Fire with Fire (Crash and Burn, Book 3) (A Military Romance) (2 page)

M
y dad’s
house is painfully quiet.

I can hear the soft, hushed cadence of my breathing as I stare at the TV, which I haven’t turned on yet. Hell, I can almost hear the thudding of my heart. It’s been a long fucking day, one I spent most of driving around in my truck.

Thinking.

I stopped to eat a late lunch at a dumpy diner out in a small suburb I’d never been to before. The Reuben was good, the fries generic. I picked at my food, not really hungry. After that, I continued to drive and drive. Aimless, meandering, not wanting to go home, not wanting to see anyone.

I couldn’t get that fight I overheard out of my head.

I still can’t.

Funny how much stuff you learn when you’re listening to a private conversation, stuck, unable to do much more than sit there. Christina was lobbing so many accusations at Lauren…and holy shit, first off, I had no idea her sister had a crush on me. Still reeling from that one. She and I barely spoke to each other in person over the years, mostly at family functions, and our emails were polite and nice but not exactly groundbreaking personal revelations.

But the hardest part of that fight was realizing Lauren apparently views me as a dirty little secret. Something she has to keep quiet from everyone. Something that “just happened” out of nowhere and needed to be downplayed, kept quiet, to spare her sister’s feelings. She flat-out told her we weren’t seeing each other. That was a kick in the nuts.

Logically, I get it. I really do. Family is important, and Lauren loves her sister and would say whatever it took to get her to stop being mad. But the whole thing left me feeling shitty and dumb, because here I was, thinking last night that there was something real between us, something almost tangible and worth diving off the cliff’s edge for.

Fucking stupid fool I am.

Thank God I never told her how I really feel. I was so close to revealing it last night while we were making love—that
wasn’t
just sex, I’d bet my right kidney on it—but something held me back. Some kind of self-preservation that is also apparently psychic.

The other part of the argument still nagging at me was the discussion about Lauren doing something sexual with Max, who, if I remember right, was Christina’s ex from a while ago.

I sip iced tea and kick my feet on the coffee table, click on the TV. Blindly eye the basketball playoffs between two teams I don’t really care about.

It’s clear Lauren didn’t tell me about whatever went down with Christina’s ex years ago. I don’t have all the pieces, but evidently he and Christina were still together in some capacity when this sexual encounter occurred. I wouldn’t judge Lauren, of course, wouldn’t shame her over it, because I’m sure she’s done enough of that, knowing her the way I do. But it hurts me more than I want to admit that she kept something that big from me.

Never even hinted at it happening.

Why? Was she ashamed? Or are we not the best friends I thought we were, and she didn’t feel it was something to share with me? Are there other things she’s kept from me that I’m not aware of?

Looks like Lauren is good at keeping secrets. I’m starting to learn new things about her, things I never would have guessed at before. My stomach tightens at that thought.

There’s a thunk behind me, and I spin around, suddenly on alert. My dad’s standing in the doorway, fatigue etched in deep lines around his eyes and mouth. The wariness leaves me, and I dart around the couch to stand in front of him, take the bag from his clenched fist.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

“Hey yourself.” At least he looks and sounds sober this time, unlike the last time we talked. I’m kinda nervous to say too much for fear of driving him away.

“Thirsty?” I ask. “Want me to get you anything?” I drop his bag on the dining room table and head to the fridge.

“I’m good for now.” Dad shuffles into the living room, and I hear him settle into his favorite recliner. The recliner base kicks up, and the volume on the TV is raised.

I grab a soda and make my way back to the couch. He and I watch TV in silence for a while, nodding when a guy makes a good play, grunting at the commentary. I’m eager to ask him questions, but I keep my mouth shut. It’s clear he needs some space. I learned early on that pushing people only alienates them.

At halftime, Dad turns the commentary down and gets up to snag a beer from the fridge. I hear the pop of the cap, which he tosses into the garbage. He comes back, sips. Slides a glance over to me.

He wants to say something. I just need to wait and let him get to the point at his own time. I keep my attention on the TV, pretending interest in whatever they’re blathering about. Blah blah turnovers and fouls. I like basketball in general but I can’t focus on the game. Not with so much shit on my mind.

“I want you to take over the bar with your brother,” Dad says quietly.

I swivel my head to stare at him. “Pardon?” I can’t have heard that right.

“Well, or at least help him run it until he finds a partner,” he continues like I didn’t speak. “I don’t think it’ll be too hard. With the remodel, it’ll be a much better investment for someone.”

“But…the bar was your dream,” I say, stunned. Hell, it’s even named after him. This isn’t what I expected. Not at all. “I don’t understand. You leave for several days and then you come back and…what? What are you going to do now? Start a new career at your age?”

Dad levels an even look at me. “Why not? I’m not dead.”

I flinch. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just…” I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. Shift on the couch so I’m facing him. He looks so tired, so aged. This wasn’t exactly the homecoming I was hoping for; it’s been months since I saw him. “I’m worried about you, Dad. You’re not yourself.”

“Haven’t been myself in a long time.” He’s still quiet. Dad’s not one to raise his voice normally. “It was wrong for me to just take off like that—leaving Xander in the lurch to run the business alone wasn’t right. I’ll talk to him about that, make it up to him. But all the driving around, just letting myself think, it helped me realize I’ve been surviving but not thriving.” Dad pauses, takes a draw from his beer.

“There wasn’t a better way to rediscover yourself without scaring your sons shitless with worry?” I ask in a pointed tone.

He shrugs. “That’s fair, and I’m sorry. Your mom would have had my hide over that. She was always protective of you boys.”

To say the least. Mom was smothering on her best day. But her overprotective nature aside, she did care about our feelings, I admit. She really would have lashed out at Dad for scaring us this way.

“I miss her too,” I tell him.

He nods, then looks back at the TV.

Now that Dad’s back, though, the house doesn’t feel so much like only hers. More like it used to be, with both their presences giving weight to the place. Looking around, I see pieces of Dad starting to creep in, take over, and it’s losing its museum-like feel. His packs of half-empty cigarettes stashed around the end tables. A pair of dirty socks tossed in the far corner. War-themed DVDs stacked by the TV.

Would he ever sell this place? Does he want to leave the last of Mom behind and try to find happiness alone? I don’t know how to feel about it. This was my childhood home, and I never imagined it being sold. Of course, I always thought my mom would be around, too.

I scrub my face, my head starting to pound at the temples. Now’s not the time to push him for answers. He’s not much of a talker, so even opening up this much is surprising. “I’ll help Xander with the bar, of course,” I tell him. “I wanna go to school, get a degree, but I plan to work in the meantime.”

Dad grunts his approval and raises his beer bottle to me, a nonverbal cheer. “I’m sure you’ll be great at whatever you do.”

The praise makes me flush, and some of my stress fades. I shake off the compliment and sip my drink. “So, you think they can come behind from this big of a deficit?” I ask, nodding at the TV. The game’s going to restart in a few minutes, and the commentators are yammering on and on about stats and injuries and expectations for the second half.

“Dunno. Guess we’ll have to see.”

We watch the rest of the game, not talking about anything serious, offering thoughts on the plays. I can’t help but feel a bit uneasy still, and that headache won’t quite go away. I want to talk to someone about this, find out the right way to handle it with my dad.

I want to text Lauren. Call her, hear her voice in my ear, her soothing me that everything will be fine. So badly it’s like my whole body craves her.

Instead, I keep my phone tucked away, fight the impulse. I’m still hurt and confused and frustrated about what happened between her and her sister, between her and I, and for once, I’m the one needing space to figure out where to go from here.

At the end of the game, Dad stands, stretches, empty beer bottle in hand. “Heading to bed.”

“Night,” I say.

“See ya in the morning.” With that, he goes up the stairs to his room.

I click the TV off and, grabbing my phone, go to the back patio. Cool evening air greets me, and I settle into a metal chair, the cushion a little too thin to be comfortable for long. I kick my legs back, stare up at the starry sky. A few trees in the backyard obscure my view, but stars dot between leaves. It’s clear and pretty out.

Once again, the urge to call Lauren hits me, and once again, I fight it off. I’m not fucking doing that. Instead, I dial my brother’s number. Hopefully I’m not waking anyone up. He’s usually a night owl, though.

“’Lo?” Xander says.

“Hey, how goes things?” I say.

“Fine. Got the little shithead to bed. He was in a mood today.” My brother groans, and I can almost see the sour look on his face.

“We used to be like that too, remember?”

“Don’t remind me. I already know I’m paying for the sins of my youth.”

I laugh, then sober quickly. “So…Dad’s home.”

“Really. How is he? What did he say to you? Is he still up? Can I talk to him?” Xander’s questions are rapid-fire, and when he finally stops to take a breath, I interject.

“He’s fine. He’s up in bed right now. I figured he needed some sleep. He looked tired.” I sigh. “Haven’t seen him like that since the funeral.”

“Is he coming to work tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” I debate for a moment if I should mention the bar aspect of our conversation to Xander or leave it to Dad to bring it up.

“What are you not saying?” Savvy as ever. My brother knows me too fucking well.

“He’s…” I clear my throat. “Dad doesn’t want to run the bar anymore. He asked me to help until you two can find someone to buy him out as partner.”

“Holy shit,” Xander breathes. “Really? I—I don’t know what to do here. I’m glad he’s home but I’m still pissed at him for taking off like that. It wasn’t right.”

“I think he feels bad,” I offer, “for what it’s worth. And I’m sure he’ll talk more tomorrow. He knows he needs to talk to you too. So maybe sit on that info until he brings it up.”

“Fuck.” The curse is little more than a low growl. “Fine. But if he doesn’t bring it up tomorrow, I’m hunting him down and making him talk to me.”

“Don’t blame you.” And he will, too. My brother is already overstressed and tired. He can’t keep running like this much longer. At least he has a direction to move in now, something I’m sure he’s glad about. The worst part is not knowing.

“So…thanks. I know this isn’t in your plans, but I really appreciate you helping me out with the bar. Hopefully we can find a new partner soon and you can go back to working part-time hours or whatever you want.” The appreciation in his voice is clear, and a bit more of my tension fades.

“No prob. Glad to help. I could use a distraction anyway.” Shit, I didn’t mean to admit that. Kinda slipped out.

“Hm.” Xander doesn’t say much more, but he doesn’t have to. I know he’s figured out I’m not exactly happy right now. “When you wanna talk…”

“I’m good, thanks.” While I needed to unload the shit about Dad on his shoulders so we could figure it out, together, I don’t need to whine about what’s happening with Lauren. “I’m gonna go. See ya tomorrow at the bar.”

“Okay.” There’s hesitation in his voice, but he doesn’t push. “Later.”

We hang up. I exhale hard, trying to loosen this knot in my chest. It aches to not turn to my best friend. But I have to start distancing myself from her, have to stop leaning so much on her, because it’s clear she’s never going to love or want or need me the way I do her. This is so one-sided it hurts.

There’s a wall between us now. And I don’t know if that can ever be fixed. All I know is it’s going to be a long, long time before I can go back to being just friends with Lauren.

* * *

“
C
an
I get two Bud Lights?” a brunette in a tight tank top asks. She’s a few years younger than me, not a day over twenty-two, but her smile is wide and her appreciation clear as she eyes me. “My friend and I both had a shitty day at work, and we’re ready to shake it off.” She gives a little shimmy as she speaks and flashes her teeth.