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Chapter 1
Keaton
“First day on the new job?” my friend and fellow Navy SEAL, Warren, asks over the phone.
“Yup,” I confirm as I step in front of the mirror. My short, dark hair doesn’t need much maintenance, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check, especially if I’m going to be making some first impressions today.
I’m still a bit surprised every time I see my reflection. I’ve only been on leave from the SEALs for a week, but I’ve got a decent beard starting. I can’t decide if I’m keeping it because I don’t have the energy to shave or if I actually like it.
“You know you’re going to have to string more than two or three words together at a time for this bodyguard gig, right?”
I grunt while running my fingers through the short, coarse hairs at the base of my chin and jawline.
“See, that right there is an example of not communicating clearly,” the wise-ass continues. “You might have to speak in full sentences. You’re not back in Qatar with the SEALs where everyone understands the nuances of your grunts and growls.”
“I know,” I tell him with a sigh. Stepping out of the bathroom, I grab my jacket and make sure my keys and wallet are in my pocket before heading out the door. The shitty rent-by-the-week motel, while outdated and run-down, is still an upgrade from some of the places I’ve slept.
My mind wanders back to the deserts of the Middle East, where nights were spent in creaky cots with temps soaring over one hundred degrees. More memories of my past pop up without my permission, taking me back to my childhood when I slept in closets and under beds to hide from my father when he was in one of his moods.
“You okay?”
I’m pulled from the barrage of pathetic images zapping my brain and forced to focus back on Warren.
“Yup,” I tell him, keeping my tone even. Anyone else would drop it, but not Warren. Not my best friend, who has stuck by my side since we first deployed overseas.
“Keaton,” he warns.
“I’m fine,” I snap, instantly regretting it.
My friend takes a deep breath, and I can tell he’s winding up to give me his two cents on my current situation. “I know you don’t want to hear my opinion, but as your best friend, it’s my duty to tell you when you’re being a stubborn ass and getting in your own way.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunt, making my way to the offices of Sea Change. I’m hoping a few well-placed mumbles of half-hearted agreement will pacify Warren for now. I know he means well, but I’m in no mood to be lectured. Again. Hearing all of this from my Commanding Officer the first time was hard enough.
“I’m serious. You haven’t told me much about your old man, but from what I’ve gathered, he was a piece of shit.”
This earns him a growl of agreement.
“Even so. He died. You’re his only living relative. That has to mean something somewhere down deep. Whether we like it or not, our parents hold a position of power in our lives.”
“Not anymore. Not from the urn his ashes are in.”
Warren lets out an exasperated sigh, but hey, at least I’m stringing more than three words together, right?
“Just because you called the hospital and arranged for his body to be cremated doesn’t mean you’ve dealt with his death.”
“Seems like I did from my perspective. As the only living relative, I dealt with the remains. They’re currently packed away in the storage unit with the rest of the shit I don’t need or use anymore.”
“You know that’s not what I mean, but I’m done preaching at you. I just want you to know you’re welcome to visit me again in Cali for a bit during your leave. How much time do you have off?”
“C.O. told me three months minimum. Can you fuckin’ believe it? Either forced bereavement leave or early retirement. For what? Emotional issues? That’s some bullshit, is what it is.”
“And instead of taking time to reflect or holding a funeral or some kind of memorial service, you jumped into a freelance bodyguard job. No time to process, just going from one high-stakes situation to another. The grief is going to come back to you eventually, Keaton. And I don’t mean that in a foreboding way. I just want you to know I’m here for you when it does.”
“I don’t have grief. I have annoyance that everyone seems to think they know me better than I know myself,” I grumble. After a beat of silence, I clear my throat and try again. “Thanks for the sentiment, Warren. I know I have support. I just really, truly am fine with it. My father’s death hasn’t affected me that much, so I don’t know what everyone is freaking out about.”
Even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. I’ve always been the strong, silent type, but since my father’s passing last month, I’ve become practically non-verbal. I have a shorter fuse than usual, and part of me knows these events are related. I’m not ready to deal with that tangled knot of raw emotion, however, so I shove it way down deep like I always do.
“Whatever you say, buddy,” Warren tells me. It’s his way of “agreeing to disagree,” which is all I can ask for at this point.
