Page 20 of Driving Whiskey Wild
“I told you. There was an accident and I had to get the family out of danger.”
“No, not the accident. What happened to you? How did you get all those scars?” She put the washcloth down and patted his arm dry with a paper towel. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Bullet?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Military.”
“Bullet…” She sighed, her shoulders dropping.
“You don’t want to hear this, Finlay.” He looked away from her pleading eyes.
“I do,” she said so earnestly, he was drawn to her eyes again. “I want to understand what you went through. Why you can’t be inside the house without feeling confined. How else can I know what other things might bother you, or help you move past it? How can you move past it if you keep it all bottled up inside?”
He pressed his hands to his thighs, channeling all the dark energy there.
She set the washcloth down and placed her delicate hands over his. “Do you never talk about it?”
He didn’t respond, and he knew by her empathetic expression he didn’t need to. Her fingers curled around his hands.
“Have you ever?”
He swallowed against the acidic taste moving up his throat. “Bones knows a good deal of it, but nobody needs to hear the details about the hell that goes on over there.”
“How long were you in the service?” she asked carefully.
“Too long, and not long enough.”
“Bullet,” she whispered for what felt like the hundredth time. “How long have you been out?”
“Seven years.”
“And you’ve never shared the hard parts with anyone other than Bones?”
“Finlay…You don’t want to go there.”
“But the things you must have seen. The death and destruction, it will eat you alive if you don’t get it out, won’t it?” She squeezed his hands. “You should talk about it to someone. It doesn’t have to be me, but you shouldn’t carry the weight of the world around like that.”
“I’m doing a pretty damn good job of it.”
“No, you’re not. You couldn’t be inside my house, Bullet. I don’t know if that was from the shock of the accident and all that happened, or…” Her eyes found the scar on his chest.
The scar that peppered his nightmares.
He blew out a breath. “What do you want from me, Finlay? What do you want to hear?” He pushed past her and stalked across the deck. “That I have fucking flashbacks sometimes? That I’m fucking invincible until they hit? That they make me want to get the hell away from everyone I know so I don’t ruin their lives? That while I was laser focused on saving those babies, knowing I had to get to the people in the other vehicles before they blew up and the mother’s bloodcurdling screams threw me right back to the battlefield? That part of me wished the accident had happened on the other side of the bridge instead of at the end of my goddamn street? Or that it took every ounce of my strength to get back in that car and get them to safety without shutting down completely?” He paced the deck, unable to keep his voice from rising. “That I was afraid I was going to fail and someone would die because of my fucking head?”
She lowered herself to the chair, and only then did he see the tears streaming down her cheeks. He rushed over to her and sank to his knees. “Shit. I’m sorry, Finlay. I didn’t mean to yell and take that out on you.”
She closed her eyes, rivers streaming down her cheeks as he gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not you,” she choked out. “It’s war. It’s…”
Sobs stole her voice, and he pressed his hand to the back of her head, holding her against him. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”
“No, it’s not okay.”
“I never should have said a word. You don’t need darkness in your life.”
She drew back, the pain in her eyes as tangible as the ghosts inside him.
“It’s already there. I had a serious boyfriend when I was younger. He was in the military and was killed during his second tour. It was awful.”
He pulled her against him again. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take that pain away.”
“It was a long time ago. Now it only hurts when I think of him out there alone when he died.” She inhaled a ragged breath and blew it out shakily. “War sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“But you survived,” she said softly, and leaned up, wiping her tears. “Don’t let the war steal more of your life. Aren’t there things you can do to help ward off flashbacks?”
“Bones hooked me up with a buddy of his who taught me some strategies to use, and it helps, but sometimes, like tonight, if I’m not focused on triggers, they can hit like I’ve stepped on a mine.”
“I thought you and I were so different when I saw you at Tru and Gemma’s wedding. But we aren’t that different after all.”
It pissed him off that she’d been touched by the ugliness of war. “We’re different, lollipop. You’re as precious as they come.”
“I know you’ll dispute it, but so are you.”
He raised his brows. “I don’t think anyone has ever used that word in connection with me before.”
She smiled and ran her finger along his collarbone. “That’s because most people look at you and see big, bad, tattooed Brutus, the intimidating guy who doesn’t let anyone get too close. I was almost one of them.”
“Almost?”
“When you walked down the aisle holding Lincoln’s hand at Tru and Gemma’s wedding, he looked up at you like you were his world, and I remember thinking that babies had an innate ability to judge good people from bad people, like animals do. I’ve always believed that, as children, we have this sense of clarity that gets clouded as we get older and we’re influenced by society.”
“Are you telling me that when you came into Whiskey’s that first day to meet with Dixie, you didn’t see me as a badass? Because I might have to work on my intimidation skills.”
“Oh no, you were definitely badass. But no matter how hard you were, somewhere in my mind I still had the image of you and Lincoln walking down that aisle. And there were other moments I’ve been thinking about, like when you were dancing with Kennedy and then with your mother. And the way you continually scanned the yard, as if you had to make sure your chicks were all in the pen.”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“They’re lucky to have you, and I think I’m pretty lucky, too.” Her gaze moved to the gash on his stomach. “We’d better get you cleaned up. I forgot the ointment and bandages. Hold on.”
She pushed to her feet and took a step toward the door.
Gratitude pooled inside him. Bullet grabbed her sweatshirt, drawing her back. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For giving a shit.”
Her lips curved up and her smile reached her beautiful eyes. “I’m sure anyone who knows you would do the same if you’d let them.” She turned and walked inside.
She had no idea how wrong she was. The last time he’d been taken care of like this was when he was lying flat on his back beside a dying man, staring up at a dark sky crackling with crossfire, sure he was going to die.
He sank down to a chair, leaned his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, willing the memories to remain at bay.
Chapter Eight
BULLET FELT FINLAY’S hand on his shoulder and sat up, breathing deeply as she applied the ointment and bandaged the wound in silence.
“Is this hard for you? Letting me take care of you?” she asked as she used the washcloth to cleanse the dried blood that had seeped through his shirt onto his torso.
“A little.”
“Because you’re the protector?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she lifted the washcloth and said, “Lift your chin. There’s some blood on your neck.”
The longer she cared for him, gently bathing his arms, hands, chest, and torso, the easier it became for Bullet to relax. Her touch became the salve to his emotional wounds, her sweet, caring nature, the sutures to the fissures tonight’s flashbacks had caused.
“When my dad would get a cold, or sick, which wasn’t very often, he’d do everything he could to keep from resting,” she said as she rinsed the washcloth. “And my mom would tell him that it took a stronger man to let someone take care of him than it did to be the caretaker.” She gazed into his eyes and said, “I think that goes for you, too, Mr. Whiskey.”
“I’m not feeling very strong at the moment,” he mumbled more to himself than to her.
“Strength of character is stronger than power of muscle. That’s another of my mom’s sayings. You have both, and what you did tonight proves how strong you really are.”
He pulled her closer, wanting to kiss her, to soak in her goodness, but he didn’t want her to feel like he was taking advantage of her generosity. “Are you close to your parents?”
“Yes. But we lost my father a few years ago, and then my mom moved to Montana, where she was from. She said she saw my dad everywhere, which I understand, because I still feel him around sometimes. Then she remarried. I’m happy for her, and it wasn’t like she was running away from me and Penny. She just needed to move on and couldn’t do it here.”
