Page 68 of The Wounded Warrior

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You and I went to high school together. I’m not your goddamn boy.” Lord, Rory had a temper and a half.

“I wasn’t twelve.”

“No, you were nineteen because you failed first grade.”

“Jesus.” The sheriff leveled a finger at Rory. “Look, if any proof turns up then sure, I’ll run Harris in. But right now, it looks pretty much like you’re taking a bad fright and using it against someone you dislike pretty badly. Not my problem.”

“No, of course not. Did you see how many times I had a bad fright?”

“I did.”

Luke was gonna fucking boil over, and by the time Sheriff Tyler left, the son of a bitch was shaking like fall’s last leaf.

The door closed, and Luke pounded a fist on his wheelchair. “Jesus, what a fucker.”

“Indeed. Our elected officials. I’msoproud.”

“Y’all need me to drive you home?” Avery asked.

Luke winced. He’d kinda forgotten they were at Avery’s.

“My truck’s drivable. I’ll take it home and call the insurance company in the morning.” Rory met his eyes. “If you feel safe with me, of course.”

“I’m coming back to your place.” Luke just wanted to make that clear. Rory didn’t need to be alone. Shock could set in anytime.

“Good deal.” Rory offered him a shaky smile. “I have stuff for sandwiches.”

“I’m still following you two home, just to make sure you make it.” Avery looked stubborn as hell.

“I don’t want to put you in any more danger than I have?—”

“Shut up,” Avery cut Rory right off. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Thanks, Avery. Your help means a lot.”

Luke nodded. “Thank God we were here and not out at Matt’s.”

“Let’s go home, okay?” Rory was starting to look a little panicked around the edges.

“You got it.” Avery frowned. “I’ll drive you. You have the Mustang at home, and the adjuster can come here just as easily as not. Come on.”

“But…”

“Rory. Babe. Please?” He could beg. Luke didn’t want Rory driving if he was getting nuts.

“All right, but I’m fine. Really.”

“I know.” Luke grabbed Rory’s hand again. “Can you wheel me out?”

“Sure, honey.” Those long, fine fingers trembled, but they got him out to Avery’s truck. Rory’s pickup was beat to hell, but the thing had held up. He would totally buy himself one of those, as soon as he was driving again.

Rory couldn’t look at it.

Luke couldn’t blame him. Hell, he was peering at the damned truck and thinking about the troop mover he’d been in exploding and flipping. No. None of that shit. Rory needed him and he’d be damned if he was going to be psycho-PTSD guy right now.

They got to Avery’s truck, and it was Avery who managed to get Luke up in the seat, Rory slipping to the back of the king cab. Luke wanted to see Rory’s face, but Rory did put one hand on his shoulder, connecting them.

The rain was coming down now, the storm bashing at the world, the raindrops white in the headlights.

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