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“Worked up?”
My father let out a sigh and walked closer to the bed. “Would you stop being so defensive for one minute and let us take a look at you? Your mother has been worried sick.”
Low blow. But damn if it wasn’t effective. If there was one thing I hated to do, it was worry my mom.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as I turned my attention back to see her eyes wandering down over my shirt.
“Come on, I want to see the worst of it. Show me,” she said, and gestured to the hem.
As I raised the material up past my ribs, to where the blue and purple bruises were the darkest, she winced and reached out to gently run her fingers over the raised welts of skin.
“My poor boy,” she said, shaking her head. “Why didn’t you call us when you woke up? We would’ve come and taken care of you. Brought you home so you could heal and be somewhere familiar.”
And have to deal with my father twenty-four seven? No thanks. I’d take Solo and his bad poker and never-ending chatter over my father’s steely silence any day.
“I’m fine, Mom. They postponed the course for a couple of weeks and I just need to rest up and take a few physical therapy courses.” Which I was so not looking forward to.
“Well, I could drive you to and from those. I don’t work anymore—”
“Mom, it’s okay. I’d really much rather stay on base.”
“Stay on base? Or stay close to him?” It didn’t take a genius to work out which “him” my father was referring to, and with the mood I was in, I didn’t really see the point in beating around the bush.
“If you mean Solo, then yes. I do enjoy his company. He’s a good friend—”
When my father grunted, I narrowed my eyes.
“He is,” I said. “He’s also a really fucking good pilot, and my teammate while I’m here. So if him sleeping on the floor last night to make sure your son was okay after being brought home from the hospital offends you, then I don’t know what to tell you.”
My father’s brow rose at my insubordination, but I didn’t care. How dare he come in here with his sanctimonious bullshit.
“It’s okay, Dad. We didn’t touch each other once.”
“Grant.”
“What? That’s what you’re worried about, right?”
“What I’m worried about right now is the fact that ever since you have been partnered up with that boy, you haven’t been acting like yourself.”
“And what exactly do you mean by that?”
“You’ve been rude, disrespectful, reckless. I watched your hop with Commander Levy; you were showing off up there—”
“Showing off? Are you kidding me right now? I was flying smart, safe, and exactly as I was trained to do. So don’t even come at me with that. I suppose you think it was my fault the fucking plane went down too!”
I was all but straining up off the bed now, my indignation a palpable thing, and when my mother put a hand to my chest to settle me, she aimed a look over her shoulder at my father.
There weren’t many things that could make Captain Fredrick “Razor” Hughes back down from an argument or opinion, but my mother’s withering glare was one of them.
“Fredrick, I think you owe your son an apology.”
My father sighed heavily, bowing his head as he put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him in a simple pair of jeans before, always dressing the equivalent of his rank no matter whether he was at work or home.
“Look, son, I didn’t mean to imply what happened was your fault. It’s a dangerous job, what we do, and until you’re a parent, I don’t think you’ll understand what it’s like to see your kid in trouble.”
“This is your job too. I grew up watching you fly, and you don’t think I ever got scared?”
My father rubbed his forehead. “That’s different—”
“How? I was as safe as I could possibly be up there. I did everything by the book, and look—I came out of it okay. No harm done.”
He looked at me then, sharp eyes meeting mine. “Is that true?”
“Yeah, look at me. Well, don’t look too close, but yeah, nothing’s broken or missing. I’m fine.”
“You won’t know you’re fine until you get back up there.” He crossed his arms as he began to slowly pace the room. “It was a traumatic event, and that kind of thing messes with your head. You don’t want to be at fifty thousand feet when you have a panic attack.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“Fine, I’ll bring a brown paper bag with me into the cockpit.”
“Or you could talk to someone.”
I frowned. “Like a therapist?”
“We have a couple on base. It wouldn’t be a bad idea. If not for yourself, then for your mother’s peace of mind.”
