More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) Page 6

  “Dylan?” he asks, his voice softer, and I’d give just about anything to be in Riley’s room again. Away from everything… away from what he’s making me feel and making me think and making me remember.

  “Look at me, Dylan.”

  I inhale deeply and prepare myself. Then lift my head from under the hood.

  He asks, “Are you okay?”

  With my eyes on his, I slowly shake my head. “Not yet,” I tell him, my voice strained.

  He nods in understanding. “But you will be?”

  I raise my chin. “Yes.”

  “You want to go back?”

  I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Yes.”

  He motions to my shoulder. “When’s your next checkup?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “VA?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “No, Eric. I’m good.”

  He takes a step back, his features relaxing a little. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Who’s the girl?”

  I shift my gaze. “What girl?”

  “You’re such a shitty liar.”

  “Am not.”

  “Okay Mr. I wasn’t playing basketball in the house, Grandma’s spirit broke her own urn!”

  A chuckle bubbles out of me. “Shut up. Totally happened.”

  “Sure.” He starts to leave, but stops just beside me. “Call your friend… the one who was over a lot when we first moved here.”

  “Why?”

  “To thank him for dropping by and visiting with Dad whenever he was in town.”

  “He did?”

  Eric shrugs. “People do that, you know? Join forces when they miss or worry about the same person. Makes it easier to deal with, I guess.”

  Riley

  I can’t tell if it’s the tears building or the water I’m drowning in causing the sharp ache pricking my eyes.

  I welcome the pain—the burn in my lungs, my throat, my lips as I press them tight—holding my breath… keeping the bubbles from forming.

  There’s pressure forcing its way into my eardrums…

  …the water’s winning.

  For now.

  But in the end, my body will give in.

  It always does.

  It’s just a matter of time.

  Tick. Tock.

  My mouth fills with water first, then my throat, then my lungs. And finally my eyes as they snap open—my surroundings a blur. My fingers dig into my palms when my hands form fists. My legs kick. My body shakes. A single muffled sound escapes me.

  One bubble. Two. Then many more.

  I choke on a gasp when I quickly sit up, the water cascading down my naked body. It’s cold—the water, the air, it’s so cold.

  And so damn perfect.

  Bringing my knees to my chest, I breathe through my nose. A regular routine I use to keep my desperation for air almost silent. My gaze shifts to the floor of the bathroom where water’s spilled over the edge of the tub. At least it’s just water, I tell myself. The pain, physical and emotional, now all-consuming.

  Because I don’t want to forget…

  …and he’s making me forget you, Jeremy.

  Nine

  Dylan

  “So you know how long it’s going to take to heal?” I ask Dr. Garvis—the doc assigned my case at the VA hospital. I could have easily opted to use someone in town and, honestly, I’d thought for a second about asking Dr. Matthews, Logan’s dad. But that would mean betraying Logan in a way. And betraying seemed a lot worse than just not telling him at all.

  He looks up from his clipboard and taps the pen against it. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lance Corporal Banks. It’s different for everyone, but you’re doing everything you can. I know you want to get back, but doing more than you should and forcing it might make it worse. It’s still early. It’s been less than three weeks.”

  “You can call me Dylan,” I tell him, rubbing my neck in frustration.

  He runs his hand through his salt and pepper hair, then adjusts the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. I kind of hoped for someone younger, maybe someone with a history of active duty so he’d understand me a little more. I’m not a hundred percent sure Doc hasn’t but if I had to put my money on it, I doubt he’d ever set foot in a warzone. “Are you okay, Dylan? I don’t just mean your shoulder. I mean mentally? Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I hadn’t slept a wink the night before. I’ll give you two guesses why, even though you’d only need one. Her name rhymes with slimy and I’m pretty sure that’s the exact word she’d used to describe me.

  Fuck, I need sleep.

  He sighs at my response. “Dylan, I get it. Trust me. I see hundreds of guys just like you—frustrated that they’re here while their unit’s there but there’s nothing you can do. Take the time. Relax. Go spend it with your family, your friends, your girl. Whatever. Make it count, you know?”

  Yeah.

  He has no fucking clue.

  * * *

  I sit in my truck, banging my head against the steering wheel trying to calm down, but I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I’m everything I shouldn’t be and the fact that some doctor thinks his advice of “Relax and make it count” is somehow plausible in my situation or any other situation where a single gunshot keeps a man from doing his duty is bullshit. Sure, it was supposed to help me but it just made shit worse and now all I can think about is the comfortable fucked-up silence of Riley’s bedroom which I’m sure I’ll never get to experience again.

  I decide it’s a bad idea to go there, where she’s more than likely drunk and angry and I’m whatever the hell I am. So, I dig deep, deeper than I want to. I pick up my phone and scroll through the few contacts I have and I send a text.

  Dylan: You around?

  I don’t bother waiting for a reply. I simply start my truck and begin the two-hour drive to UNC, my old college, and the place where I know I can find the only person I can stand to be around right now.

  * * *

  He shakes his head, his eyes as wide as his smile when he makes his way toward me. “Swear, I thought this was one of your fucked up Operation Mayhems.”

  I push off my truck and glance behind him at Bryson Field. “No mayhem, Jake.” I look back at him and shrug. “I’m home.”

  “It’s good to see you, man.”

  He approaches and with each step closer, my anger and frustration begin to fade. “Likewise.”

  He drops his gear and stops in front of me. “So are you back for good? What’s the deal? You were home a few months ago at Cam and Lucy’s wedding…”

  Nodding slowly, I tear my gaze away from him. “Medical leave.”

  “No shit?”

  “Shit.”

  “Bad?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how quickly a bullet through a shoulder heals.”

  “Fuck.”

  I throw my keys at him. “She missed you, man.”

  His eyes light up. “Oh, Bessie.”

  “Don’t call my truck Bessie,” I say over my shoulder, moving to the passenger seat.

  He’s already seated when I get in the truck, his hands gliding across the dash. “Time hasn’t changed her. Your old man take care of her while you were gone?” He starts the engine, then rubs his hands together.

  “About as much as you took care of him while I was gone.”

  He shrugs. “I like your dad. It’s no big deal.”

  It is a big deal. It’s a big deal to me and to my dad, but that’s just Jake. Senior year of college and the MLB chasing him and he hasn’t let any of that change him. He’s still the guy I met in high school with the weird accent who took in a kid who wasn’t really going out of his way to make friends. Up until Heidi came along, he was pretty much the only friend I had.

  His phone sounds and he shifts to the side to pull it from his pocket. “It’s Kayla. We were supposed to be g
oing to look at new bedspreads or some shit. I’ll just cancel.”

  “Oh, man. It’s cool. You don’t—”

  “Dude,” he says, raising his phone between us, his thumbs sliding across the screen. “I can go out with Kayla whenever. Bessie though….”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Quit calling her Bessie.”

  He kisses the steering wheel, his smirk in place and his eyes on mine. “She likes Bessie.” His smile falls when he goes back to his phone. “Yo. You don’t want people knowing you’re back, right?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not going to ask you to lie to your girl.”

  Jake shrugs. “I’ll tell her training went overtime. Besides, I think she’s with Luce and you know Luce.” He taps the phone one last time before switching it off and shoving it back in his pocket. “Shall we?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I grip my seat belt when he slams the brakes and the accelerator at the same time, causing the wheels to spin and screech against the concrete of the parking lot. Then he releases the brakes, allowing the truck to jerk forward and speed out of the lot, his shout of “Bessssssyyyyy!” causing a fit of laughter I haven’t had since the time Dave was caught jerking off to a picture of the cast of The Desperate Housewives.

  Maybe the doc and Dave were right.

  Maybe I should make the most of it. Maybe I should make it count.

  Get money: Not yet.

  Fuck bitches: Tick.

  And now I just feel like shit again.

  Jake drives. I sit. He talks. I listen. This goes on for hours—something we’d done plenty of times before. He tells me about baseball, about his family and Micky and what his plans are after college. He talks about the other guys and what they’re up to. He keeps me entertained, especially with Cameron and Lucy’s marriage shenanigans. He leaves out the parts about Heidi, though I catch him a couple times cutting himself off.

  We drive around, stopping at a few abandoned parking lots to do donuts or burnouts or anything else his truck (and Micky) won’t allow him to do. He loves it. Always has. And me? I just enjoy his company.

  He doesn’t ask about my injury. He doesn’t ask about my time away. He doesn’t ask anything of me and that’s why we work, because he knows me better than anyone. Even Heidi.

  “How long have we been gone?” he asks.

  “Three hours and fifteen minutes.”

  He’s silent for a while as he drives the familiar streets back to the field. Finally, he says, “So what’s her name?”

  “Anything but Bessie.”

  He slows down as he pulls into the stadium parking lot and looks over at me. He’s wearing a shit-eating grin and I know why. I just don’t know how he knows. “What?” I ask.

  “You’ve been looking at the clock every few minutes. I ask you how long we’ve been gone for and you don’t skip a beat. You want to be somewhere else—”

  “That’s not true.” It’s a little true.

  “So what’s her name?”

  I drop my gaze to the phone in my hand wishing I’d gotten her number. “Riley.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  I shrug, a smile pulling at the corner of my lips. “And I don’t know what to say. She’s got me checking the time, I guess.”

  “She in your unit or something?”

  “Nah. I’ve only really started talking to her… or not even really talking… for, like, a week.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “She’s my neighbor.”

  He parks next to his truck and puts mine in gear but he’s looking out the window, his mind elsewhere.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Hudson. Why?”

  “Riley Hudson,” he murmurs, her name rolling of his tongue. He repeats it again. “Why does that sound familiar?”

  “She went to our school. She’s a few years younger so I don’t know if that’s how you’d know her.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs, then faces me and smirks again. “Either way, dude. She’s got you checking the time.”

  * * *

  It’s dark by the time I get home and my house is the same as it was the first night I got here. The TV’s on too loud, the lights from the screen flicker out the window and onto the front lawn. I have the same nerves too, same anticipation, but for a completely different reason. Because I’m not standing outside my front door. I’m standing outside hers.

  I start to smile when the door swings open after my first knock, then stop when a woman appears. She doesn’t look like Riley at all, besides her eyes. Her hair’s bleached blonde, her lashes fake, and her make-up flawless. Rewind twenty something years and she’s Heidi. “Good evening, Ma’am. I was hoping to see Riley.”

  Her eyes narrow, first at me, and then over her shoulder. She takes a step forward, closing the door quietly behind her. “You’re the youngest Banks, right?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m Dylan.” I throw my hand out for her.

  She looks down, ignores it, then lifts her gaze again. “And you know Riley how?”

  “We’re neighbors,” I tell her. Obviously. I check her eyes, because maybe she’s as drunk as her daughter gets. Or maybe she’s the one on The Drug.

  After a sigh, she tells me, “Riley’s sick. She’s not up for guests.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask, looking at the closed door. “Is there anything I can get her or…”

  “No.” Another sigh. “She just needs to rest and sleep it off.”

  “Okay. Well, can you tell her I dropped by?”

  She doesn’t respond, just turns her back on me and goes back in the house. For a few minutes I just stand there, waiting for any sign of Riley’s existence. When enough time passes and the only sound I hear is Dad’s television, I leave and make my way back to the garage… my room… where I know I’ll spend the entire night with thoughts too loud to silence and questions too complicated to answer.

  Ten

  Dylan

  “So I was thinking…” Dad says, pouring the rest of his coffee into the sink.

  I finish my mouthful of cereal and say, “This can’t be good.”

  He turns to me and leans back on the counter, his arms crossed and his brow bunched. “I see Afghanistan gave you a sense of humor.”

  Eric walks into the kitchen, butt naked, and sits opposite me at the table. “Gave him balls, too,” he quips.

  “Do you mind? I’m trying to fucking eat here.”

  “Don’t swear at the table,” Dad says.

  Eric points at me. “Yeah, asshole.”

  Dad sighs. “When are you two going to grow up?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Why don’t you ask the naked thirty-year-old still living at home?”

  Eric sticks his tongue out.

  I roll my eyes.

  Dad laughs.

  “So you were thinking…” I say to him.

  “Are we ever going to actually rebuild that engine?”

  “What engine?” Eric asks.

  I get up and take my bowl with me to the sink. “The engine I got for my sixteenth.”

  “That’s still the same one you’re fucking around with?”

  Dad ignores him. “I was looking at a few shells for it. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good.” I check the time. 8:56. Four minutes. “I’ll catch up with you guys at dinner,” I tell them, walking out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom.

  “Friday night football!” Eric shouts, which makes absolutely no sense because it’s the end of February.

  “It’s not even football season,” I hear Dad tell him.

  “Friday night insert random sport here,” Eric yells.

  I laugh when I open the bathroom door, then cringe when the same girl from the first night squeals from her seat on the toilet. “Go away!”

  “Sorry!” I shut the door quickly.

  “Oh, yeah,” Eric shouts. “Cin
dy’s using the bathroom.”

  “Sydney!” the girl yells.

  Jesus.

  Eric approaches, his junk on full display. He pushes me to the side and starts to open the bathroom door. “How the fuck is this your life, man?” I ask him.

  He chuckles and closes the door again. “How the fuck is it not yours is the real question.”

  “Dad!” I shout, smirking at Eric. “Eric’s hiding a girl in the bathroom!”

  Dad laughs. “Morning, Sydney!”

  “Morning, Mal!” she yells back.

  I shake my head. “What the hell?”

  Eric scoffs. “Maybe you’d know what goes on in here if you weren’t out all day on The Drug.”

  Dad walks over to us. “Dylan, are you on drugs?” He cups my chin and looks in my eyes just like Eric did.

  I swat his hands away the same way I did with my brother. “No, I’m not on drugs. What the hell?”

  “I found weed in his footlocker, Pops!”

  I shove his chest. “You did not.”

  “Dylan?” Dad asks.

  “Swear it, Dad. Eric’s talking shit.”

  “Am not!” He stands behind Dad, smirking while giving me the finger. “Go check it, Dad.”

  The bathroom door opens and we all freeze, our words left hanging in the air.

  “What’s going on?” Sydney asks.

  “Nothing, babe,” Eric answers.

  I lift my chin and look at Eric. “You know Dad and I will support you no matter what, E. You’re making it a bigger deal than it is,” I tell him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Besides, the pamphlet said there was a high chance it could be sexually transmitted from dogs. Not that it definitely was. And that case against you when you were seventeen was dropped because you were a minor, right? Plus, the zoo had no real evidence.”

  The windows of the house rattle and the familiar song filters through, saving me from Eric’s response. I pat his arm twice, basking in the glory of his completely shocked face. He shakes his head slowly, as if accepting defeat.

  “I’ll see you later, bro.” Then I look over at Sydney and point to her neck. “You got a little rash…”

  Riley

  I don’t know why Dylan’s standing at my door, his hands in the pockets of his sweats, his shoulders square, and his ridiculously gorgeous smile beaming down at me. Even in my drunken haze, I’ve concluded that he gets better looking every time I see him. Not that it matters.