Page 164 of Murder

I squeeze his hard waist, kiss his chest. “I hope it goes well.”

“Me too.”

I frame his face with my hands, thumbing his cheeks. “You know I think you’re brave for trying it.”

His eyes cut down before he raises them for mine. They burn a little. “Thanks.” I get the small half-smile, the one that lets me know he’s nervous.

“Love you.”

“I love you more.” He wraps me tight against his chest and shuts his eyes. I feel his heartbeat for an awesome moment. Love fills me. I hope he feels it, too.

TEN

BARRETT

“How much you want for it?”

“Won’t take less than nine hundred.”

The guy behind the counter peers down at my .380, shaking his head. “It’s real nice,” he drawls. “I’ll give you that. I can do nine hundred—if you tell me where it came from.” His eyes meet mine.

“I had it over in Iraq,” I tell him, shifting my weight. And a lot of other places, but it’s easier to stick to places troops were stationed for long stretches.

The guy nods slowly, knowingly. His Braves cap casts a shadow over his face, but I can see his chapped lips tighten. He touches something I can’t see behind the counter, and I hear a jingle. His hand lifts up dog tags on a chain that seems to be hanging from a nail in the back of the counter.

“I get that,” he says, nodding more. His hazel eyes meet mine. “I might keep this one for myself.” He looks down at the gun. “If you change your mind and not much time’s gone by, you let me know.”

I smile, because that’s kind, but I won’t need it.

“No worries,” I tell him.

We share a hard handshake—it still feels odd with my right hand—and the guy reaches over the counter to clasp me on the shoulder.

“Take care,” he tells me. As I head toward the door, he says, “Hang on.”

I turn to find him holding out a business card.

Gatlinburg Veteran’s Association is embossed in black across the front.

“It’s mostly younger guys,” he says. I look at the lines on his face, putting him at maybe mid-30s. “Me and a couple Marines. One Ranger. Just got started up.”

I look from the card to his eyes. “You work out around here?”

He steps out from behind the counter, lifts his pants leg. I see metal. “Not much working out these days.”

“I’m opening a martial arts place. Free for vets,” I hear myself say. “How long have you had the prosthetic?”

“Not long, man. About four months. Just got done rehabbing it around the end of summer.”

I look down at the prosthetic, trying to figure out if it’s transfemoral or transtibial without lifting the leg of his pants. I settle for asking him, “Knee, too?”

He nods. “Lost the whole thing from the thigh down.”

I nod. That does make it harder. “Ever ran on it?”

He laughs. “Hell no. Barely even walk on it.”

“You got another card?”

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