Chapter One
“What’s this I hear? They’re springing you loose today?” Mackey’s deep voice rumbled like tires over gravel, making the too-long hairs at the back of Xander’s neck stand up.
Xander tried to push himself upright from the hospital bed he’d been dozing on. He failed miserably, his stupid, uncooperative limbs flailing around like a squid’s tentacles. Mackey grabbed his good elbow and helped him to sit up, concern on his craggy face.
He looked good. Too damn good. Mackey’s ever-present five o’clock shadow was darker than usual, but his shoulders were broad as ever, biceps bulging as he hauled Xander up. He wasn’t in uniform—the tight Army T-shirt and loose jeans unfamiliar on his bulky frame.
Too close. Mackey smelled like the old-fashioned soap he favored. Xander’s pulse gave a weak thrum, like it wanted to rev but had thought the better of it. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Hawaii.”
“And you’re supposed to be following doctor’s orders. But I hear you’re being a pain in the ass instead,” Mackey said mildly, shoving a pillow behind Xander without being asked. His face dipped low enough Xander could feel his warm breath. The memory of Mackey panting in his ear—something Xander had tried hard not to think about in months—rocketed through him, sending blood rushing to sorely neglected places. So much for that whole motor-not-working thing.
“Seriously. Why aren’t you in Hawaii?” Mackey was supposed to have returned from deployment with the rest of Xander’s Army NETCOM unit and then moved onto his next assignment. Mackey should be at Fort Shafter right now, soaking up the sunshine and salt water in between running network tests. Yeah, once upon a time he and Xander had a best-friends-with-benefits thing going, but that thing had blown up the night before an IED made the rest of Xander’s life go boom. Besides, a guy didn’t come running around the world for a jerk-off buddy, even one who was also an ex-teammate and an ex-barracks roommate.
“Seriously, I checked at the nurses’ station on the way in. They said your discharge papers are almost done. You ready to go?”
True, he couldn’t wait to escape the hospital, but ready wasn’t the right word. Xander was never going to be ready for anything again. Ready meant in a uniform, every sense at attention, body primed to do whatever the Army asked of it. Now ‘ready’ meant accepting what that stupid fucker of a doctor had said—that he should prepare to transition out. Start disability paperwork. Ready meant having a plan for what came next. The only plans Xander had involved getting the heck away from the hospital and finding the nearest bottle of Jack. But he couldn’t let Mackey see how his life was crumbling.
Carefully keeping his expression neutral, Xander shrugged. “Sure. Why? You offering a ride?”
“Yup.”
“You came three thousand miles to drive me home?” Hell. He couldn’t take Mackey up on the ride even if he wanted to. He didn’t know where he was going. Hotel probably. Wasn’t like he didn’t have money in the bank—two months of accumulated paychecks he hadn’t had any way to spend gave him a nice cushion. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve already made arrangements.”
Mackey dropped into the visitor’s chair that had remained empty most of Xander’s stay at Walter Reed. Empty was exactly how Xander had wanted it. He’d had various roommates off and on, but the nursing staff had griped that his bad mood was catching, and the last two weeks it had been just him. “Clinical Depression,” the latest doctor had said, which was a load of BS. “PTSD,” the resident had whispered when the two doctors conferred over in a corner of Xander’s room. Xander’s stomach had gone into freefall, headed down a mineshaft of doubts.
The two of them had to be flat wrong. These strange thoughts and emotions rattling through him had to be normal, right? Anyone who got blown up would feel…off. And if he was messed up in the head, no way did he need meds and talk-y therapy. His dad always said a real soldier handled his business. A real man didn’t need drugs to sort himself out. Xander could fix himself.
“Liar. What the fuck, Xander? Did you really think you’d just limp out of here? No place to go? Why’d you turn down a stay in Tranquility Hall?”
“That why you’re here? Commander Bryant send you? I don’t need the rehab wing.” Xander refused to call it that stupid name. Nothing tranquil about living with a bunch of other banged up guys. It was hard enough looking at them when the orderlies took Xander to therapy over at the amputee clinic. And yeah, most of them were worse off than Xander, which was one more reason he didn’t need the in-patient rehab.
A mere two years ago, he’d been here in D.C. to run the Marine Corp Marathon. He’d volunteered to run as an escort with a hand-crank chair runner from the Wounded Warrior project. She’d been amazing, pushing herself hard up the big hills. The guys in the clinic were pretty incredible too—hefting themselves onto therapy mats, untangling tubes and dressings. But Xander wasn’t ready to be one of them. He was the guy who helped—he wasn’t the one needing it. He was the guy who applauded courage, but he didn’t seem to have a deep reservoir of it to drive himself. And that, more than anything, scared the fuck out of him. So he looked away. Kept his head down. He didn’t belong here.
Mackey raised a bushy eyebrow and stared Xander down, the extent of Xander’s injuries hanging between them. Hell, he might as well have pointed at Xander’s missing forearm or gestured at his scarred-up face and gimp foot for all the weight that look held.
“I said I’d do the outpatient stuff. Go to PT and shit. I’ve even got appointments.” That he wasn’t intending to keep, but Mackey didn’t need to hear that.
“You going to go to counseling too? Hear you’ve been refusing to go to group.”
“Shit. You my doctor now too? I don’t need any PTSD group and I sure as fuck don’t need an amputee group. What, you think we’re gonna sit around and write love poems to our plastic hands?”
Mackey cracked a smile, which only pissed Xander off. “Yeah. You’re not the poetry kind of guy. But you might be surprised—there are sports competitions and outings and—”
“Oh hell the fuck no. I’m not doing ‘outings.’ What am I? Eighty? Last thing I need is someone coddling me.” He looked pointedly at Mackey. “I can handle my own shit. Nice of you to come and all, but I should probably see what’s keeping those discharge papers.”
“And where are you going to go? Gonna grab your duffle and wander Bethesda? Head down into D.C.?” Mackey gestured to the army-issue bag at the foot of Xander’s bed. “To what? A motel? You don’t have base housing, I know that much—”
“I’m being transitioned out. Army doesn’t give a fuck where I sleep. Why do you care?” Xander’s healing shoulder throbbed, a dull ache that was nothing compared to the ache behind his sternum. His hand balled up. He’d spent a lot of time thumping pillows lately. Processed out. Worst two words in the military.
“Thought maybe you might want to stay with me. Just until you have your bearings.” Mackey’s voice was the sort of careful casual that the nurses used when they needed Xander to do something he had no intention of going along with.
“How long you in town for?” A sneaky suspicion made the bland pasta he’d had for lunch turn into a ten-pound weight pushing on his guts. “Tell me you’re not at Fort Detrick.”
“Not going to lie to you, Xander. Never could.”
Now that right there was a lie—Mackey had lied plenty, mainly by omission but dozens of little wounds throbbed on Xander’s heart.
“You’re supposed to be in Hawaii. Not here. Not at Detrick.”
“Eh.” Mackey’s big shoulders gave an exaggerated roll. “They had a billet that needed filling. Instructor position isn’t terrible—”
“My billet. My billet needed filling. And you hate teaching. All you could talk about was how psyched you were about Hawaii, how you were gonna get a boat…” Fuck everything. Xander rubbed the bridge of his nose with his left hand. The job assignment he’d been so looking forward to had been taken by the last guy Xander would wish the position on. “You feel guilty. I get it. But you didn’t need to give up Hawaii. You could have just sent a card or something.”
Mackey snorted. “And have you not open it like you didn’t return my calls?” He’d called a lot the first month—every few days. Xander had stopped charging his phone because he couldn’t stand that blinking blue message button. They’d said everything that needed to be said between them on New Year’s Eve. And if he’d missed Mackey, if he was happy to see him here in the flesh instead of tormenting Xander’s dreams, none of that mattered—he was a hot mess right now and he hated knowing Mackey got to see him at his worst.
“Eh. Service is really spotty in here. And I’m shit at operating my phone with one hand.” His face heated.
“Uh-huh.” Mackey’s tone said he smelled bullshit. “Command needed the position filled. Anyway, this is close to family. My mom’s a hell of a lot happier about Maryland than Hawaii. And something told me that your sorry ass was going to need keeping in line.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Pity? Who said anything about pity? I need your cash. I’ve got an apartment in Clarksburg. You can pay me half rent, stay as long as you need—”
“You? An apartment?” Xander raised his eyebrows. No way. Mackey was as cheap as they came—no way was he passing on barracks and the chow hall. Big as he was, feeding himself would cut into those stacks of green he was obsessive about squirreling away.
“Barracks were overrun. Wasn’t hard to get permission to live off-base. Figured I’d try something new.” Mackey’s words came too fast. He might not be lying, but he was likely stretching the truth out far as he could, hoping it wouldn’t slap him in the face.
“That so?” Xander knew he was being a bit of a dick. Okay a lot of a dick. Mackey had, for whatever misguided reason, flown halfway around the world for him. Mackey’s blue eyes were the color of Xander’s mother’s favorite china, and he saw the same concern in them he’d seen in his mother’s before he’d sent her home to Whidbey Island. Mackey cared, that much was clear. But Xander didn’t need rescuing, and he couldn’t deal with his own guilt, let alone Mackey’s.
“How about you come with me?” Mackey pushed up from the chair with fluid grace. He never could stay seated. “They’re about to kick you out of here, and you can’t BS me—you don’t have a plan. You can stay until you figure your stuff out.”
Xander hesitated, neck muscles going tighter than a coil of CAT-5 wire. He did want out of the hospital. Wanted away from everything. Already he could feel one of his headaches brewing, and all his various injuries hurt. Every medical professional he saw asked him about his pain scale, but not a darn one had a solution other than drugs he didn’t want to take. Latest surgery on his foot had been a success in that he was now in a walking boot, but success was relative when he was looking at a permanent limp. Not to mention the sucker still ached, as did his shoulder. It would be nice to have a place for the night and not have to think anymore.
Liar. You just want more time with Mackey. Well, yeah, there was that too, but that way led to even more pain than his shrapnel wounds.
“Okay. Just until I find my own place.” He told his stupid brain to stop cheering. This was a simple matter of practicality. Tomorrow he’d figure out where the heck he was going.
“Alrighty then. Let’s find the nurse and get your papers. What else you need?” Mackey’s generous mouth curved into the first real smile he’d given since entering the room.
And who’s fault is that? Xander’s feet twitched restlessly, banging against the edge of the bed.
“Think I pretty much have everything.” Xander gestured at his duffle. A nurse’s aide had helped him pack, a humiliating process. His mom had brought him a bunch of civvies, but otherwise the duffel contained way too many reminders of the Army life he was leaving behind and too few clues about what the heck came next.
“Prosthesis in there?” Mackey asked, body language deceptively relaxed, eyes avoiding Xander’s arm.
“Yeah.” Xander put a heavy dose of “drop it” in his answer. He was supposed to wear his temporary prosthesis at least eight hours a day. He actually had two, but he hated both of them. His residual limb—such a BS term—was short, only three inches below his elbow, which made fitting tricky. The therapists kept telling him how much easier things would get when the last of his swelling went down and he could get a better-fitting myoelectric prosthesis, and how the process of skin desensitization would help him be more comfortable. Fuck that noise. Nothing he tried worked. He kept a padded sleeve on mainly because it hid the stump, but he hated the stupid devices. He was pretty sure his therapist had every synonym for “noncompliant” all over his chart.
“You got all your meds or you need to stop at the pharmacy on the way out?” Mackey dropped the prosthesis questioning, but wandered into the next pile of dog crap Xander wanted to avoid.
“I got them.”
“Including the new one?” Mackey did that thing with his eyebrows again—the thing where he tried to look casual and came off looking like a smart ass.
“Medical information is supposed be confidential.” Xander didn’t know who Mackey was buttering up—nurse, doctor, someone in command—but he clearly had the inside track on all Xander’s shortcomings. “And I don’t need head meds. Doctors want to medicate everyone these days.”
“Oh? You’re not depressed?” Mackey kept that same uber-reasonable tone. Uber-irritating more like it.
“Fuck no.” “This new propensity of yours for glowering and cursing and scaring nurses, it’s just for giggles and grins? Because I got to tell you man, it’s not working. And it’s not really you.” Mackey hefted the duffel onto his shoulder as easily as if it were one of the bed pillows.
“This is me. You want old me? The nice guy? He’s gone. You’re wasting your time.”
“Oh, he’s in there,” Mackey said lightly. “He’s smothering under that giant chip on your shoulder, but we can knock that sucker off.” And with that, he—and Xander’s bag—headed into the hallway, the sounds of the ward creeping in as soon as the door opened.
Fuck Mackey. Fuck his sudden do-gooder streak and his assumptions. Like Xander wasn’t entitled to be pissed? Like he was supposed to be all Suzy Sunshine about his wrecked life? And Mackey saw him as some of fixer-upper project? Disappointing him was going to be hell, but the old Xander had died in a ditch back in Afghanistan when an IED took everything he knew to be true about himself. He grabbed the pillow and punched it hard with his good hand. Fuck.
*****
Mackey had the same old Chevy he’d had in Georgia—blue and well—worn, with a deep gouge along the passenger side door. The orderly had wheeled Xander out to the truck—stupid hospital policy, but he’d sent the orderly packing as soon as he stood up.
“You go see your mom?” Xander asked as he awkwardly climbed into the cab, having to pull his bum leg in. Felt weird being hemmed in a car after weeks of the hospital’s wide spaces.
“Yup. Made her open up a storage unit, give u—me a few things for the apartment.” Mackey’s hands were steady on the steering wheel as he navigated the huge parking structure.
Mackey’s mother ran a thrift store on the Virginia coast, and she’d been watching Mackey’s truck while they’d been deployed. Xander had met her and Mackey’s younger brother when they’d visited Fort Gordon to collect the truck right before they deployed. Nice people. They’d made Xander feel welcome, though that might have been different had they known Xander was more than just a roommate. Stop that. You were never more than roommates. Never. Didn’t matter how much dick you sucked.
He needed to remember that because it was too easy to get lost in the good memories of him and Mackey. They’d taken his mother to their favorite chicken joint, and Xander had loved how both brothers tried hard to convince their mother her chicken was still better. His brother was better at Grand Theft Auto than either him or Mackey, and he’d kept them up until two playing tournament style. Xander loved his own family, but there was something easy about hanging with Mackey’s people. He could have gotten used to them, real quick.
“That’s nice.” Xander didn’t bother looking out the window as they wound their way out of the giant maze of buildings that made up Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. The place was the size of a small city, but Mackey’s driving was as confident as ever.
A fresh wave of loss swept through Xander—I may never drive again. He loved to drive, to the point that he and Mackey used to do this silly thing with a coin flip to see who would get to drive when they went off base. That chicken place they loved was a good hour away from base, in a tiny Georgia town—a long, blissful stretch of country roads. Whoever got to drive had to pay. He craved the mindless focus of such a drive, could practically feel the shifter of his cherry-red GTO in his right hand.
Phantom pain, the doctors called it, but there was nothing phantom about how badly he missed that car or how much he wanted to be back on the rural Georgia roads, peach cobbler for later in the back, Mackey beside him, whole night to look forward to.
He fiddled with Mackey’s stereo, flipping through the satellite radio stations. That was Mackey—piece of crap truck and pricey sound system. Luckily Mackey didn’t object when Xander landed on a hard rock station. They had that down too—driver paid, passenger got to pick the tunes. Xander really needed some Gaslight Anthem this afternoon. He turned the volume up, hoping Mackey would get the hint that he didn’t want to talk.
Thirty minutes later, they arrived at Mackey’s new apartment. Xander didn’t want to think about how long the same journey though the D.C. exurbs back to Bethesda would take via public transit. Stop it. You’re not staying.
“God, this place is huge.” He broke his silence as Mackey turned the truck onto a street that wound through a large complex of three and four-story white and gray apartment buildings.
“It’s a ground-floor unit,” Mackey said, a little too quickly.
“I can walk. I can do stairs.” Sort of. He’d fallen a bunch the first time he attempted them in PT, but he was getting more used to the walking-boot cast.
“I know it’s one of those cookie-cutter complexes, but everything is really nice here—clean, great workout room, and all the buildings ring a giant pool for the summer. Indoor hot tub in the clubhouse.” Mackey’s tone was deceptively casual again, like he knew exactly how much Xander’s therapy people had been pushing hydrotherapy.
“Nice.” It was only March. He wasn’t going to be here when the pool opened, no matter what Mackey’s bizarre guilt complex wanted. Mackey could work out and swim and sleep just fine on base. He was going to a lot of effort here, and Xander wasn’t blind to it, though he almost wished he were. Blindness would make it easier to be a total rat bastard.
“Just moved in on the weekend, but I think it’s got some nice people. Saw some families. You like kids.” Mackey parked the truck in a numbered space. Thank God he didn’t come around to help Xander out of the truck. Instead, he’d exited quickly and was waiting patiently by the sidewalk.
Liked kids. Past tense.
“Xander!” Mackey came rushing into the server room, huffing like he’d run all the way from the barracks. “I need a huge large, man.”
“Yeah?” Xander tried to decipher Mackey’s expression. Grin flashing mischievously, he looked delighted to have caught Xander alone.
They didn’t really talk about what they did at night—Lord knew Xander wanted the jerk-off sessions to continue—but during the daylight hours they were still teammates. Buddies. But that didn’t mean he was entirely unwilling if Mackey wanted a quick—
“I need you to take this school tour that’s coming in an hour. Bunch of seventh graders from a programming club. PR set them up to see computer careers on base and somehow I got assigned to lead the group—”
“Whoa. Slow down, big guy.” Xander held up a hand as Mackey’s words came out uncharacteristically fast, his usual languid drawl all agitated. “You want me to take the tour?”
“Would you?” Oh man. The level of pleading in Mackey’s eyes was a massive turn-on.
“Maybe.” Xander smiled at him.
“I never know what to say around kids. I suck at explaining stuff.” Mackey’s face wrinkled like explaining was on par with eating spiders. Mackey wasn’t a big talker on his best day, and he was an action guy. See a problem. Solve problem. He left the details to other people—like Xander.
They worked really well together that way—Mackey saw what needed to be done and Xander took care of all the minutiae while Mackey moved on to spot the next crisis. Mackey also didn’t have Xander’s experience with kids—Xander had a pile of nephews and a niece to wrestle with whenever he went home. Kids were great. They asked entertaining questions and were always ready for a laugh.
“What do I get if I take the tour?” Xander raised his eyebrow. No need to show his hand quite yet.
Mackey glanced at the doorway to the server room, which had shut behind him. He leaned in—far outside of buddy territory, lips right against Xander’s ear. “I’ll blow you tonight.”
“Really?” Xander’s eyebrows stretched so high, he thought they might pop off. Then commonsense weighed in. “You don’t have to do that, man. I’ll do the tour.”
“What? You don’t think I’d be any good at it?” Mackey managed to look affronted.
“I’m sure you don’t suck at it.” Xander laughed. Having Mackey this close to him at work was a huge rush. If Mackey played his cards right, Xander would be more than happy to be the one doing the sucking.
“Tonight. We’ll see if you’re still laughing.” Mackey bit his ear before backing away.
Oh sweet hell. Now he had to get his libido under control before greeting the school group. Still though, a couple of hours hanging with baby nerds and then Mackey tonight? Life was pretty sweet.
Back in the present, Xander wasn’t ready to deal with all the awkward questions from kids, never mind the looks from their parents.
“Nice,” he said, as he hobbled out of the truck, because he had to say something. Mackey was looking at him all expectantly, but Xander had nothing.
The apartment was mercifully close to the parking space. As Mackey unlocked the door, he could smell the distinctive “new quarters” odor of new carpet and fresh paint.
“This is it.” Mackey led him into a room made up of a small living area and a kitchen. The space was delineated by a breakfast bar. The living area had an ancient-looking plaid couch and Mackey’s flat screen TV and stereo set up on milk cartons. Beyond the couch, Xander could see sliders that led to what looked like a small patio. Knowing Mackey there was probably already a plant or three out there. When they’d roomed together in the barracks in Georgia, Mackey’d kept a huge aloe plant going and was always breaking off a piece and rubbing some into his hands. Xander couldn’t smell aloe now without getting instantly, painfully hard.
“This where I crash?” He hobbled towards the couch. Maybe he could just close his eyes until morning and not have to deal with the strange hope on Mackey’s face or the weird silence between them. Maybe that was all he needed—a good sleep and then he’d have fewer rat bastard impulses.
“There’s two bedrooms.” Mackey indicated for him to follow him past the kitchen, down a small hallway with a couple of doors. Xander limped after him, foot throbbing, shoulder protesting the jostling.
“Put my computer set-up in this one for now.” Mackey opened a door to reveal his dual-monitor set-up on what looked like an old hotel desk. He turned to open the adjacent door. “And this one has the bed. If you’re tired, you can nap here.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” Damn it. His head was getting fuzzy again.
“I’ll take the couch,” Mackey said, just a second too late.
