Page 31 of Scarred Souls

She frowned. “Multiple sclerosis. Zero out of ten would recommend.”

I had an aunt with MS, so I knew how frustrating and debilitating the disease could be.

“Don’t give me that pitying look. I’m getting over a flare-up and will be moving better in a few days.” Daphne gestured to the tattoos on my hands. “What happened to you?”

“The ink?”

“No, sunshine. The scars they’re hiding. Your sleeves rode up when you snatched the shotgun from me, and I saw them.”

Daphne had a keen eye. Most didn’t see past the tattoos. She had no way of knowing that the horizontal lines of thickened skin extended the length of my arms and legs and covered most of my torso. One jagged slice for each hour my captors hadn’t convinced me to talk. I wished I could say they were the only scars they’d given me in the days before Brandon and the Zulu guys had found me. My skin was ruined, but that didn’t compare to the mess they’d left my head. I’d never be the same man I’d been before being captured.

“Are you a self-harmer?” she asked.

“No.” I tugged my sleeves down out of habit.

Daphne’s single arched brow told me that answer wasn’t good enough. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give details about where I’d been and what I’d done, but I had to give her something to continue building trust. Her opinion mattered almost as much as Hope’s.

“They’re war wounds,” I eventually said.

“Afghanistan?”

“Got some scars there. These ones”—I gestured to my arms—“I got someplace else.”

“They don’t look like any war wounds I’ve seen.”

“Seen many?” I sipped my coffee while waiting for her to answer.

She put her mug on the counter. “I was a surgeon at the US military hospital in Germany for a few years. Treated a lot of injuries from bullets, RPGs, and mortars. Never cuts like that.” Her gaze flicked to my wrist.

“I guess I’m just special.” I leaned back in my chair and slung an arm over the one beside me. “Or a really shitty pilot.”

“Air force, then?” she asked.

“Navy. Until I teamed up with the guys I work with now.”

“What do you fly?”

“Back then, mostly Black Hawks. Nowadays, almost anything with wings or a rotor.”

She lowered her chin and choked out a laugh. “Almost anything?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you’re some kind of aeronautical boy wonder?”

I smirked. “Never said I flew them all well.”

There’d been plenty of bumpy landings. Sometimes, I had to pilot unfamiliar aircraft to get us out of a sticky situation, but I always got the team home safely. Although the saying on a wing and a prayer had been used more than once.

She shook her head. “You’re either a liar or a cocky son of a bitch.”

“I’m definitely one of those things. I’ll let you decide which.”

Daphne held my stare. I sipped my coffee but didn’t back down from her piercing gray eyes. Her nostrils flared, and eventually she said, “You really think your team can crush the Pacific Coast Cartel?”

I guessed she’d decided I wasn’t a liar.

“With Hope’s help, I do.”

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