Page 33 of The Story of Danny Rose

Danny chuckled a little and shifted in his seat. “What more can you tell me about him?”

This was good. He always wanted to be prepared.

“He was born in Tennessee, was infantry in Vietnam, and thinks the world’s gone to shit,” I answered helpfully. “He has a wife and three kids, two daughters and TJ. He’s, uh…” I scratched my jaw, wondering just how much to divulge. Terrance was a great man, but he wasn’t always easy to be around if you were a generation or two younger. “He’s had apretty tough life, so it’s made him intolerant to whining and complaining. I have zero doubt that he’ll give you a shot, Danny—he’ll just expect results.”

“Did he do that with you too?”

“What, expect results?” I chuckled. “Absolutely. He shook my hand firmly and said he was looking forward to me succeeding with whatever they threw at me.”

“Yikes.”

I shrugged. I preferred high-pressure work environments—and I was sure Danny did too.

He cleared his throat and turned toward me. “What kind of tough life, by the way? I mean, my upbringing wasn’t a cakewalk either.”

True enough.

“Racism, for starters,” I said. “He left the South pretty early, but I’d imagine it’s not easy serving a country that hasn’t fully accepted you.”

“Oh.” He blew out a breath and leaned back in his seat. “Shit, that hasn’t really changed. Do you remember Thomas?”

I tilted my head. The name rang a bell—someone from his unit. “Vaguely. Was he the guy who always carried his pocket bible wherever he went?”

Danny let out a laugh and nodded. “Yup. The one guy I sort of got along with.”

That jogged a memory, and I nodded to myself. I did recall the two had worked well together.

“Anyway,” he went on, “he got shit from all sides. Pissed me the fuck off. I think his old man was black, and on his ma’s side, it was a mix of Latino and Thai or Vietnamese—I don’t remember. And thenIgot shit for getting involved.” He scoffed and started bouncing his knee restlessly.

My mouth twitched. “Could it be because you got involved with your fists?”

“Not at first,” he defended. “We were at this bar once, and a couple guys got mouthy. Started calling him slurs and whatnot, and so I walked up to them, right? And I was like, there are literally a dozen valid insults to throw at Thomas—he’s got shit aim, he eats too slow, he’s always quoting scriptures, and he’s talking nonstop about his girl back home. Meanwhile, T’s rolling his eyes, and a few others are laughing. Then when I’m done delivering my speech, I tell the fuckheads to apologize and use whatever few brain cells they have left to come up with a more creative insult, and they refuse. More than that, they double down—and they call me white trash while they’re at it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see what choice I had, to be honest.”

Jesus Christ. It was impossible not to run with the amusement, but this boy had problems.

“You got arrested, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “Two cops came and broke up the fight, then kindly escorted me outta there. I spent twenty minutes in their car, promising it was never going to happen again.” He scratched his nose and grinned to himself. “The next day, T’s mom showed up on base, and she gave me a come-to-Jesus talk, fists waving and all, before she smacked me upside the head and gave me a container of cookies.”

I rumbled a laugh and scrubbed a hand over my face, and I shook my head. Bloody fucking hell. I adored that he had his heart in the right place—full stop. We just had to work on how he let his temper get him into trouble.

“My little hothead.” I draped an arm around his neck and pulled him in quick, and I kissed the side of his head. “Were the cookies good?”

“So good that I cleaned the Tupperware and sent a thank-you note.”

I grinned and just stared at him.

Part of me had half expected things to change once we left the cabin, but I still felt like we were in a honeymoon phase, a bubble of sorts, where I was soaking up every word he spoke. I mean, it was how it was supposed to be. This thing between us was only a week old, but the cabin belonged in another world. Far away from work and Hillcroft. And yet, now we were in the lion’s den, about to meet with Terrance, and all I could think about was my boy.

“After we’re done here, I wanna take you out on a date,” I admitted. “A real one.”

He flashed a cute grin, and the surprise was clear in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He smiled and kissed my shoulder. “And then we can?—”

He stopped talking, and we put some distance between us when the door opened and two men walked out. I swallowed and shook the lovey-dovey haze I was trapped in—and I cursed myself. This was work, for fuck’s sake. Even though I had no intention of hiding anything—I’d leave that for Danny to decide—I was a professional.

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