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Billy rolled his eyes. “Fine. She broke into my house when she got there yesterday because I was late and it was fucking pouring. And I thought she was an intruder so I pulled my gun on her.”
He wasn’t sharing the bit about the towel. That was all his.
His dickhead friends burst out laughing. Mo laughed so hard, he had to jump his feet onto the rails.
“How did she break in?” Noah asked, clutching his stomach.
Billy scowled. “She picked the lock.”
Noah’s brows went up. “Resourceful.”
Mo nodded and grinned. “Ranger brother teach her that?”
“Yeah. I should’ve known, too.”
“Did she flip out about you pulling the gun?” Noah asked.
“No,” Billy said, realizing just how fucking cool her reaction had been. “She teased me about it and made me agree that we shouldn’t tell her brother.”
Mo and Noah traded impressed looks. “I like this girl and I haven’t even met her,” Mo said. “When are we rectifying that?”
“Any time,” Billy said. “She’s new to D.C. so she’d probably appreciate making some friends.”
Just then, Coach Mack, Hawk, and Colby arrived, and Billy was glad for the interruption. Because he felt like talking about Shayna was making him think about her in ways he really shouldn’t.
He greeted each of the new men in turn. John “Mack” McPherson was in his forties and had started WFC about a decade before. Leo Hawkins and Colby Richmond were two of Coach Mack’s original members, and they often helped instruct and supervise training within the club. And, of course, all three of them were veterans, because that was the only requirement for membership.
Which was a big part of the reason that WFC meant so much to Billy. The worst part of losing his career
hadn’t been his injury, as bad as that had been, it’d been the loss of his community, the place where he belonged.
WFC had given that back to him. These guys had been where he’d been. They knew what it was to be out there serving. And they understood the struggles you faced coming home—even if you were physically whole—like no one else.
Finally, all the chit chat was out of the way, and they got down to business. First, with an ass-kicking workout of free weights, and then with class and matches.
And Billy was so keyed up that he won every round.
She lived next to a cemetery.
Shayna discovered this when she took a walk around the neighborhood to see what was nearby. She’d found a few convenience stores, a pharmacy, a couple of schools, and a fantastic-looking Indian restaurant.
And a sprawling cemetery, part of which was the final resting place of famous writers, diplomats, and politicians, and part of which was the Soldiers’ Home National Cemetery, the country’s first national cemetery, founded even before the more famous Arlington.
It had been created to bury the thousands of dead soldiers from nearby Civil War battles. And at the edge of the cemetery was the cottage where President Lincoln had spent the hot summers of his presidency, watching as more and more graves filled the surrounding fields outside his front door.
It was a cemetery.
And, camera in hand, Shayna had stumbled into it, lured by the beautiful gardens, unusual little chapels, and haunting statuary.
For the span of several long minutes, she found it hard to take a breath.
Because the last time she’d gone to a cemetery, it had been for her brother’s funeral. Dylan. The middle Curtis sibling. Who’d died helping Shayna.
She’d never gone to visit him again.
Shayna couldn’t feel him there. And the empty hollowness felt like an accusation. It’s your fault he’s not here. It should’ve been you.
The tightness in her chest made her a little dizzy, and she realized that she was gulping for breath. Bracing her hands on her knees made it a little easier to breathe, but also caused the camera she wore strapped around her neck to swing down.
