Page 21 of Hold on Tight

Bloody hell.

It felt good.

It felt urgent.

It felt extremely inconvenient. Why now? Why wake from the deadnow?

She wasn’t some random woman he’d met in a bar. She was—

God, he didn’t even knowwhoshe was. The mother of the son he hadn’t known he had. A fling that hadn’t even been consummated. She wasn’t anything, except shewas, which made it totally fucked up for him to be thinking about—

He shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. It was so out of place with the moment. Out of place with her outfit, which was a Professional Lady Camouflage Uniform. Her hair was pulled back into some kind of twist behind her head, her face made up; it was the first time he’d ever seen her with makeup. She looked tightly wound and slightly scary.

And she’d caught him looking, and thinking, her head tilted, her gaze quizzical and—

Was that interest in her eyes?

Then Sam was running down the stairs.Sam. The reason he was here. Because he sure as hell wasn’t here to mess with Mira’s head and expose her to the bad shit that lurked just under the presentable surface of his skin. He’d hurt her bad enough once, and he was done hurting people.And maiming and killing, the darkest voice said, before he could squelch it.

“Anything else I need to know? Any particular time he needs to eat?”

“Lunch around twelve thirty. I made you guys sandwiches for lunch. They’re in the fridge.”

“You didn’t have to make my lunch.” The fact that she had done so made him feel peculiar. It was so domestic and wifely, something his mother might have done before she’d had it scared and beaten out of her. It made him aware that the woman and the child in this room were the components of what, to another man, one who hadn’t seen what he’d seen, would befamily.

Even if he’d once had a remotely loving notion of childhood, even if he’d thought that a man and a woman living in a house together could make the kind of magic you saw on TV or in the movies, he’d given that dream up when he decided to become a soldier. He didn’t believe you could do both well. It wasn’t fair to taunt death on a regular basis while people at home were counting on you.

The therapist who’d worked with him briefly at Walter Reed had asked him if he wanted a family someday.

“No fucking way,” he’d said.

“Why not?”

“You need me to list the reasons?”

Anyway, it was moot. He didn’t want a family, and neither did he have any reason to believe this family wanted him as a bona fide member. Sam didn’t know Jake was his father, and Mira hadn’t given him any sign that she saw him as anything other than a potential drop-in father figure for Sam.

“Snacks not too close to meals,” she was saying. “I’ll give him dinner when I get home. I’ll bring takeout with me.” She hesitated, as if she’d been about to offer to include him, but she didn’t say anything more.

Just as well, right? Having dinner with her wasn’t going to help any with his inconvenient attraction to her. “Go,” he shooed her. “We’re fine.”

Mira looked doubtful.

“We’re fine, right, Sam?”

“Mom, we’re fine,” Sam said, sounding more like seventeen than seven.

But as soon as she was out the door, Sam’s shoulders slumped. The bravado he’d displayed when he reassured his mother had apparently been all bluster. You had to give it to the kid for acting skills.

“Should we go up and build with Legos?” Jake asked.

“Don’t feel like it.” Sam threw himself onto the couch and looked in imminent danger of tears.

“What do you like to do with your friends?”

“Nothing.” If possible, Sam seemed to be sinking deeper into the couch.

“You sit around and do nothing?”

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