Page 1 of Reeves

ONE

Reeves

The Jazz Funeral:A New Orleans tradition in which the deceased is escorted through the streets by a brass band. The procession cannot begin until everyone who belongs has found their way home.

I stepdown from the jet and straight into the kind of New Orleans heat that drops on your shoulders and stays there.

Sweat gathers at the base of my neck before I reach the curb, my duffel strap rough against my palm. The pilot waits a few feet behind me, like I might turn around and need him again.

I don’t.

I haven’t been back to New Orleans in three years. It’s been nine months since the night Ridge called and told me our father was dead. Nine months of sand, briefings, and missions that left no room for anything but the next objective.

The city looks the same as it always has, but without him in it, it's off. Familiar and not at the same time.

My brothers waited to hold the memorial until I could get leave. There was always another deployment, another rotation,another reason it made more sense to stay put. It's not like rushing back would have brought him back, anyway.

Fourteen days. I can do fourteen days.

“‘Reeves Stone?’”

The voice doesn’t belong back here. My shoulders lock before I turn.

A man stands just inside the restricted gate, notebook in hand like he walked through a door he shouldn’t have found. He's in his early thirties, if I had to guess.

I don't say anything, but my turning around to my name is answer enough, I suppose.

"Gus Thibodeaux." He extends his hand. "Thought that was you."

I shake his hand briefly. "Do I know you?"

"No, we've never met. I'm with the New Orleans Chronicle doing a story on your father's memorial service and saw in the arrival logs that you were coming in today." His pen hovers over his notepad.

"I'm sorry. Gus, right?"

He nods with a smile, like we're old pals.

"I'm just getting into town since my father's death. I'm not interested in answering any questions. Please excuse me."

I walk away, hoping he gets the message without me having to be any more firm. How the fuck did he get onto the tarmac of the private jets, anyway?

"Nine months since he passed away. You were deployed then, right?"

I guess he didn’t get the message. Welcome home.

My jaw tightens, and the muscles in my shoulders pull taut. I don't turn around, but the heat rises up my neck anyway.

"Do you regret not being here when it happened?"

The question pokes at me, but I keep my face neutral as I turn to face him. "What kind of question is that? For fuck's sake."

"Stone Intermodal announced record profits last year." His eyes stay fixed on mine. "I just meant, now that you're back, will you be stepping into the company? Taking your place at the table?"

Stone Intermodal posted two billion dollars in revenue last year. I know this because Ridge emailed me the press release, and I deleted it without reading past the subject line.

A low thrum at the base of my skull picks up intensity. The company. The legacy. The cage.

"My brothers have the company handled. Sounds like you did your research, so you know I'm active duty military."