Page 101 of Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC 7)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Late Summer 2015, Wichita, Kansas, USA

I hadn’t spent any time in my father’s home to speak of since I was eighteen years old. Being there at length brought a rush of memories with it, some good, and some not-so-good. As he slept and Katie cleaned the house, I looked through cabinets, boxes, and drawers for memories of my mother.

The deepest memory came not only of her, but of Suzanne.

I pulled the egg-shaped bottle from the bathroom cabinet and removed the lid. It became my mother’s signature scent, and the bottle was something I remembered seeing on a regular basis as a child, but I hadn’t associated the smell with my recollection of the bottle – or with my mother – yet.

I pressed the tip of the nozzle and sprayed some of the fragrance into the air. As I watched the small droplets fall toward the floor, I craned my neck toward them and inhaled slowly.

Immediately, I pulled my head back and wrinkled my nose.

The scent reminded me not only of my mother, but of Suzanne.

Confused, I turned the bottle to the side and lowered my nose to the tip of the nozzle. The perfume, without a doubt, was what Suzanne wore. It angered me that she wore my mother’s perfume, but what eventually caused me to feel enraged was that I had spent my entire time in combat associating Suzanne with the scent of my mother’s perfume.

It was as if I had been robbed of a memory of my mother, or that somehow it had been replaced with a new one. Maybe it was something that happened over time, I decided, and wasn’t a conscious thing at all. In the end, as I carried the bottle to the trash, I decided the only reason I liked Suzanne in the first place must have been because of how she smelled, not the person she was.

I walked through the kitchen, past Katie, and out the back door. I tossed the bottle of perfume into the trash container, slammed the lid, and walked inside.

“I like the way you smell,” I said as I walked past her.

I paused at the doorway leading to the living room and turned to face her. “What is it?”

“Flowerbomb,” she responded. “And, I like the way you smell, too. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just getting rid of some stuff.”

“Okay. I’ll have lunch ready in about fifteen minutes, you should probably wake up your dad here pretty quick,” she said.

“Just let me know when you’re done,” I said. “I’ll wake him up when it’s ready.”

“Okay,” she said as she turned toward the sink.

I walked through the bedroom, past the bathroom, and into the walk-in closet. On one side, my mother’s clothes hung, no differently than they had for years. On the other, my fathers. As I shifted my eyes along her outfits, memories of her wearing the clothes came rushing back, and I grinned at the thought of her.

I dragged my finger along the shoulder of the clothes, watching them wave in my wake, each one bringing a separate memory with it. The dresses she wore to church. The dark suit she wore to my uncle’s funeral. The tomato colored jacket that I detested, and I was certain she wore for no other reason than to irritate me. The bottom of the closet was lined with her shoes, dusty, but still just as they were fifteen years prior.

I glanced at my father’s side of the closet. His clothes weren’t as plentiful as my mother’s, but with them, too, came memories. His Carhartt work jacket that he wore on a daily basis to and from work. His one suit he owned. Several jackets hung side by side, none of which that he wore, all of which were gifts.

I chuckled at the thought of his stubborn nature.

My eyes fell to the floor, and immediately I noticed two boxes at the back of the closet, somewhat hidden underneath his clothes. I knelt down and gazed at the ends of them. One clearly marked good stuff and the other marked shit, my curiosity soon got the best of me.

I slid the box marked shit from underneath the clothes, glanced over my shoulder, and removed the top.

A quick check of the documents inside produced receipts, tax forms from what appeared to be his lifetime, and a handful of letters regarding overdue medical bills from years gone past. I grinned at his labeling of the box, placed the lid on top and carefully slid the box back into place.

I shifted my hands to the other box, slid it in front of me, and removed the top.

A folded newspaper sat atop the large assortment of documents. The headline immediately caught my attention, and as I reached for it, I was quickly overcome by emotion. I swallowed heavily, carefully removed it, and peered down at the page.

Local Marine, 23, A True Hero

Although difficult at times, I read through the entire article. Reading about myself wasn’t easy, and along with the resurrected memories came a tremendous amount of emotion. The article was about the Second Battle of Fallujah, and when I had hidden behind the truck to kill the three snipers.

I lowered the article to my lap, wiped the memories from my cheeks, and peered into the box with swollen eyes and a dry throat.