Realizing that scares the shit out of me.
I take a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering Principal Dubois’ office where two men in Army class-A uniforms wait. I haven’t done anything wrong, and the recruiter came a while back, but I declined the opportunities once I signed my football scholarship acceptance.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping all the way into the room.
“We’re here to escort you home,” officer one simply replies. No emotion. No explanation.
“Escort me home?” I question as panic starts to build inside me.
My first thought is of my twelve-year-old brother who is in seventh grade at the middle school. I wonder if he’s getting the same call out of class. I have been taught since he was born to look out for my obnoxious, little brother, so I can only hope he will be okay if he gets pulled out of school, too.
Slightly panicked, I blurt out, “Is everything okay? Are we going to get my brother? Does he need to go home, too?”
They still show no emotion as the other guy answers in an almost robotic tone, “We can’t answer your questions, son. Just come along with us quickly and quietly, and we will take you to your mother.”
Holy shit, what have I done? This dude sounds serious as hell. However, as I think back over the last few months, I swear I don’t remember getting caught doing anything that would warrant this kind of trouble.
Hiking my book bag up on my shoulder before it has a chance to slip off, I give the soldiers a silent nod. My legs are shaking so badly they feel like spaghetti noodles. All I can think about is, if I get in trouble on the base, my dad is going to get in trouble, too. Then he will ground me for the rest of my life.
The next fifteen minutes—walking out of the school, getting in their car, and driving away—are a blur, my mind incapable of processing what could be happening. My thoughts race with a bunch of questions, but I fail to come up with any answers.
As we pull up to my house, I realize I need to wipe my palms off on my jeans because my hands are too sweaty to open the car door. I try to take a deep breath to calm down, but there doesn’t seem to be enough air. My chest feels like there is an elephant sitting on top of it. Why the hell can’t I breathe?
When I finally get out of the car, I still at the sound of my mother wailing from inside our home.
Uniformed Army men.
Mom crying.
Dad is away …
The revelation hits me harder than a tidal wave crashing onto a beach and eroding the shore. The world freezes around me. The sky, although blue, seemingly fades to gray.
Unable to hold my head up anymore, it drifts down until the brown grass beneath my feet comes into view. It is dead. It also is the only barrier between me and the realities I do not want to face just inside my front door.
My dad’s last command replays in my head. “Remember, start mowing in March. I don’t want housing to leave a chit for your mom while I’m gone. I’ll be home before you walk the stage, Ethan.” His last deployment, we received the piece of paper in reprimand, their ‘chit,’ informing us of our responsibilities of lawn care and the exact specifications required of us. Dad got one at his location, too. We do not want that to happen again.
The day after that conversation, my dad was gone before I left for school.
Training.
He is gone for a TDY—temporary duty. Not a deployment. Not a mission.
Training.
We spoke to him last night.
Now my mom is hysterical just inside our house while I stand in the yard with two soldiers. That can only mean one thing.
The brown grass isn’t the only thing that died.
Chapter
1
~Hammer~
“Show those titties!” some drunken shithead yells from the crowd.
I can’t tell who said it in the dim, crowded atmosphere. Honestly, I don’t really care to know. As long as the customers behave, there is no reason for me to get up close and personal with my fists.
Looking around After Midnight, I see the club is packed. Drinks are being served, clothes are coming off, and tips are being dropped. Business is good. When business is good, the club’s payouts are good.
Fuck the phrase “happy wife, happy life.” It is all about “wallet happy, dick happy, then Hammer’s happy.”
Taking in the girls working the floor, flirting with customers to entice them into lap dances, I notice one of the vibrant, purple neon lights over a corner table is out.
I turn at the waist, catching Big Jim’s attention from where he stands back at the bar, and point to the problem. Seeing what the issue is, he immediately heads off to get a new bulb.