Page 15 of Searching for Valor

He finally gave a resigned sigh and stepped back, holding the door open wider in silent invitation. He didn’t particularly want to be standing on his porch in the cold, wearing nothing but his pajama pants and last night’s regrets.

Izzy slipped past him into the cabin, her slender frame brushing against his chest as she squeezed by in the narrow entryway. The brief contact sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through him, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and pull her back against him.

Damn traitorous body.

He needed to put some clothes on.

He shoved the door shut and stalked toward his bathroom. “Give me a minute.”

He made it to the sink and gripped the cool porcelain with his left hand, staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes in a pale, unshaven face stared back at him. The beard that had grown out in the last three months looked like it belonged to a man who’d given up on everything.

He looked like hell.

Felt like it, too.

With a shaking hand, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, trying to shock his system into sobriety. It helped marginally. At least the room stopped spinning. He gritted his teeth against the pounding in his skull and fumbled for the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, dry-swallowing three pills. He grabbed his toothbrush and hurriedly scrubbed away the foul taste of stale alcohol. He ran his hand through his tousled hair, trying to tame the unruly waves into some semblance of order. It was a losing battle. With a sigh, he pulled on a wrinkled t-shirt from the hamper, sniffing it first to make sure it didn’t stink, and then fished his prosthetic arm out from under a pile of dirty clothes.

How it got there, he had no idea, but he figured the people at QuenTech Bionics would be horrified by his treatment of their thirty-thousand-dollar prototype. Hell, if they knew, they’d definitely yank him from the beta test.

He jammed the prosthetic into place on his right arm and fumbled with the attachments, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Finally, he secured it and flexed the artificial hand, watching the sleek metal fingers curl into a fist. The movement was smooth and effortless, a far cry from the rigid, useless plastic of his old prostheses.

At least this part of him was still functioning properly.

Squaring his shoulders, he limped back out to the living room to face Izzy, his movements stiff and halting. She was perched on the edge of his couch, her posture tense and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the disarray—the empty bottles, the overturned lamp. Evidence of just how far he’d fallen.

Dammit. He shouldn’t have let her in.

“Sorry about the mess.” He subtly kicked an empty bottle out of his path as he limped his way over to her. He sank onto the opposite end of the couch, leaving a vast gulf of space between them.

“Are you okay?” she asked with what appeared to be genuine concern. “What happened to your leg?”

He waved away her questions. “Old injury acting up. I’m fine.” He fixed her with a level stare, ignoring the way his pulse jumped at having her this close after so long. He could smell her perfume, warm and subtly floral, and he wanted to breathe it in.

And that pissed him off.

“Let’s not do the small talk thing. Why are you here, Izzy? What do you want from me?”

She took a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I need your help. Or, more specifically, I need Redwood Coast Rescue’s help.”

“You seriously think I’d let you anywhere near my team after what happened?”

She flinched at the bitterness in his tone but forged ahead. “I know I’m the last person you want to see right now. Or… ever. And I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice, so please, just hear me out. There are kids’ lives at stake.”

He pictured Aiden Ellison’s grinning face on the missing poster—his sandy blond hair and blue eyes so alive with mischief. Then, the mental image morphed into the dead,staring eyes and blue lips of the boy they’d found yesterday—the boy they were too late to save.

The memory stole his breath, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he might throw up. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, and suddenly, desperately wished he had another bottle of whiskey to wash away the image.

Kids’ lives at stake.

Goddammit. He couldn’t turn his back on kids in danger. Not when there was even a slim chance he could help. He knew he’d never be able to live with himself if he did.

And, of course, Izzy knew that, too. So not only was she a liar, she was also a manipulative bitch.

He released a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, waiting until he was sure he wouldn’t puke the moment he opened his mouth.

Fucking hangovers.

Finally, he opened his eyes and studied her. She looked so earnest, but he knew he couldn’t trust that.

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