The Deeper He Hurts (22 page)

Available from Loveswept

Winter 2017

Rain sputtered down in an annoying drizzle that collected on the windshield and blurred Tanner Dorsey's view of the two-story Tudor. The urge to switch his wipers on, even for a single pass, was blocked by his trained instincts. Movement gave away position, and he wasn't ready to be seen.

Nothing had changed, at least from the outside. The manicured lawn was green, the shrubs trimmed into neat containment. Olive-toned siding accented by the red-brick entry and white trim with the distinctive narrow gables, thin windows, and timber framing. Starkly bare compared with the abundance of seasonal decorations that littered the other houses. The blinds were drawn tight on the ground floor, lights extinguished, zero activity detected.

He inhaled, released it slowly, and clicked through the refuse clouding his thoughts. An easier task than sorting out the strangle of emotions he'd blocked since returning stateside. Eighteen months overseas, ten focused solely on the mission. Plenty of time for things to go to hell.

To fail in his duty to his brothers while serving his duty to his country.

The gray light camouflaged the time, trapping the world in a depressed state of uniformity. No brightness or shadows. Consistency at its worst, but it was preferable to the blistering blindness of the unrelenting sun.

Sweat clung to his nape and plastered his undershirt to his back, but a shiver trembled down his spine. He suppressed it without thought. He was free to move here. Free to yell and scream…or cry. He wouldn't, though. To crack was to fail when he couldn't repack everything that would escape.

The car engine ticked as it cooled, the cold creeping in the longer he sat there. His plane had landed that morning. He'd booked the first available flight out of San Diego once his debriefing was done, and his leave had officially begun. There'd been no question on where he'd spend his time off, and no guilt either. His family didn't even know he was back on U.S. soil. He'd text his mother when he was able to deal with her. After this was done.

He needed his brothers. Not his blood relation, but the ones who knew him better than he knew himself. The ones who'd become his family the second he'd stepped off the bus at Parris Island and placed his feet in the same yellow footprints that'd welcomed every recruit.

But there was one brother who needed him more than anyone else—and Tanner needed him too.

He was a Navy brat by distinction of his father's job, but he was a Marine by choice—one he'd never regretted. Not through almost twenty years of service. Not through all the wars, deployments, and missions. Not through the pain of battle and loss.

Not…until yesterday.

One message. That was it. One single text had sucked the breath from his lungs and almost dropped him to his knees.

He hadn't read the rest of the updates until he was waiting for his flight. Nine months that chronicled the status of the brother to his right and the one who was no longer to his left.

The ache in his throat swelled until he forced it back with a hard swallow. A few blinks and the burning sensation faded from his eyes. Another long exhale to the count of heartbeats.
One, two, three, four.

He'd ended his information gathering after that. Everything else that'd happened while he'd been in the dark could wait. The deluge of information was standard after returning from an extended special operations mission where a blackout of personal communication had been required. Almost a year without civilian contact of any kind. No emails or texts. No video messaging or calls. Care packages were a joke. Much like showers and clean clothes. All sacrifices he'd willingly given in the name of freedom.

There were many, many more who'd given everything.

He closed his eyes, flashes of faces racing past in a silent tribute to his fallen brothers. He'd had the misfortune—or fortune, if one chose to look at it that way—of serving the majority of his military career during a period of war. Would he have changed his mind when he'd enlisted in the late nineties if he'd known what the next two decades would bring? Not a chance.

The memories weren't all great. Many haunted him in his nightmares, both awake and asleep. But it was his life. One that'd given him purpose and inclusion, shaped and saved him in ways only other Marines understood.

He jerked the door open and exited the rental car in a single movement. He'd packed quickly in the thirty minutes he'd stopped by his apartment between base and the airport, grabbing the important things and figuring he'd buy anything he'd forgotten.

He yanked the flight bag out of the rear, glanced up and down the street as he closed the hatch. Shoulders back, chin high, he strode to the green Tudor, the arched entry his intent. He still scanned the perimeter, checked between each house, eyed the windows. The street held a deserted feel to it that coincided with the midweek work schedule of most civilians. The dreary December weather didn't help with the welcoming either.

The rainy mist coated his leather jacket and spit at his face, but was easily ignored. This was nothing and didn't even register on his annoyance scale. His shoes were silent, his bag held at his side. His pulse kicked higher with each step closer to his destination. There was no valid reason for the anxiety stacking up within his chest. His extended absence wasn't unexpected nor would it be criticized. Yet the worry had built over each long hour that it'd taken him to get to Portland.

He bounded up the short flight of stairs to the small stoop, familiarity settling in. He'd been here before, but it'd been a long while since his last visit.

Obviously,
too
long.

He'd tried to prepare himself for what he'd find behind this door. Tried and failed. The complete lack of information from this source—the direct source—had chilled him more than the updates from Rig and Axel.

The door swung open before he was ready, the slow sweep tensing his muscles until they coiled in his abdomen. The revealed man was a thinned-down version of the brother he knew and loved. Hardened, too. A thick wall of distrust and defiance separated them, unseen but tangible in his closed expression and stiff hold.

Tanner didn't speak, couldn't around the hundred different thoughts congealing in a hardened knot in his throat. This move wasn't his to make. Too much had changed. His coming here now—nine months too late—was the only thing he could do.

“You're here.”

The gruff statement eased a coating of doubt from the layers that'd stacked up in the last day. Finn Kelley had morphed into another version of himself that Tanner both recognized and didn't. But this tone, the seemingly flat statement that held more emotion than any buoyant welcome could have, was very Finn.

Tanner nodded. “I am.”

He set his bag down and caught Finn in a hug in the next second.
Fuck
. He closed his eyes, absorbed the contact and connection he'd schooled himself to forget while deployed. He had dozens of military brothers, men he still worked with. But this bond was deeper, longer, and more solid than any he'd forged before or after.

Finn's hold was tight, stronger than he'd expected. The intensity soaked through the cold that'd surrounded him for eighteen months. His frame was smaller, his bulk the thinnest he'd ever held. The differences flashed through Tanner's mind in snippets that registered and fled. More bones than flesh, weight braced heavier on his right side.

Right behind them were the familiar notes that rang through the physical damage. He nuzzled his neck and inhaled, reveling in the soap and man scent that was all Finn. The smooth brush of his shaved cheek, the regulation haircut that bristled against his temple.

His heart swelled, ached with the loss and regrets he couldn't voice. But over it all was relief. That Finn was alive. That he was here to hold at all.

That Tanner could be here now, even if he couldn't stay.

Finn clung to Tanner with relief and desperation he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge through the long months of his recovery. He'd refused to think of what Tanner's extended absence could mean. Rejected any thought that'd lead to the dark possibilities that came with every military mission. He'd lived that life for fifteen years and understood the dangers as only a special ops brother could.

And yet he'd feared the worst.

Finding out Chris had died in the rafting accident that'd landed him in a coma for seven weeks and almost claimed his own life had devastated him. But he hadn't allowed himself to focus on how badly the loss hurt. On the hole that still gaped in his heart at the death of his brother to his right.

Tanner, the brother to his left, was back, and he couldn't process anything except the profound thankfulness for this gift right here. The touch and connection. The unspoken understanding that flowed between them on a level so deep it now sunk into him to quiet the craggy whispers of doubt and doom.

He simply held on and took the comfort that was being given from the only man he could take it from without shattering completely.

Hints of vanilla muddled by the damp flooded past his blocked receptors to fill him with a warmth he'd given up ever feeling again. This deep flash of love and belonging had been dulled for so long, the rush threatened to knock his shaking legs out from beneath him.

Eleven years of friendship forged under situations most couldn't comprehend, let alone survive, created a level of intimacy no absence could break.

He tightened his hold, pressed his lips to Tanner's smooth jaw. His heart stuttered, clenched, and finally relaxed to allow air into his lungs. He sucked in a deep breath, gripped Tanner's nape, and rested his temple against Tanner's.

He swallowed twice before he could speak, and then his voice was barely above a croak. “How long?”

“Five weeks.”

Warm breath ghosted over his cheek with each word. He suppressed a shudder and collected himself, stretching the unspoken promise over the hole in his heart in a miserable excuse of a patch.

Five weeks. Forever on military time, and barely a blink on civilian.

The annoying drizzle of rain peppering his face and arms finally penetrated through the tunnel focus he'd fallen into the second he spotted Tanner approaching his home. He gave himself another moment to relish the bond he couldn't explain and had feared was completely severed after Chris died.

Another deep breath, a brush of lips on his cheek, and he let go. He took a cautious step back, smothered his wince when his knee almost buckled. Newly learned habits and tricks kept his legs beneath him and his dignity intact as he held the door open for Tanner.

Damn he looked good.

A Marine to his core, Tanner Dorsey emanated the confidence and poise that came from his years in the Corps and the prejudices he still battled. Finn had always viewed Tanner as a mix of the best of both his parents. His diluted Korean heritage from his mother clung to his distinctive almond eyes and thick black hair. His father's Caucasian assets of an oblong face and a good height and build provided the muscular form that drew many eyes, both male and female.

Rain clung to his short hair and slicked his leather coat in a wet gloss. His jeans hugged his narrow hips and molded around his ass, sculpted by hours of rigorous training, and now flexing with each step he took.

Finn shut the door and Tanner hung his coat in the entry closet. His familiar ease within Finn's home loosened yet another of the harbored concerns that'd manage to fester beneath the layers of worries.

His shoulders were back, stance as straight as he could get it, when Tanner turned to him. Seven months of rehabilitation therapy had gotten him to this point, but he was still far from the man he'd been before the head injury and coma had stolen his entire sense of self.

So much passed between them through eye contact alone, thoughts flying and answered with nothing more than a slight raise of the brow and compression of lips.
Are you okay? Do you miss him? Are you ready for what's next?

The dim hallway didn't hide anything. An arm's length away and miles from where'd they'd once been, he ached to fall into Tanner's strength, when he'd always stood on his own.

But he flat-out refused to be that weak.

“Have you talked to Rig?” Finn asked, his voice too loud in the hushed space of his small foyer.

“No.” Tanner wet his lips, shoved his hands into his pockets. “I got back at twenty-two hundred hours yesterday and spent the next six in debrief.” He stepped closer, hurt and sorrow clouding his deep brown, almost black eyes. “I came here the second I was free.”

Finn could only nod, his throat too tight to speak. The unasked question of why he hadn't contacted Tanner himself was another of the many questions left unspoken. Another round of hurt spread over Tanner's frown, his brows pulling together before they flattened out on a deep inhalation.

The urge to yank his gaze or duck his head crawled up Finn's nape and threatened to humiliate him even more. His physical weakness had nothing on the emotional vulnerability he battled daily. It was foreign and so damn annoying, and he fought the elusive fucker from sunup to sundown and then armored up before going to sleep with the hopes that he'd wake in one piece.

If he could let anyone see that, it would be Tanner. His soul mate in every way except sexually, he'd understand. No, his fear of exposing the raging beast of insecurity was based solely on his own belief that once he set it loose, he'd never be whole again.

Tanner raised his hand, the movement cautious—or was it deliberate? He cupped Finn's neck, thumb stroking over the edge of his jaw. The touch seared Finn's heart and almost shattered the core of determined strength he'd been sucking from his entire life. He gasped, turned his chin into the caress.

“I've missed you, you fucker,” Tanner murmured.

The tenderness wrapped around him in a harsh reminder of how isolated his existence had become. A lifetime of holding everything in and everyone at bay had kept him sane when he should've gone crazy. Tanner and Chris had been the only ones he'd ever allowed in.