Page 30 of Home for Justice
“I’ll ask my boss, Logan, to come by, too.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift in tone, the slight layering beneath the words. He waited.
“I can’t speak for Logan,” Cory added, his voice carefully diplomatic, “but I think it’s worth having a conversation. See if there’s anything the two of you might offer each other.”
Tyler chuckled. He appreciated Cory’s honesty. Cory didn’t dangle promises or pretend things were guaranteed. He just opened a door and let Tyler decide whether to step through.
“I’m in. When and where?”
Cory rattled off the name and address of the local bar, and they agreed to meet at noon the next day.
After the call ended, Tyler stood still for a moment, phone in hand, the soft hum of quiet settling over the house again. Then he climbed the stairs, his footsteps slow, thoughtful. At the top, he paused in the hall before the old photograph ofhis grandparents. His fingers brushed lightly over the wooden frame.
Grinning, he murmured, “Gramps, I don’t know if you saw all this coming… me back here, figuring things out. But it looks like I might just stick around for a while.”
He continued down the hall, shoulders looser than they’d been in days. When he finally stretched out in bed, the cool sheets against his skin and the dark ceiling above him, he felt something settle inside him. He’d been tempted to kiss Justice as they stood on her porch but hated to make a move that she wasn’t ready for. Instead, he’d offered a hug and was grateful when she came willingly into his embrace.
And for just a heartbeat, he could swear his grandfather was smiling down on him.
The next day, Tyler pushed open the door to Cutter’s Bar, stepping from the sharp glare of midday sun into the dim, cool hush of the interior. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and as they did, he took in the place slowly.
This wasn’t a shiny, polished hangout trying to pretend it was something more than it was. No, Cutter’s was the real deal. It was well-worn, familiar, and comfortable. The wood plank floors were scuffed and nicked with decades of boots and barstools. Vintage metal beer signs hung slightly askew on the walls. There was no jukebox humming in the background, just the low murmur of conversation. Booths lined the back wall, and the long wooden bar stretched down the left side, plain and practical except for the impressive display of liquor bottles on the mirrored shelf behind it.
His gaze moved easily over the tables until it landed on Cory, seated off to the side. Tyler spotted Logan immediately, seated next to a few other men. Two of them he recognized from the funeral, though he hadn’t caught their names that day.
As he approached, the group stood, extending hands in greeting.
“I know you met a few of the guys at the funeral,” Cory said. “This is our boss, Logan Bishop. And this is Landon Summers, Jim Devlin, and Sisco Aguilar. Next to you is Casper—Aldo Caspani, and Frazier Dolby.”
Names were repeated, handshakes exchanged, and a few more words of quiet sympathy passed between them. Tyler appreciated the simplicity of it. There were no awkward platitudes, just the kind of respect that came from men who understood loss.
They sat down as a server arrived with two pitchers of beer and a handful of menus. The offerings were burgers, fries, nachos, and a few signature sandwiches. Uncomplicated. Every man at the table ordered a burger, and the server disappeared toward the kitchen.
“I was telling them you’re working on Charlie’s place,” Cory said, the casual tone unmistakably opening a door for Tyler to step through.
Reading the unspoken cue, Tyler leaned back slightly in his chair, resting one arm on the tabletop as he spoke. “That’s right. I spent most of my childhood summers in that house. My parents were killed in a car crash while I was overseas with the Army. I was twenty and didn’t know the first thing about legal stuff or property. My grandparents stepped in and handled everything. When my folks’ place in Colorado was settled, I considered my grandparents’ house here to be my real home. It’s where I came on leave every chance I got.”
There was a pause, the kind that settled with mutual understanding.
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of good memories there,” Sisco said.
Tyler nodded, his voice warm. “Plenty. My grandfather always kept the place in good shape. He updated the kitchen and bathroom for my grandmother years ago, but now… it could use a few more improvements. Nothing drastic. Just enough to make it more comfortable for me now. And if I ever sell, it’ll be ready.”
“Smart.” Frazier nodded. “Either way, the upgrades won’t go to waste.”
Logan leaned forward slightly, his tone even. “Cory said you put in twenty years.”
Tyler studied the man’s face, noting the directness of his gaze. Was this just a friendly conversation or something more? Either way, he had nothing to hide.
“I was at Fort Benning most of my career before it became Fort Moore. Ranger. Trained as a sniper. Deployed wherever they needed me.”
He paused, brushing his thumb over the condensation forming on his glass. “In one of my last assignments, I injured my shoulder. Nothing serious. I healed, and it wouldn’t have kept me out. However, it affected my ability to stay prone for extended periods, which ultimately rendered me ineffective as a sniper. They offered me a teaching position at the sniper school, and I took it. I spent my last five years as an instructor.”
“If your grandfather hadn’t passed, do you think you would’ve stayed in longer?” Casper asked, his tone more curious than probing.
Tyler’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “I was already out-processing. All the paperwork was done. I was on my last couple of days when I got the call about my grandfather. Iflew out immediately. Since then, I’ve wrapped everything up remotely. So yeah… Uncle Sam and I have officially parted.”
The server returned with plates heaped with burgers and fries. The group shifted into easier conversation while they ate, swapping military stories and hometown anecdotes—nothing too deep but enough to share glimpses of who they were. Tyler appreciated the rhythm of it. These men didn’t posture. They didn’t try to impress. They didn’t have to talk loudly or boldly in an effort to proclaim whose dick was bigger. They simply were comfortable in their skin, in their silence, in their camaraderie.
