Ask Me No Questions (The American Soldier Collection 12)

“Maybe I did more than just bandage soldiers up. Maybe you don’t know what I did in the Corps, and you think because you’re a man, and you’re still aching with your injuries and woe-is-me attitude, that you matter more.”

“You know so much? You know what it’s like to get shot? To watch men, soldiers, die around you as they try to protect a village or get their wounded to a chopper only to be shot and to lose more soldiers? Do you?” He raised his voice.

“What’s going on in here?” Cash asked.

Cassidy stood up, pulled off her blouse, then lowered the strap to her tank top, nearly exposing her bra and breast.

“Maybe I do.” She showed the scar from the bullet on her shoulder.

His eyes widened. She heard Orlando and Memphis say her name and ask if she had been shot in combat.

But her eyes were glued to Stryker as he looked at the one scar.

“Not good enough that I took one hit to the shoulder loading wounded onto a rescue chopper in the midst of enemy fire in Iraq?”

She came around the table and lifted her camisole then pushed the material of her skirt off her hip.

“How about this wound, which took numerous surgeries to stop the bleeding and save vital organs? Still not impressed, Marine?” She raised her voice.

He remained silent.

“That’s what I thought. If I were you, Stryker, I would stop the whole nonsense game you’re playing about feeling the pain and not being normal or able to live a normal life. You’ve got your arms, your legs. Hell, you look pretty damn complete to me, and I’ve seen some fucked-up soldiers. Get a grip. Remember what being a Marine is all about and stop complaining and blaming everyone for everything that’s gone wrong in your life. Take that pain by the horns and destroy it. Live the life, the second chance God gave you and not some other sorry bastard who died in combat.”

She headed toward the door, and Cash stopped her. He held her gaze.

“You were shot twice? You were in combat? Where? When did it happen?”

“Why don’t you ask your father? I’m done talking about something I put behind me years ago.” She gave Stryker a look over her shoulder.

“So that’s the way you help other soldiers get through their experiences? By starting a fight, minimizing their sacrifices and wounds, and making them feel as though the only thing stopping them from living life is something as simple as being a Marine? Are you serious?”

She turned to face him again.

“The only soldiers I help are the ones who want to be helped and want to live a normal life. They’re fighters, not quitters.”

He stepped closer, wobbling on the cane. “You calling me a quitter?” Stryker asked in an angry tone.

She looked him over, took a deep breath, and released it.

“No, Stryker. I’m not. I’m just letting you see that you’re not the only one in this world who is hurting and trying to get the pain, the memories, and flashbacks under control. You’re not alone in this. Unfortunately, you’re one of too many men I’ve met over the years. Good men who just want to feel as you said, normal. But you’re not normal.”

He looked at her as if she were insulting him. She quickly continued.

“You’re a survivor, who just so happens to be a Marine. It’s a conflict of what we’re trained to believe and what we actually feel. We’re supposed to be indestructible. But that’s not fair. Our experiences have scarred us in many ways, but they’re ours. No one can take them away or minimize them. We have to learn to overcome them.”

She turned around and looked up at Cash and Coast then toward Memphis and Orlando. “Thanks for breakfast, but I think I should go.”

She felt the hand on her arm turning her then the cane fall to the floor.

“No. Don’t leave.”

She was shocked to hear Stryker’s voice.

She looked at him. She watched him hold her gaze then cringe as he slowly lowered to get the cane. Coast had stepped forward and was about to help, but she placed her hand against his side, stopping him. Stryker needed this push. She’d seen this scenario many times. Family, the team, friends just couldn’t get men like Stryker to heal. Sometimes it took a stranger, someone who was just as tough and experienced somewhat with a similar pain.

“I’m sorry for what I said. Sit and have breakfast with my brothers. Please.”

By the expressions on everyone’s faces, Stryker’s words were a shock to all of them.