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Briggs tosses a few bags of Skittles and other candy my way. “I’ll pay your ante until you can get me back.”
“Thanks,” I say as Mullins puts a hand on my shoulder. “You good?”
Briggs watches me carefully for the answer, and suddenly all eyes are on me. I realize then that I need to be more present. My pity party has gone on long enough. I’m not going to help anyone with the way I’ve been behaving.
“Can I have a shot of that?” I ask Briggs, who sits across from me. He doesn’t hesitate a second to fill the cap close to the rim, and I grip it from him and toss it back. Warmth spreads through me as I finally answer. “I will be in about five minutes.”
Briggs nods, shuffling the deck six ways, making it look easy.
“Should I be afraid?” I whisper to Mullins.
She leans in conspiratorially as Briggs grins at something Jones says. “He’s only lost two hands in the last hour.”
“Damn.”
“I told him you wouldn’t come, but he insisted Jones go get you. I’m glad you came.”
Briggs wanted me here?
I look up to find him grinning at me.
“Want another?”
I swallow. “Another what?”
His smile widens with amusement. “Another shot, Scottie?”
“Oh, sure, yeah.” I extend the empty cap and return his grin as Mullins nudges me, “Someone is crushin’ on you.”
As if Briggs can hear her, he speaks up on his own behalf. “You’ve been killing yourself over there,” he says with a twinge of what sounds like respect. “You need a break.”
“Thanks for noticing, but I’m okay.” I take my cards and spread them out. I only have a pair of tens. I toss three down, and Briggs deals me three more. “I’m not the one risking my life out there every day. Don’t make a hero out of me.”
Morrero speaks up next from where he sits beside Mullins, who hangs on his every word. “I’ve seen the traffic coming in lately,” he says in a somber tone. “You’re appreciated,” he adds as he pours another shot in front of me and then looks over to Mullins. “Both of you.” He hands the Listerine bottle filled with liquor to Mullins, who takes a healthy swig after toasting with me, and I toss mine back. It’s here, sitting at a table full of soldiers with lives, families, and fears of their own, that I finally start to breathe a bit easier.
“During a loud thunderstorm,” Briggs says, before tossing a shot back, “a little girl runs into her parents’ bedroom. ‘Holy shit!’ she screams. ‘And you wanted me to see a doctor about sucking my thumb?’?”
I shake my head as the rest of the table cracks up laughing. Briggs has been on a roll for the last two hours, freely pouring shots while sweeping the table with the hands he lays. Most of his jokes are chauvinistic or in poor taste, but I can’t help but laugh at him. His attention is divided equally among all of us, and it’s over this time I realize he’s that guy, the attentive one. In his own way, he’s taking care of all of us. I can’t help but admire his spirit—the way he always seems to make the best of the situation. And for those hours, with my head buzzing from the whiskey, and the laughter bubbling up, I forget the ache of missing home.
“Tell the one about the husband and wife,” Morrero orders as he takes another shot.
“Not appropriate,” Briggs says, grinning at his cards.
“Oh, please,” I say. “Like you’ve really been holding back.”
His eyes shoot to mine and hold my gaze. “Trust me, I have been.”
Uncomfortable with the roundabout comment, I shift in my seat and fire back. “Might as well, and for the record, you need new material.”
“Nah,” he says, pulling one of his cards out and pushing it back in his hand. “I’ll keep this one to myself, and if you’ve got better, I’d love to hear it.”
I shrug. “Not my thing.”
“They’re jokes, Scottie,” he says with a frown. “It’s not exactly a hobby.”
In that moment, I feel like an ice princess. I don’t know why I’m riding him so hard or always on the defensive. Maybe I’m a little jealous of his carefree demeanor. I’ve never been one to woo a crowd, but he’s done nothing but cater to all of us since I showed up.
“Tell you what,” I offer. “You find yourself in need of a nurse, I’ll show you exactly what I’m good at.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Jones, grab your gun, but don’t get that bullet anywhere near my dick.”
Our eyes lock over the table as I shake my head with a hesitant smile.
Chapter Five
Briggs
“Fuck!” I fist my hands at my forehead as I watch Hollins roll out in a Humvee, unconscious. He’s lost a shitload of blood.
Jones puts a hand on my shoulder as I try to recall what happened.
“It was quick. Get out of your head. This isn’t on you,” he warns as we climb into the truck and follow them back to base. Our patrol had ended in a gunfight. Some motherfucker had decided to go kamikaze on us just before we’d finished up. Twisting in my seat, I look back at the two soldiers behind us who I call the two micks—McKnight and McCallister.
“What’d you see?” They’re already shaking their heads before I can get the question out.
“No fucking clue,” McKnight says, looking past my shoulder at the speeding Humvee. “That asshole came out of nowhere.”
“Was he alone?”
“Not sure,” McCallister answers. “But as fast as we took that fucker down, I think we rattled the rest away.”
Pissed I didn’t see it coming, I smash my fist on the dash as Jones drives us back to base. As soon as he hits the brakes, I’m racing for the clinic.
Hauling ass inside, I’m brought to a stop when I see Scottie sitting beside Hollins, her features twisted in guilt, his lifeless body on the table next to her. She rubs her hands down her face and shakes her head before her eyes meet mine.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, approaching the table with lead in my stomach. “What happened?”
“We tried,” she says, pulling a fresh sheet over Hollins. Reaching out, I stop her movement before she can completely cover him. My hand rests on her shoulder for a beat before I pull it away.
“Just a second,” I whisper, as my chest constricts. I study Hollins for a minute, maybe more, before I nod my head, and she covers him the rest of the way.
“Thank you,” Scottie whispers to Hollins. “I’m so sorry.”
Unable to speak around the building lump in my throat, I turn to walk away when her voice stops me.
“Did he have a family?”
Irritated with the question, I look back to her, letting it out the only way I can. “He had a fucking life he wasn’t finished living, Scottie—isn’t that enough? Or does every soldier have to be a family man to matter?”
Instantly I regret it. I can’t even look at her face for her reaction because I already feel like an asshole.
Two steps outside the clinic, my hands are on my knees. “FUCK!”
“I’m sorry.” She speaks up from behind me. “I did everything I could. In truth, he was already gone before he got here.”
Turning, I look back at her. My asshole comment didn’t faze her, but I can see the regret of his loss in her posture. Sunlight glints off her hair as she looks to me with concern and sympathy swimming in her sea-colored eyes. I’m not used to seeing that on any other woman’s face but my Gran, and I find it comforting, appealing even.
“Thank you.”
She swipes the side of her face with her hand, her own frustration showing. “I didn’t do anything. I feel like I’m not saving anyone. Most of the time”—she pauses—“by the time they get here…” Her eyes shine with defeat. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping on you.”
“It’s okay to grieve a soldier you don’t know, Scottie. I think everyone should. I’m sure you’re doing all you can. You’re here, that’s enough.”
