Who can control his fate?
J.T. reread the line from Shakespeare's Othello, let it roll around in his head for an extra second. He liked the old Bard's take on life. Human nature stayed the same. Warriors such as Macbeth and Othello and Mark Anthony faced universal issues still relevant in modern day.
The horrors of war.
Getting screwed over by a woman.
Which brought him right back to Rena. No escape through reading tonight. J.T. let himself look at her, something he used to do for hours on end while she slept. Not so easy to do now that he parked his ass in an apartment at the end of the workday.
Her dark curls splayed over the stark white pillowcase. Odd how he still forgot how short she was until she slept and he realized what a small portion of the bed she occupied. A few more curves than when he'd first met her, but the softness from bearing their children only made him want to lose himself inside her all the more. She was a striking woman.
Age had been kinder to her than he had over the years. He'd taken much and given little back.
Well, he sure as hell wouldn't let her down when it came to her safety. Again, he studied the even rise and fall of the hospital blanket, reassured himself she'd come through the day alive. Albeit, still pale under her normally bronzed Greek complexion inherited from her family.
Her family…
Damn but they'd been furious that he'd knocked up their little princess Irena. But the minute he'd seen her—so full of energy and fire—he'd felt as if somebody flicked on a light switch. Colors splashed over a world that had been a monochromatic routine of work, eat, sleep, start over again.
For one time in his life, he'd ignored the practical choice and he'd gone after her. Full force. No holds barred, he had to have her.
He braced his boot on the end of her bed. He still wanted her, even when he was so damn pissed the top of his head felt ready to pop off.
Which pissed him off all the more.
Yanking his eyes away from temptation, he opened his pocket-paperback Shakespeare again. Wouldn't the crewdogs have a field day with that? Yeah, he liked Shakespeare, the classics, even poetry sometimes. He enjoyed the rhythm of how the words went together.
Reading did for him what meditation likely did for other folks. Relaxed him. But he balked at the point of the whole woo-hoo yoga idea. Not to mention the loss of control.
No need for yoga. Iambic pentameter would get the job done for him tonight.
He'd started reading more when Rena went back to college and he thumbed through a few of her books, paused, enjoyed. When others were around, he still kept to more pop fiction selections, like a Tom Clancy novel. The Bard, however, he saved for moments alone when he needed to quiet the roaring frustration in his head.
After the crash in Rubistan and his final split with Rena, he'd worked his way through Shakespeare's whole damn historical canon.
Footsteps sounded outside the door seconds before a soft tap, followed by the door creaking open. A slice of light slanted across the room before Chris tucked his head inside. "Dad?"
J.T. snapped his book shut and held one finger to his mouth. "Your mom's sleeping," he whispered, shoving the book into the thigh pocket of his flight suit. "Come on in, but keep it quiet."
An almost comical request given how deeply Rena slept.
"Oh, sure," Chris whispered in response, shuffling inside, untied laces on his gym shoes dragging as he squeaked across sterile tile.
The door shooshed closed. Ball cap backward over his dark curls, his son slouched against the wall between the rolling tray and window. His clothes hung off his wiry body, which wouldn't in and of itself be annoying except for the fact the boy wore his cargo shorts so low it was a miracle the things stayed up.
And being angry about his teenager's clothes made him wonder how the hell he would handle it all over again sixteen years from now. "Hey, pal. Where've you been? Were you working overtime at the restaurant?"
"Nope. Just hanging out with Shelby and Murdoch. Listening to tunes. Eating pizza." His guilty gaze skated to the hospital bed. "Sorry I wasn't around sooner, but Mom's okay, right? Mrs. Dawson wasn't holding anything back when she came home and told me, was she?"
"Your mother's going to be fine. Only a sprain and some stitches. She'll be on bed rest for a couple of weeks, but no long-term problems." Relief still pounded through him, fears giving way and making room for questions. "Why didn't you have your cell phone on?"
"I dunno. Battery ran down, I guess." He swept his ball cap off, adjusted the fit and tugged it on again. "That's probably good for her, huh? Resting."
"Yes."
"So, everything's okay? With everything, I mean."
Suspicion nipped. "Everything what?"