AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I am going to retain the upper hand and bring out my biggest, baddest weapon. The rambler.“Fine. You and me will have a chit-chat and when I’m done, you will tell Slate I am not fucked up in the head so I can go back to work.”
“Suds. I am not the enemy. Lucky and I still talk all the time.”
“He is a basket case. I am not.” When my arms cross my chest, her brows raise, and she sits back.
“Wow. I thought you guys were friends.”
Dammit. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.“What I meant to say is I have never considered suicide.”Not since I met my wife.
“Okay. How about you tell me how you got shot? That’s why I’m here. To help.” Her smile appears honest, and I should cut her some slack. After all, she did save Lucky’s life, but I can’t help the way I feel about shrinks, even the nice ones.
Closing my eyes, I recall the morning at our nation’s capital. “The job wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I was hired to guard a high school kid. He’d survived a mass shooting and because of some podcast, he was getting death threats. On this day, he joined a bunch of other Gen-Zers to protest guns. They believe they got the right to go to school without worryin’ about bein’ shot to death. My job was to protect them while they exercised their vocal cords.”
Standing, I walk over to the water cooler and wet my parched throat. After I sit back down, I recall the pivotal moment. “I knew trouble was a-comin’ when some middle-aged, armed militia-wannabees headed toward my demonstrators. I told the one with the dead look in his eyes to drop his damn firearm. Instead, he raised it and took aim at me. I shot him first.”
“Do you feel bad about it?” Blake married a military man and I sense her question is real, and not just shrink-speak.
Before I answer, I ask, “Ever view pics of what an automatic weapon can do at close range?”
“Not really.” Eyes on me, well-manicured nails rest on the arm of her chair.
I return her steady gaze with one of my own. “Wahl then, you probably won’t understand. I have no remorse. I did the right thing.”
Her face holds no judgement and after a bit, her fingers tap the wood. “Generally, when PTSD resurfaces, something triggers the past. Do you know what started this new episode?”
In my mind’s eye, the gunman’s face appears as clearly as it did at the scene. “The terrorist had the same damn lack of emotion as the woman in Afghanistan.”
Blake nods. Because of many hours spent with my pal, Lochlan, she knows the story which ended my navy career better than anyone. “You’re referring tothe girl who blew herself up.”
“Yeah, her.” Us jawing about the bomber doesn’t change a thing. Good men died. Lucky and I survived. In war, that’s how shit goes down.
After a long bit of silence, I blurt out what’s been bugging me. “Sam’s pregnant again, but what kind of world we livin’ in, doc? There’s so much hate on our planet, I fear our race’s very existence is on the line.”
“You’re scared.” If anyone else stated such a thing, I would’ve denied it to my dying day, but she’s spot on.
“Damn straight, but not for me, for them. My job as a father is to make sure they survive and every day, another random shooting occurs. Hell, at this point, every parent should be terrified.”
She smiles but it’s the sad kind and her voice goes soft. “Suds, you’re right. You simply do your best and keep the faith.”
I can’t believe I told her my deepest fear. “Shit. Y’allgonna tell Slate I’m a certifiable nutcase?”
Chapter 15
Sam
Running on empty, I manage to roll out of bed and make my way to Aunt Marion’s salon. The job of hair washer requires almost nobrain cells which is quite convenient. Having stayed up most of the night, my synapses are napping.
Around mid-morning, Mrs. Delphino, her short curlsin foil, glances up from her People magazine. “Didn’t you hear, St. Thomas’ fund raiser was cancelled?”
“No, I assure you, it’s still on.” My eyes want to roll, but I’ve done it so many times today, I’m afraid they’ll become stuck, leaving me cross-eyed forever. My nonna has assured me it’s not a myth and being over ninety, I believe her.
Mrs. Alice Grundy, her head in the sink below me, lifts her lids. “Aren’t you in charge of the event, dear?”
“Yes, would you like to donate?” My heart races. According to her daughter, the widow inherited a fortune when her last husband died. Maybe God has finally answered my prayers.
“Perhaps I have a couple quarters in the bottom of my purse. Go ahead and take them.”
Seriously?“Thank you.” While I’m adding her fifty cents to my envelope, another woman turns off her dryer.
