Page 17 of Never Say Yes To Your Brother's Best Friend

“Sure, yeah. It was good.” He walks over and traces the arm of a statue. It looks like one of those fancy-draped goddesses. It could be old. With money like that, it could be thousands of years old. My hands start shaking. I don’t want to drop the plates again. He doesn’t look at me, but something in the room has changed. There’s a weird new energy in here with us and the mountain of stuff that could be worth millions. “Can you fry it this time?”

“In the deep fryer?”

He nods. “Like a grilled cheese.”

“Oh. Yes. My mom used to do that. I was debating about it. I don’t have any chocolate sauce for dipping, though. I also make an equally good grilled sandwich with jam and cream cheese. Kind of like a bush pie but raunchier. And by raunchier, I mean just a shade not as good, but still amazing. I bought cream cheese and jam. I could make one.”

“Both? If you wouldn’t mind?”

I know what a difference the little things can make. I’m not going to go around the house and pull things off the walls or hurtle them out of corners to make them gone. That’s for Rick to do. It might sound weird, but I think he needs this to make peace and heal. I can’t do that, and I can’t offer words either because that’s not what he needs. But sandwiches? Darn it, I can make a mean sandwich.

Sometimes, showing someone you care is as simple as feeding them. “I don’t mind at all.”

Chapter seven

Rick

Ahhh, night. So peaceful and quiet. Stars and moonlight, romanticism, mystical, lovely dark night.

Yeah fucking right.

Night hasn’t been a thing of beauty for me in a long time. Not sure it ever was. I do remember a time as a kid when I was scared of it. Scared of the dark, scared of my own endless thoughts that would never shut off. I guess in that way, I haven’t changed much. A lot of tactical shit is carried out at night when you’re in the military. Then there was Special Forces, and yeah, not a lot of sleeping happened, especially not in the dark. Dark is a cover. A mask. The dark hides so much.

Peaceful?

No, I don’t find it peaceful.

I’m a shit sleeper at best. I only need a few hours here and there, which I usually get in the very early hours of the morning. Mission complete. Mission over. Or in the late hours of the afternoon. Before go time.

Now, there is no go time anymore. No more missions.

However, I still can’t sleep.

There aren’t any stars in the city. There’s too much smog and light pollution. The city isn’t quiet or peaceful. There are always cars. Always people up. People like me. People who don’t use the cover of dark for rest. They work, they play, and they carry out their whole lives in the dark.

I boil the kettle, then let the water sit for a few minutes to cool off until it’s at the perfect temperature. I can tell just by looking at it. I’m good at counting down the minutes with my internal clock. It used to be used for missions. In places where a mistake could be fatal. And where an extra minute or even a few extra seconds gone wrong could cost a life. No lives tonight, though. Just coffee.

I pour the hot water into the press and let it brew. There’s probably only one thing I’m truly addicted to in life, and that’s good coffee. I went so many years without it. There were never care packages from home. Never like what the other guys got. Jace, though, he knew. He knew about my coffee snobbery, so he started getting his mom to get me the beans I liked. And she’d send them over. I don’t know how he figured it out because, at best, the java we drank was usually about as good as toilet water. I won’t ever forget the day he shyly offered me the package of beans.

“Jesus, man. Getting sentimental over coffee here. That’s what lack of sleep does for you.”

Apparently, it also does for me in the form of talking to myself.

I pour myself a mug and drink it standing. It’s bitter as hell and goes down just right. It also burns a little when it hits my stomach because it’s been more than a few hours since Aspen made dinner. She made pasta with buttery, garlicky shrimp, some cream sauce she made from scratch, and asparagus that she perfectly charred.

She has spent the past three days feeding me while I’ve spent it cleaning out this house.

There are a lot of rooms, so it takes some organization and research to find the right places for the stuff to go to. I act like I don’t care, but I want someone to make good use of it, and if the money is going to help other people, then thatdoesmatter to me.

Aspen’s early misadventure with the burned eggs hasn’t been repeated. I’m so used to eating food and not even tasting it, but the things she’s made over the past few days have changed all of that. I’m starting to be one of those people who actually feel hunger…and feel it with some anticipation. My training is deserting me, and it’s not even happening slowly.

Right now, my mind flashes to a painting at the top of the stairs that’s been driving me nuts.

I finish my first cup of coffee and try not to think about it. Then, I finish a second. And a third.

If it’s weird to be tanking down the blackest, strongest java at just past two in the morning, I wouldn’t know. I’m not going to sleep anyway. I’m not doing this because I don’t want to pass out. I’m doing it because I don’t want to dream. Because I don’t want to go back there. If I dream the right dream, I will like it, but there’s plenty of shit I wouldn’t like to relive. I’m not afraid of the nightmares because I hardly ever have them, but when I do? The good, the bad…it’s just a part of who I am. Of what I’ve done. I know there’s no going back. But what about going forward?

What now?

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