Page 4 of His For The Keeping

“First shot is on me.”

Laughing, Shane texted back.

“It’s an open bar.”

The flight had been easy. San Diego to Seattle was just over two hours, nothing to a world traveler like Shane, who had been on many twelve-plus-hour flights into combat zones in much more uncomfortable seats.

Shane grabbed his bag from the overhead bin and headed straight out of the airport. He hadn’t checked a bag, even though he was staying for a week. Everything he would need would already be in his room at his father’s house. With five older brothers, clothing was never in short supply. His mother kept their rooms the way they left them, having them cleaned, but nothing more. Over the years, he had traded out his teenage things and replaced them with adult necessities, making the trips home easy.

Looking at his watch and remembering what Patrick had said about them having the place all day, he decided to go back to his parents’ house, take a quick shower and change clothes before heading over to The Barn. He had wanted to take a shower before the flight but had been up late the night before dealing with an incident at NAB Coronado with a recruit and had hit snooze over showering.

He took his time at the house, showering off the dirt from the night before, shaving his face, and making himself presentable. He had just stepped out of the bathroom when his phone dinged with an incoming text.

Shawn: “Hey asshole, where are you?”

“Be there in twenty.”

“If you aren’t here in fifteen, you owe me the first shot.”

“It’s an open bar, jerk.”

Patrick: “Ma’s asking about you. Hurry the fuck up.”

“FFS. The more you all text me, the more time it will take me to get ready.”

Patrick: “Just get your ass here.”

Putting the phone down, he chuckled. Nothing like feeling wanted. He ran his hand over his freshly shaved face and frowned. He missed his beard. They had a new dictate, part of bad press the SEALs had gotten, and were required to go back to freshly shaved faces and short, military-regulated haircuts. Longer hair and beards were now only allowed during combat and must be removed upon returning stateside.

Made him feel like a bloody seaman all over again.

Throwing on a pair of expensive jeans, a soft black t-shirt, and a button-up over it, he figured he was fancy enough to make his ma happy. There were plenty of vehicles to choose from, but only one he wanted, his old diesel Ford, Felicia. His middle brother, Connor, had named it. The loud diesel could be heard starting every morning, and when he would pull away, Connor would call, “Bye Felicia!” It had stuck, and all these years later, Shane had kept the name.

His phone started vibrating nonstop in his pocket as he climbed into his truck. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said out loud, laughing.

The laughter faded when he read the first text.

Frankie

“Frankie, be a dear and take this card to the gift box, would you?” Frankie’s great-aunt Maria handed her a gold-colored envelope. Smiling graciously at the older woman, she nodded. Hobbling toward the box across the room, she wondered how badly her mother would scold her if she kicked off the blasted heels and spent the rest of the day barefoot. Sighing, she slipped the envelope into the almost full box of wedding cards.

“Are you having fun yet?” One of Patrick’s brothers approached her. She couldn’t remember which one he was.

“I am,” she lied. “Are you?”

“Of course. Which one are you again?” His crooked smile made her grin, tossing his head back, flipping his hair out of his eyes.

“Frankie.” Good, she wasn’t the only one having trouble telling all the siblings apart.

“Ah, the youngest. Your mother made it easier by giving you each a name starting with the next letter of the alphabet.”

“My mother has her quirks, that’s for sure. Which one are you?”

“Shawn.”

“Shawn, the second to youngest, correct?”

“Wow! I’m surprised you have us memorized.”

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