Page 7 of Bossy Hero

“I nursed my beer. I’ll drive. Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, we park at the diner.

Before I can shift into park, he flings open his car door. “Thanks for the ride, Sarge.”

“I’ll head in with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he starts, but I cut him off.

“I won’t intrude. I’ll hang back. Once you find out what her plans are or where she wants to go, I might be able to help. She’ll need clearance to get on base, or you’ll need emergency leave to stay off base with her. And we’re on curfew.”

He drags his hand over his forehead, then checks his watch. “Shit. You’re right. I forgot about that.”

“Let’s go.”

With an appreciative nod, he leads the way. I follow a few steps behind, not wanting to insert myself into a private matter any more than necessary to assist him.

Although what I said to him is true, it isn’t my only reason for coming inside. Curiosity has a hold on me.

Who is this woman who let her kids get beaten repeatedly? And then always took back her husband,literallyopening the door for him to do it again? Not just permitting violence against her children, but against herself as well?

Everything Lionheart says about her leads me to believe she’s the kindest woman to ever walk the earth. She loves her children, and they love her with iron-clad loyalty.

Then how would she allow this to happen? And for so many years?

Leo spots his target, his pace picking up as he hefts himself across the restaurant.

And there she is, sitting in a corner booth with her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Mrs. Mason is a frail, petite brunette woman. Hair flows in soft curls just below her shoulders. One side hangs forward, covering half her face like a curtain. It isn’t accidental—she’s hiding.

She keeps her gaze locked on the table. Everything about her posture and how she’s positioned in the far corner of the booth conveys that of a broken soul. My heart aches for her, and a scratchy feeling settles at the base of my throat.

When Leo approaches her table, her hand flies to her chest. Then her face morphs from shock and fear to... joy.

My breath catches, and my steps falter. Despite the draw to her, I hold back, careful not to intrude.

She attempts to scoot out of the booth, but he stops her, sliding in beside her instead. After they embrace, he pulls back to study her face. With her cheeks cushioned between his splayed palms, he slopes her head from side to side to look at her injuries.

Disgust settles in my gut, souring my stomach. How could someone hurt the one they claim to love in that way?

I watch like an interloper from ten feet away. Glancing to the right, I spot an empty booth and slide in to avoid drawing attention. The last thing she needs is to feel like she’s got an audience for what’s quickly becoming a tearful reunion with her oldest son.

A server comes over, dropping a sticky plastic menu in front of me on the table. “What can I get you to drink?”

“What’s good?” I ask her.

“Not the coffee, that’s for damn sure. Milkshakes aren’t bad. Pretty sure the milk isn’t spoiled, but not sure I’d risk it.”

My chest rumbles with a stifled laugh. “Thank you for the honesty. I’ll take a Coke.”

“You got it.”

Off she goes, allowing my focus to return to the corner booth.

Mrs. Mason brushes Leo’s hands off her face, pressing him away. Seems like she doesn’t want him to make a fuss over her.

Their dynamic is interesting. The roles of parent and child are seemingly reversed, with him as the comfort-provider and her the reluctant but needy soul. As they talk softly, I feign reading the menu. But my eyes rarely stray from her battered face.

Red-rimmed eyes and a puffy pink nose from prolonged crying. A deep purplish-blue bruise around one eye that seems new. Small bruises in varying shades dotting her upper neck, likely from fingertips. My heart riots at the thought.

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