Page 4 of Faking it with the Green Beret

At least he hadn’t done anything totally stupid. Had he? A memory lingered just out of reach. He patted himself down. Where the hell was his phone? He found his cell on the truck’s dash and checked the call log.

His heart beat against his ribs. Shit.

Double shit.

And triple shit.

He had a vague recollection of calling Britney, but three times?

Surely, he hadn’t begged her to take him back. No. It had to do with Boss. John rubbed his temple as his brain gonged harder in his head. He sat on the edge of the seat and tried to remember.

He’d asked about Boss’s remains. What had she said before she hung up on him?

His deployment might be over, but he had a new mission: find out what happened to his dog.

* * *

Whiskey still leachedfrom John’s pores as he walked down the hospital’s administrative hallway to Britney’s office. She’d likely come into work to bask in the accolades from organizing the auction.

She looked up from her computer, all smiles until she saw him standing in her doorway. Her body deflated, and her smile dissipated. “What are you doing here?”

“Boss. What did you do with his remains?”

“Why?”

“I need closure. I want to bury him or visit his grave.”

“I—we—didn’t bury him.” Britney wouldn’t look him in the eye.

His arm hairs stood at attention. “Then what did you do? Cremate him?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

“I want his ashes.”

“I didn’t get them.”

John growled. “What’s the name of the crematorium?” Maybe they still had the remains.

“I don’t remember. Richard took care of it.”

That figured. “Call and ask him.”

“I’ll, uh ask him tonight and call you.”

“Now. Or I’ll go by his daddy’s company and ask him myself.”

“I know I said I’d think about moving to Florida with you getting promoted and transferred, but I can’t. My job, my friends, my family are all here. Then you got mad about the post and stopped calling. That’s why Richard and I ended up back together.”

“What does that have to do with Boss?”

“He and Richard didn’t get along.” She paused between words and sank into her chair as if trying to disappear. “He didn’t die.”

John would have made a wisecrack if he wasn’t so damned relieved. “He—he’s alive? Where? Who’s got him?”

“Um, I asked around, but I couldn’t find a foster. . .”

“A dozen of my buddies would have taken care of him.”

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