Page 18 of Unexpected Hero

And fuck Big Al for making me see the damn doctor in the first place.

Big Al insists that all the Redleg bodyguards see a psychiatrist annually for a readiness assessment. Although I’m usually at HQ, I have done a few shifts in the field when we’re short. And since most of us are combat vets, having this requirement makes sense. Especially considering all the shit we saw and did over there. In theory, it’s a good thing.

But in practice, I hate it.

At what point is he going to let up with this asinine annual requirement? Every fucking year it’s the same damn thing. Same doctor. Same bullshit. And it always leads to the same nightmare.

I toss off the covers and get out of bed, giving the clock a quick check on my way to the bathroom. 0400.

Good a time as any to get going for the day. Tons of shit to do today. Redleg doesn’t run itself.

Under the spray of a cold shower, a uncharacteristically vengeful thought hits me out of nowhere.

For a split second, I hope Big Al had a nightmare after his psych eval earlier this week.But that wouldn’t make what I just relived any better. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially Big Al.

My ribs constrict, closing in on me.

I shake it off, acknowledging it as an errant thought. I’m still messed up from the dream. That psychiatrist he made me see likely put the thought in my head. Talking about transference or whatever.

Tomer, these unhealthy feelings about your father need to be addressed. It’s no wonder you’ve formed such an attachment to this Big Al person. He’s the father you always wanted. Caring, protective, supportive, and kind. Disciplined, but fair. Firm, but loving. All the things you didn’t have when you needed them most in your formative years.

But you’re just as likely to transfer that rage about your father onto Big Al at some point if you don’t deal with what’s going on inside you.

Not a chance.

I’d never turn on Big Al.

It’s not that I think therapy is stupid or a waste of time. For most people, it provides a healthy outlet — a time and place to explore your feelings and process your emotions in a constructive environment with a well-trained professional to guide you through your healing journey.

Yeah. I read the brochure.

But that concept won’t work for someone like me. I don’t have rage toward my father. Unless I’ve been woken up before the sun from a damn nightmare. I feel nothing when I think of him.

I feel nothing when I think of most people.

It’s an effective system, and it’s served me well through the years.

If it’s not logical, it doesn’t affect me. And feelings, by nature, are illogical. Ergo, they don’t matter.

So I damn sure don’t need to take time away from work to process my emotions. They aren’t there. Problem solved.

So what would I do in therapy for an hour twice a week? Talk about how the Tampa Bay Rays choked in yet another post-season? Who cares?

By the end of the shower, my mind is clear and refocused.

Today’s mission is simple. Find out what the fuck Violet Holt is doing in Clearwater once and for all.

She’s been in town for four weeks and hasn’t attempted to contact Big Al. I’m beginning to think her arrival is innocent or perhaps a coincidence.

But it’s a pretty damn big one.

Of all the places on earth, she ends up thirty minutes away from her birth father.

I don’t buy it.

And that means I need to make contact with her to figure out her intentions. Something is off, and I don’t like not knowing people’s motives. It’s one of my least favorite things. Second only to making small talk.

Let’s hope today doesn’t suck as much as that fucking dream did.

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