspen’s early misadventure with the burned eggs hasn’t been repeated. I’m so used to eating food and not even tasting it, but the things she’s made over the past few days have changed all of that. I’m starting to be one of those people who actually feel hunger…and feel it with some anticipation. My training is deserting me, and it’s not even happening slowly.
Right now, my mind flashes to a painting at the top of the stairs that’s been driving me nuts.
I finish my first cup of coffee and try not to think about it. Then, I finish a second. And a third.
If it’s weird to be tanking down the blackest, strongest java at just past two in the morning, I wouldn’t know. I’m not going to sleep anyway. I’m not doing this because I don’t want to pass out. I’m doing it because I don’t want to dream. Because I don’t want to go back there. If I dream the right dream, I will like it, but there’s plenty of shit I wouldn’t like to relive. I’m not afraid of the nightmares because I hardly ever have them, but when I do? The good, the bad…it’s just a part of who I am. Of what I’ve done. I know there’s no going back. But what about going forward?
What now?
The question, asked in Aspen’s innocent, sweet voice, haunts me.
That painting. That damn painting.
I tried to reach it with a ladder yesterday, but the ladder wasn’t tall enough, and I don’t have another one. The stairs going up meet in this weird bend in the middle. The ceilings are so high, and someone mounted that beast of a painting way too far up. It looks awkward. It always has. There were others below it, but I’ve plucked those off and sent them away as part of yesterday’s pile. That one is going to one of the hospitals here that puts on an annual charity auction every winter.
I know it’s the middle of the night, but I’m quiet. I find myself standing on the first stair and looking up at the beastly beast. It’s even more awkward now, marooned up there on the wall without anything to bracket it. It didn’t make sense before and it’s a thousand times worse now.
“Ugh. You won’t make a mockery of me,” I grumble.
I could go out and get a taller ladder. Or order one in. I could also hire someone to get the damn thing off the wall. But that would all have to be done during the daylight hours, and I want it down right now. Maybe I’ve had too much coffee, and it’s late. Or maybe it’s the lack of sleep and the past few days rolled into one moment. It could be a lifetime of training, but then I decide right here and now that I will not be defeated. Least of all, by that ugly monolith. It is slashes of black paint on a white background in a black frame. It looks aggressive and mean, and I want it out of this house. I want that wall swept bare.
The ladder is still propped up on the other side of the wall, where I left it after I took the other paintings down. I’m extra quiet retrieving it and setting it up. The stairs might look like they’re magically popping out of the wall, but they’re the same as any other stairs that jut around at an angle. They have a big landing step, so the ladder fits. Mostly.
I scale it fearlessly, trying not to think about all the other times I’ve climbed shit. This isn’t like those times. I’m just in the house here. No one is going to be shooting at me, and there isn’t a big drop at the end. I’m not risking anyone’s life if I fuck up.
Well, maybe just mine.
On the top step of the ladder, I pause and look down. Heights don’t bother me. I do a quick computation in my coffee-speedy brain. It goes something like the distance from up here down to the ground if I fall to the landing, and then another quick computation of the distance from up here if I fall and miss the landing and go over the side glass railing.
It’s still probably not enough to kill me.
I’ve had worse, honestly.
The top step of a ladder wasn’t invented for this kind of use. It’s already one of those tall, metal things that unfold like an A. I didn’t lean it up against anything, and I don’t have anyone holding it, obviously. As I get one combat boot up and then another, it teeters a little. Yes, I still wear them. And yes, I’ll probably always wear them. They’re not actually military grade. They’re just the mean-looking and industrial shit you buy at the shoe store. They wouldn’t hold up against much, even if they do have steel toes.
I’m good at breathing, so I use slow in-and-out breathing to steady myself. If I stretch out from here, I can almost brush my fingers along the bottom edge of the frame. Even if I knock it off the wall, it can probably be repaired. And if not? I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Right now, I am. I need it down.
I nudge the frame with an open hand. I’m not gentle. But it doesn’t budge.
With a grunt, I make a closed fist, lean up, and punch the thing.
It doesn’t shift up or sway. What the hell is that thing hung with? Concrete anchors?
I give it another good uppercut, yet there’s still nothing.
What I do next proves I’ve had too much coffee and too little sleep because there’s no way this is a good idea, but I didn’t get into the Special Forces by not taking chances. A regular person wouldn’t do this kind of dumb shit, but I’m not a regular person. I’m me, and sometimes, dumb stuff is the only answer. Risks are the only answer.
I crouch down on the ladder, and then I leap.
The ladder kicks out from under me and goes crashing to the side. It hits the wall and not the glass railing, which I figured it would, and then it stops there. It makes a bit of a bang, but it doesn’t do much damage. And me? I grab the bottom lip of the frame with both hands and hang.
Yes, I hang off of it.
With all my weight.
The thing still doesn’t budge.
It doesn’t rip out of the wall. It doesn’t even sway.
What the actual fuck?
I swing my legs, kick out, and do all sorts of playground-style maneuvers, but nope. Nothing. The thing has an indomitable spirit, and at this point, I’m sure it will only be removed from the wall by a bulldozer.
The ladder is gone now. It’s well below me. It’s a pretty drop to the ground, but I can manage it. The problem? The ladder is directly below me. I’ll smack straight into it, and that will mess up my landing. Hitting it will hurt, and it will cause some damage to me, the wall, and probably the glass railing.
It’s a bit of a pickle, but I’m used to being in pickles of this nature.
Well, not this nature, but worse. Worse nature. I can handle this.
My adrenaline is flowing pretty well now, and it only takes me a few seconds to compute the angle from here to the stairs beside the ladder. There’s a free strip between it and the railing. If I just swing to the side a little and let go, I’ll have enough momentum to carry me down. The landing might be awkward. It might sting, and I might lose some skin here and there, but I’ll be fine.
I swing. I swing again. Then, I let go.
I don’t know what went wrong. Sometimes, shit goes wrong, but this isn’t one of those times when it should have or when there’s much room for it. And as I’m flying through the air, I realize I’ve fucked up. Big time.
I catch myself on the top of the railing, just above the glass. It’s set into a metal frame, thank freaking goodness, or I’ll be fucked to the tune of smashing glass and going straight through. As it is, I almost flip over. Almost. My hand grasps metal. Unfortunately, my body has enough momentum that I’m carried straight over the top, but it’s alright because I got myself.
Well, actually, no, I don’t have myself.
My hand slips.
I’m now facing a freefall down a good fifteen feet, headfirst.
I can get my hands up. I can get them up and break my fall. Even if I break my arms, I won’t break my neck. I’ll survive. I—
Don’t fall.
The floor doesn’t come rushing up at me. The bones in my hands, wrists, and arms don’t meet unforgiving hardwood. There’s no blood, no crunch, no pain.
Instead, I’m hanging headfirst over the railing, but I’m also suspended. I curl up just enough to realize my jeans got caught in the metal. I’ve been saved by my jeans.
I let out a huge breath of relief.
But it’s too much for my jeans.
“Fuck!” I yelp as my jeans start to give way to gravity. They slip an inch. And then another. The sound of ripping denim is a horror. I feel the air as they give way. Cool air tickling my overheated skin, my back, and the top of my butt cheeks.
Riiipppppppp.
This is it. I get my hands out fast and square them. I have fast reflexes, and all my self-preservation training roars to life.
My jeans give way another inch.
“I’ve got you!” a voice says as warm, small hands clasp my bottom. Small fingers get a firm hold on my bare ass and hips.
I’ve been saved again. Even if it is in the most humiliating way.
“What the hell happened?” Aspen pants. Her fingers are like claws in my flesh. On my butt. And I feel like it’s going to tear clean off as she throws her weight backward.
I’m a lot to lift up. I’m at least twice her weight, and I’ve got gravity on my side.
“You’re going to tear my arse clean off my body!” I exclaim.
“That’s your main worry right now?” she grunts.
“Can you grab my jeans?”
“Oh! Oh, shit!” She does, but she keeps one hand on my hip and ass—her fingers are like steel grappling hooks in my skin—in case I pop clean out of my pants.
She hauls back with all her weight, and the momentum jerks me up an inch. My pelvis digs into glass and metal, and I grit my teeth against the pain. But pain is all mental. It’s easily blocked out.
“Were you trying to kill yourself? Because this is not the way!” she adds.
“No! It was clearly an accident.”
“How could something like this be an accident?”
“I was trying to get the painting down,” I say.
“What?” She must turn and look behind her because I slip forward an inch.
“Aspen!” I yell.
“Oh god!” She wrenches back hard. Again. And again. I can feel her throwing herself back over and over. She’s so small, but her momentum pulls me back enough that I can finally get my hands under me.
Between her pulling at my butt and jeans and my own brute strength, I slip myself back on the right side of the railing.
It happens so fast that I practically land on top of her.
“Oomph!” We make the same grunting sound at the same time.
I quickly untangle myself, then run my hands over Aspen’s shoulders and arms, hauling her up the best I can into a sitting position to make sure she’s not hurt. She leans back, breathing hard, and her hands shoot out and frantically touch me the same way. Shoulders, arms. Her warm, soft hands send a spark shower through me. I’m already jacked full of adrenaline and caffeine, but this is something more. Something white-hot that makes the hairs on the backs of my arms and neck stand up.
I’m frozen in place, half sitting, half sprawled out, my jeans torn just about clean off my bottom, such that I feel the cold cement of the step beneath me.
“Rick!” Aspen lunges forward and throws her arms around my neck.
I was infused with heat, but now I’m ice cold as she hugs me. Tight.
I can’t remember the last time I was hugged. Jace and the rest of the guys weren’t the type to do something like this. We slapped each other on the back, shoved a shoulder, or clapped a hand around the neck or the arm. We breathed together whenever we escaped a risky situation intact with our lives. We didn’t hug.
Even if we had, Aspen wasn’t one of the guys.
Not with her soft breasts slammed up against my chest, round and pert under her T-shirt. She’s warm but not sweaty. Not like me. I realize I’ve soaked my T-shirt. I feel cold and clammy, and I’m stuck like this. I can’t move. My chest won’t expand to breathe. She hugs me tight, her face pressed to the side of my neck.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
She starts shaking, but my arms are useless at my sides. I should wrap them around her. I should hold her. She’s scared. She smells like sleep, fresh air, and terror. I need to hug her back, hold her, and reassure her that nothing happened. I’m not a squashed melon down there at the bottom of the stairs. It’s all good. My training won’t let me be a squashed melon, but I’m unhurt because of her. We both are.
My best friend’s little sister is tougher than she looks, but at her core, she’s still sweet and innocent, and she’s always going to be that way. She showed up at my doorstep willing to do what her brother asked, no matter how much of a sacrifice it would be. She married me, even though it wasn’t the kind of marriage Jace wanted. I know I’m nothing like she anticipated. I know I frustrate her. I know she doesn’t understand me and probably doesn’t even like me. I hold her at arm’s length to keep her safe, and I always will. Through it all, she’s kind. If I had gotten hurt tonight, it would have hurt her even more.
I still have no idea what Jace was thinking, trying to give me a partner in this life when I’m the most solitary creature that was ever put into existence.
“Shh.” I pat her back. I’ve never been more awkward. Even half hanging over the railing and caught by my pants with my arse hanging straight out, I was less maladroit. “It’s all good. You saved my ass.”
Literally.
I try not to think about the fact that I’ll have a few bruises where she grabbed me. It’s an unholy mental picture, followed closely by others. There’s Aspen—pure, beautiful, and innocent. And then there’s me with my bloodstained hands.
I immediately release her and become so tense that she backs up. As soon as her hands aren’t doing a death grip on my shoulders and neck any longer, I scoot back and scramble to my feet, tugging my ripped jeans up with me.
“I’ll get changed, and we’ll go to the kitchen and have a cappuccino.”
“What?” She stares up at me, a total are you insane expression taking over her frown. “Coffee won’t fix this. And it’s the middle of the night. No one has a cappuccino at this hour.”
“I have cappuccinos at this hour.” A gentleman will offer a hand to help her up, but I can’t touch her right now. I shouldn’t touch her ever. Not with all the blood on my hands.
She gets up on her own, frowning at me in a pair of fuzzy blue pajama shorts and an old faded T-shirt with a cat butt on the front. Butts seem to be the theme tonight. “Jace wasn’t…he…never mind.”
“I know,” I choke. I reach for the ladder and get it standing up straight. I’m going to take it down the stairs before anyone else nearly dies falling over it or off of it. “I know he wasn’t like I am.”
Maybe he didn’t think his soul was stained from the shit we did in the name of our jobs and in the name of freedom. I’m not saying all of it was legit because I never just blindly followed orders, and I would have gotten out a long time ago if it was like that. It wasn’t. But I have done things. I’ve done things in order to save my back and the backs of the men at my left and my right. Jace did things too. We all did. It was impossible to be that highly specialized of a soldier and not do things.
“Was your grandpa from Ireland?”
I’m so surprised that I look back at her. “No. His parents were. They made an ass ton of money investing in land and real estate, and my grandpa continued the trend. My dad didn’t do much of anything except go to college, get married, and live off family money, but I bet he would have been roped into it eventually. Why?”
“No reason. I was just wondering. Your last name and all.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, when was the last time you slept?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She crosses her arms and gives me a bossy look. I have to say, I like it on her. The sassy strength. She needs it if she wants to get over what she nearly saw happen just now. “You know, laid down on a bed and spent a good few hours in it.”
I wish to god that I can add the bedroom set I’m using to the pile to donate. All the bedroom sets, actually, especially the one from the master bedroom, which belonged to my grandpa. I don’t go into that farging room if I don’t have to. For now, I might not add it all to the pile. I’ll leave Aspen’s for eleven more days—the amount of time she has left here—and then I’ll clean this place right out and maybe order something I like. Or maybe not. I don’t need much. A big, comfy chair will be about the extent of it.
“I don’t need to sleep much. Once something gets ingrained in you, it’s hard to get it out,” I tell her.
“Not drinking a bunch of coffee really late in the day helps.”
“You’re not going to go back to sleep, are you?” I point out.
Yes, I know. I’m infuriating. I also know I’m right. I just about went nuts over heels over the stair railing. Aspen, on the other hand, is still shaken up. She saw my butt and had to touch it. That had to be traumatizing for her.
“Fine,” she snorts. “Let’s have one of your famous solves-all-problems cappuccinos.”