Page 90 of Tate
“Thank God,” whispered his mother.
No. Maybe. He hadn’t thought so for a long, long time.
He didn’t look at her as he continued. “Somehow, Specialist Jordan was also overlooked. He was in bad shape—he had a gut wound, and his leg was broken. That night, I crawled out of the village with Jordan on my back. I hid him in the mountains and dragged my way back to base. I was found by a forward operator two days later. They saved Jordan, but he lost his leg to his hip. Gangrene.”
He looked at Scarlett. “For that, they gave me a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. I wanted to give both of them back.”
She met his gaze, unflinching.
“So, yeah, it’s a great lesson in knowing when you’re being played. How not to trust anyone.” He pulled his red-hot skewer from the flames, shoved it into the dirt, and got up. “Excuse me, I need a drink.”
No one said anything as he walked into the house. He stood at the kitchen sink, ran cold water, dipped both hands in, and sloshed water over his face.
He could smell the flesh burning, hear the groans of his men, dying. Taste the rubble on his lips, feel Jammas’s blood seeping into his camo.
“Tate?”
He stiffened. Not the voice he’d expected, really. Because knowing Glo, she would have wanted to run in after him, help heal his wounds.
But big brother Reuben wasn’t the coddling type.
“Tate—”
Tate grabbed a towel and turned, holding up his hand. “Save it, bro. I don’t need your pity.”
“None here. Trust me—I’ve been there enough to know what’s going on in your gut. I nearly got Gilly killed, twice.”
“Yeah, but she’s here, marrying you tomorrow, so you must have done something right.” He ran the towel over his face.
Reuben walked over to the cupboard and grabbed a glass. “The only thing I did right was give myself permission to have a second chance.”
Tate gave a sad shake of his head. “Yeah, well, I tried that. And managed to get a girl killed.”
Reuben frowned as he handed Tate the glass.
“Vegas. Back when I was working security for a mob boss. Another slick idea of mine. I turned in my boss to the FBI, but not until they killed the woman I was dating to warn me off.”
Reuben leaned back against the counter, his arms folded. “How did I get so far out of your life that I never knew these things?”
Tate filled his glass with water. “It’s no big deal. I was a mess. I didn’t stick around long after my medical separation from the military. Dad sorta told me that if I wanted to be a hero, I needed to act like it.”
Reuben frowned. “Dad said that?”
“I might have come in late from the Bulldog, a little too much beer on my breath.”
Reuben gave him a nod. “It’s tough when the one we worship falls hard.”
“I didn’t worship Dad,” Tate said.
“I wasn’t talking about Dad.” Reuben raised an eyebrow. “The number one idol of the human race is ourselves. Or at least that’s what Gilly’s dad is always preaching from the pulpit. And he’s right.” He smirked. “It’s hard not to feel like you make your own tailwind when people are in the stands screaming your name, Twenty-Two.”
Tate opened his mouth. “I don’t?—”
“Want to impress yourself? Prove to yourself that you’re not the scared kid who fell off a horse?”
“Yeah, well,Ididn’t leave home to jump out of airplanes into infernos because of my pride.” Tate didn’t mean for that to come out quite so darkly.
But he didn’t expect Reuben to nod. “I admit, I was running from my own demons, my own broken places. Problem was that no amount of my own awesomeness could heal me. No matter how many fires I put out, I still came home to an angry Reuben.”
