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“His calls are decreasing. He only calls 3-5 times a day now instead of every hour, so there is light at the end of the tunnel.”
“I saw him last night as I was leaving work. He was with a couple of guys at the front of the office. He wanted to know when you would be back. I don't know who the guys were, he didn’t introduce me, and they looked dodgy, so I was not going to stick around to make small talk.”
“Oh God, Kelly, I am so sorry he is annoying you too.”
“It is not your fault, he is the asshole. Don’t worry about it. We both know he is harmless, a total asshole, yes, but harmless.”
“I know. I don’t even listen to his voicemails anymore; I delete them right away. I just want him to go on with his life and leave me alone with mine.”
“Perhaps the sexy funeral guy will get rid of him for you, as an ex-soldier he should know a trick or two!” Kelly jokes.
“Jake, not funeral guy, his name is Jake. Oh God, I still can’t believe I called him that to his face last week.” I cringe at the memory.
“Well, Jake is hot, and you need to get off this phone and go find him and show him some D.C. lovin’.”
At her last statement, we burst out laughing. What is it about friends and the way that they know just how to pick you up from your slumps.
22
Jake
Walking back to my cabin, the cold air is enough to wake me up from my thoughts. I push through my front door and slam it closed in annoyance. I’m angry at myself. I am such a damn fool.
Fuck, that was close. I was mere seconds away from making a move on her, and I can’t believe I nearly let my guard down.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
All day I have been on edge. She was practically naked in my house for the entire afternoon, and my dick was permanently hard. I certainly didn’t want her to leave.
I run my hands down my face and look up and see Isabelle through the windows of her cabin, talking on her phone. Looking hot as fuck, she is all curves, fierce and smart all rolled into a fucking sexy package. My insides burn, and as I look at her, even from this distance, need and desire flash through my body, and I feel my dick jerk in my jeans. She is smiling and laughing and looking totally delicious. I am so fucked with this woman.
I walk to the kitchen silently and stand in front of the piece of paper that is haunting my life. I stare at the letter on the kitchen bench, and my name that is written in Danny’s handwriting is enticing me like a moth to the flame.
I understand what Isabelle meant when she said she didn’t open the letter right away. I turn and walk to my cupboard, pulling down a glass. Walking to my liquor stash, I pour three fingers of whiskey and gulp it down. I feel the burn, and it calms me just a little.
I grab the bottle and walk to the living room, sitting on the same sofa that Isabelle was on just moments ago. Leaning back, I watch the flames of the fire dance around, and pour myself another three fingers. This time I sip it, taking my time and enjoying it, with the view of the dancing fire in front of me.
Memories come back to me when I sit in peace like this. Memories of war, memories of work, memories of my time on this earth and what I have done, what has been done to me. I get lost in my thoughts, lost in the waves of emotions that rise with each memory.
But mostly, I think of her. I have had so many life and death situations in my life that I am acutely aware of how short life is. How quickly it can be taken away. How quickly things can change.
I feel like I have so much unfinished business, and it is irritating. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Danny, and that nearly breaks me. I haven't found these two assholes that kidnapped Molly, and that makes me angry. This whole situation we have now with the mob has me permanently on edge, and I can’t get Isabelle out of my mind, and that gives me a whirlwind of emotions, including a massive rush of blood to my cock every time I think of her.
I play with the glass in my hand. I don’t drink often because I need to be 100% clear minded all of the time. But I am a huge guy, so a few drinks rarely have any impact if I am being honest. It is a fine whiskey, one the boys got me a little while ago. An expensive drop and one I usually savor. As I sip, I feel the burn, but it does little to calm the solid thrumming that my body is experiencing.
I think about war. I think about Danny. I think about my boys back in Boston. I think about ma and pa, who I haven’t seen for years, I think about Hancock, my life, where I will end up, and I think about her.
After an hour or so, I get up from the sofa and put the bottle back into the kitchen cupboard. I look at the letter again, and maybe I have some liquid courage, because there and then I decide that I am not going to wait another minute to open his letter. I need to know what he wrote to me. I need to read what his final words to me are. I grab the letter and rip it open.
Inside is a small half-folded piece of paper, not the pages of handwriting that I was expecting. With increasing curiosity, I open the folded paper to see seven words written down in his handwriting.
You have my permission. Look after her.
23
Isabelle
Kelly and I have spoken on the phone for well over an hour; it is truly the best therapy, and I love how we can talk and laugh so much. As I am saying goodbye to her, I stand up from the sofa where I was sitting, and I turn and nearly jump out of my skin in fright, as I see Jake standing at the front door, leaning against the frame.
